Dallas, Texas, on a Tuesday Night

Last Tuesday evening I was bored and hungry.

I convinced a friend to accompany me to the West Village, where I could satisfy my urge for brisket tacos from Taco Diner (the urge for these particular tacos was the only factor in my decision to trek to West Village; my choice had nothing to do with the possibility of what we might see at West Village, namely-- tall, surgically-enhanced women in short skirts). Honestly, I was just plain hungry....

We enjoyed a relatively uneventful dinner on the patio (the outdoor tables at Taco Diner are actually on the curb, but the tacos are so tasty that the bumper of a BMW 725 stopping a mere two inches from the back of your head is considered nothing more than a mild nuisance).

It was barely 9pm when we finished our meal, and neither of us was in the mood to be in bed at 9:30, so we decided to walk down the street to a watering hole called The Quarter.

I was quite surprised at the number of people enjoying themselves on the McKinney Avenue patios. Not much amazes me anymore, but I was mildly amazed by the (literally) hundreds of people out cavorting on a Tuesday night. Does anybody here have a day job?? Do they have that much disposable income?? The scene was almost identical to a Friday-at-6pm-Happy Hour. And since Friday happy hour is one of the best times to study the jungle known as Dallas Nightlife, I justified my impending late-night carousing and chicanery by convincing myself that I was conducting 'just another sociology experiment.'

With such a fertile people-studying opportunity literally thrown at their feet, how could any self-respecting --though unaccredited-- sociologist pass up such a lucrative chance to advance their studies?!

This night was a gold mine for crowd watching.

I had not planned on making this Tuesday night a 'night on the town.' I had only desired to fill my stomach with something besides the usual tuna and crackers. It was Tuesday night, for crying out loud! I had been at work all day! I had to be at work all of the following day! But if you can't beat 'em (and judging from the sheer number of people at this particular bar, I couldn't possibly have beaten them), join 'em. So I claimed my seat in the corner-- in prime position to observe all of the shenanigans-- ordered a few cocktails, and began the study.

To explore the nightlife in the Uptown area of Dallas is to be bombarded with a litany of questions and contradictions: Is this person really who they say they are??? Is this person masking horrible insecurities by wearing Prada and spending hundreds of dollars on booze on a weeknight??? Are those real???

For example: He's driving a Mercedes convertible, he's liberal with his bar tab, and he's rather adept at manually inspecting the waitress's backside (not to mention, any other woman within arm's reach). These traits all say, "Free-spending millionaire bachelor." But look closely-- the tapered-leg pleated Dockers, hanging-over-the-belt gut, and miserable $31,000 H.R. job all reveal the "divorced for the past 18 years, stuck in 1987-fashion sense, just looking for someone to do my laundry" middle-aged, desperate man.

Or: The bulging biceps, designer jeans, and self-assured way of approaching groups of unsuspecting women at the bar all say, "Young, confident, gets-what-he-wants, fashionable urban man." However, closer inspection reveals the truth: the 2-sizes-too-small Urban Outfitters Tshirt, half-pound of hair product, Kenny Chesney shell necklace, and homies in the corner playing Golden Tee all scream, "23-year-old ex-SMU frat boy still living off of Dad's money and waiting until 'next semester' to go to Law School."

If only these frauds would take a cue from me, and live an honest, genuine life! I'm a true role model; what you see is what you get.

For example: the perennially-empty passenger seat of my Honda and the maxed-out credit card reserving my bar tab both say, "broke and lonely public-school teacher; date at your own risk!!" And astoundingly, the brain filled with nothing more than useless 1980s sports trivia and my shameless wearing of the exact same haircut I wore in high school scream, "broke and lonely public-school teacher; stay back 12 feet!!"

Close enough...

Hi, Meat My Sister

My younger sister and I shared an apartment when I moved to Dallas a few years ago.

She is a very easy-going and low-maintenance young lady. Even when considering the behavior of her blatantly homosexual-bipolar-passive/aggressive-hyperactive-nocturnal cat, she is generally a pleasant person with whom to live.

However, our time together was not all puppydogs and rainbows. A certain issue slowly developed which --after being allowed to evolve unchecked and ignored-- threatened to undermine our years of goodwill to each other. This issue began as an almost imperceptible fissure, and eventually grew into an enormous rift between us. In the end, the gulf between big brother and little sister had never been wider, thanks to this issue and our reluctance to face it:

During our Sibling Gilded Age, little sissy gradually acquired an unfortunate and abnormally strong aversion towards meat.

No big deal, you say...

You try to defend your manhood while being forced to cook veggie patties on the barbecue grill. You try to look tough and mean while pushing a grocery cart filled with 7 boxes of SmartStart cereal (the box with the picture of the lean woman on it). You try to preen and strut and look cool and manly for the girls at Kroger (near SMU!!) while browsing the best price on Veggie Slices cheese.

After a while, your spirit will be broken, and you will believe that it's perfectly normal to slice up an eggplant, douse it with ketchup, and call it a "burger."

I should just cook for myself, right?? It's not that easy. Cooking for myself proved to be just as-- if not more-- demoralizing. Example:

Me: "Hey, I found a nice 6-pound roast on sale today!"
Little Sis: (silence; blank stare)
Me: "Damn you, vegan!!"

How can she not care about this awesome roast I found?! What's wrong with her?

But as time passed, she just didn't care... She wasn't mean-spirited or vindictive about it, it just seemed that meat meant nothing to her. I might as well have been speaking Yiddish, it would have generated the same response from her...

Me: "unintelligible words in Yiddish about a roast"
Little Sis: (silence; blank stare)

or

Me: "Hey, I figured out Einstein's String Theory, and also the inner workings of the internal combustion engine, and I also found T-bones on sale at Kroger!"
Little Sis: (silence; blank stare)

How frustrating this was!! I loved meat. I loved a nice, bloody steak as a weekend treat. I loved a juicy hamburger. And this person with whom I shared my days and living quarters was acting as if meat was from another planet.

Little Sis: "Ehh... I just don't like it anymore."

Eventually her indifference morphed into a full-fledged hatred of all things derived from the cow:

Little Sis: "I hate meat patties, I hate roast, I hate fajitas, I hate brisket, I hate filet mignon..."

I worry about her boyfriend. He is a man's man, among the manliest of men... but it's a slippery slope he treads. I know how easy it can be to get tangled in that web of burgerless hamburgers and steakless chicken-fried steak. I experienced first-hand how a good, meat-loving man can succumb to Little Sis' anti-meat agenda. Before long, she will have him foolishly raving about her BocaBurger spaghetti and "meat" sauce. Eventually, he'll believe there is nothing wrong with a red-blooded American male "enjoying" a dinner of cous cous, zucchini, and spinach salad.

Well, there is something wrong with that! And I, for one, am glad I moved the hell out.

Poor boyfriend. It's only a matter of time...

The Unexpected Guest

A couple of years ago, my friend Erika invited me to a wedding shower.
The gaping hole in my social calendar (about four months wide) and the promise of a free hot meal compelled me to say 'yes' to Erika and accompany her (this was to be one of those co-ed wedding showers that--I believe-- are the norm these days).

"Look presentable," Erika instructed me, "and try not to say anything offensive."

(Erika was obviously aware of the paradoxical dilemma that faces anyone who attempts to lug me along as a date to a social function: While I clean up rather nicely, and I am quite skilled at social banter (thereby affording my date the opportunity to stray off with her friends and have her own fun throughout the night), I get bored quickly and easily. It is a safe bet that after an hour or so, in failed attempts to entertain myself and others, I will resort to off-color comments and unfunny jokes.)

"Ok," I shrugged. "For you, I'll try extra hard."

The shower was at a big house in a fancy neighborhood in suburban Dallas. And it was very tolerable. The attendees-- while seeming very "Dallas-ish" at first glance-- were actually rather friendly, and were responding well to my wit and charm. I was having fun!!

Erika was proud.

About an hour into the festivities, we (about 20 people) all sat down at the big dining room table to enjoy our savory barbecue dinner, catered by one of the local smokehouses. As we were claiming our seats, I was overcome with a tremendous urge to urinate. Truthfully, I had felt this urge to pee for about 15 minutes, and I had ignored it. But now the urge was becoming powerful, and it had to be addressed immediately (it was as if The Urge had a mind of its own: "Ignore me no longer!! Pee!! Now!!).
In my mind, this was no big deal. The only thing keeping me from having already excused myself was my desire to obtain a good seat at the table-- the corner seat, next to the funny sarcastic couple and the brisket.

In order to legally claim my seat, I had to stand behind the correct chair and announce to everyone present that, "This is my seat, but I'm going to use the bathroom. When I return, I'm sitting right here."

Everyone seemed to understand my tactic, and I made my way to the hallway powder room.

Just then Erika chimed in: "Oh wait, before you go, I have to get something out of my eye." And she jumped out of her chair to "beat" me into the bathroom.
No biggie, I thought. How long could it take to pick at your eye?

So Erika and I enter the bathroom, I mindlessly close the door behind me, and she begins inspecting her eye area for whatever is irritating it. She takes longer than expected and I become impatient. I soon begin the "I Really Have To Pee" dance, in an attempt to rush her away (being close friends for a while, this behavior was not uncommon for us).
"Hurry up!" I gasped, while lifting the toilet lid and fake-unbuttoning my pants, hoping she would get the hint and scram.
Then it happened.

In my peripheral vision I caught sight of it: The biggest, nastiest, ugliest, most perfectly-shaped turd I had ever seen. Lodged in the toilet bowl!

In the split-second before my eyes sent the signal to my brain that a huge poop was in front of me, I tried to convince myself that I wasn't about to see what I was about to see... Too late. I saw it.

"Ahhh!" I yelped. And jumped away from the toilet. All in the same movement I tried to point and scream and explain to Erika what I was seeing. But I could not actually do anything. I froze. And by this time Erika was right next to me, peering into the commode, to see what all the fuss was about.

She let out what sounded like her last breath, babbled some incoherent words, then tried to dart past me and out of the bathroom. She was in shock, too.

I was not letting her go anywhere. Instinctively, I grabbed her and held on for dear life. "Where are you going?!" I screamed. "You're not leaving me in here with that thing!"

She tried unsuccessfully to twist out of my grasp and escape. I was not releasing her. "Let me go!" She cried. "Help me," I responded. She was only looking out for herself-- trying to leave in the midst of this ordeal; I knew I could not get through this without her...

"Holy crap!!" I howled. I was dumbfounded. Erika was dumbfounded. We just stood there in amazed silence for a second or two, letting the enormity of this situation sink in... "What are you gonna do?" she asked me.

"What am I gonna do?! You're in here too, baby, we've gotta do something! We've gotta get rid of this thing!" Already it had become obvious that my friend was seeing this as my problem, not hers. In her mind, she had already distanced herself from this predicament.

"You opened the lid," she accused... But this was no time for pointing fingers. Teamwork was imperative.

The turd was huge. The biggest one I'd ever seen. Bigger than an unflushed log I'd stumbled upon earlier that year at a truckstop in Illinois. It was a near-perfect, cylinder-shaped masterpiece. Like the Baby Ruth bar in the movie "Caddyshack," except this one was as big as a tennis ball can. And wedged perfectly into the drain hole!

And I was trapped in the bathroom with it.

After studying both its girth and positioning in the toilet, I knew it was a longshot that this sucker would go down if I tried to flush it away... With my luck, the whole crapper would overflow, poop and all, and leave me there to mop it all up with a washrag.

I quickly played out that horrible scenario in my head: I flush the toilet, the Large Log doesn't budge, the bowl starts overflowing, water is rising, and eventually the monster floats out of its cozy confines and onto the exposed floor below, finally coming to rest on the expensive, red cut-berber rug, leaving me to re-enter the dining room and try to explain myself to a roomful of people I'd just met... I then envisioned the turd basking in its newfound freedom, mocking me and Erika and any other humans within earshot, "Your toilets are made for mere mortals! You cannot contain me! I am the Colossal Crap!!"

Yep, flushing was surely out of the question.

Erika realized this also. "Is there a plunger in here?" she asked. I ransacked the cabinets, looking for the plunger that would save my life. "No plunger. Dammit!!"

I turned around to see if Erika had found a plunger in the linen closet... and she was gone. She had escaped while I was hunched over! (just like a woman to leave me when i need her most...) I hated her now, but there was no time to dwell on this betrayal. I had to lose this giant turd.

Why did I have to announce to everybody where I was going?? All I was going to do was pee!! I'm innocent! I would never leave a giant poop unflushed in a stranger's house!! Who would do such a thing??

All kinds of scenarios raced through my head: Was it a fake, planted by some huckster to get a rise out of everyone at my expense?? [It sure looked fake-- it was too perfect. And there was absolutely no toilet paper escorting it, just plain old poop. But it appeared to be dissolving around the edges, and urine was present also-- both telltale signs that this monster was genuine.] Were there any fat guys in the house this evening? Certainly this behemoth originated in the bowels of a very large person! But the crowd tonight was quite fit-- no obesity at all. Damn, what is going on here? What have I done to deserve this?

With the plunger option nullified, my mind raced to alternatives. What could I use to poke at it, or force it down the drainhole, or possibly break it up into manageable segments?? A hanger!!

My home bathroom was connected to my closet-- easy access to enough hangers to slash up 100 giant turds... But this bathroom was a stand-alone: no closet, and therefore, no hangers. I grew more desperate by the second... My mind raced: "Everybody knows where I am; everybody will know when I leave this bathroom, everybody knows I have already been in here waaay too long for just a tinkle." I was sweating now. "No way I can leave this monstrosity here after I leave! I'd be blamed for sure!"

"But I'm innocent," I said aloud. "What have I done to deserve this?!"

I do not believe that good works alone can get you into heaven, but this did not stop me from pleading with God: "God, if you guide this Big Nasty out of here, I'll devote the rest of my life to you, I promise. I'll consider the priesthood... I'll serve at a homeless shelter... I'll move to Africa and bring the Good News to illiterate bushmen.... Just please help me this one time!"

Some guys mistakenly try to bargain with God when faced with such life-changing trials as an unplanned teenage pregnancy, or perhaps when a loved one is stricken with terminal cancer. I was bargaining with God to get rid of a turd.

And he was not listening.

Or was he?? For some reason I looked in the wastebasket for something-- anything-- that could help me. The only thing in there was an empty toilet paper roll. Eureka!!

I grabbed the empty roll, folded it, then folded it again. I now possessed a 4-inch long cardboard knife. This was no time to consider my place in the world and my role in society and whether or not I had a college degree and if that degree in any way guaranteed that I would never have to slice up a giant turd with a cardboard "knife." I just had to do it.

I got down on all fours, stuck my hand in the bowl, measured off the middle of the monster, held my breath, closed my eyes and turned away at the last second, and thrust.

The poop was severed in half. Now it was manageable.

To be safe, I had to cut the remaining pieces into smaller sections. I repeated the process. It was easier than I expected. The Giant was slain!

I rose to my feet and flushed. The turd left this world peacefully, without incident. Thank you, God.

I washed my hands with bleach, sprinkled water on my shirt (to present the illusion that I had been "washing up"), and returned to the party. Nobody even commented on my extended absence.

As I entered the dining room, my ex-friend Erika looked across the room at me with fear and curiosity in her eyes. My expression gave nothing away. I was going to keep her wondering...

I sat down in the seat I'd claimed and served myself some brisket.

Complaining Like an Old Man

Maybe I'm just getting old and grumpy:

• Weather-wise, last night was very pleasant. So I headed out to sit on a patio and have some dinner. My friend and I noticed a football game on TV, through the window of the restaurant... "Who's playing?" my friend asked. "It looks like the Indianapolis Colts against some team who wears all-black, but I don't know who they are," I answered. I racked my brain trying to figure out which NFL team wears all-black... The MAN in me forced me to go inside to answer this riddle. Upon closer inspection, I learned that the team in all-black was the Baltimore Ravens. Who?? you ask... Well, the old Cleveland Browns relocated to Baltimore in 1996 and became the Ravens. The city of Baltimore got this team to replace their old Baltimore Colts, who had relocated to Indianapolis in 1984... So as it turns out, the Indianapolis Colts were actually playing with themselves -- which I don't think should be televised.

The MAN List

Metrosexual - (n) - An urban-dwelling, straight man who possesses good taste and goes to unusual lengths (for a 'regular' man) to keep himself well-groomed.


Last Sunday I went to Hola! Tapas Bar to have dinner with a friend. Our conversation soon turned to how we had each spent our Labor Day Weekend.

"With gas prices near $3.25 a gallon, driving anywhere is out of the question," I explained to her. "So I've spent my entire holiday weekend ironing my new shower curtain and painting my bedroom a lovely shade of pastel sage."

"You're such a metrosexual," she accused.

"I hate that word!" I replied.

[Let the record show that I hate being called a metrosexual. The whole idea of the "metrosexual" is shallow and unoriginal (played out, if you will) and I have never liked being lumped in with such a group. I am a MAN, for crying out loud!]

"First of all," I continued, perhaps exposing some deep-rooted insecurity about this issue, "I am ugly. I spend exactly 15 seconds fixing my hair in the morning and I've never had a body part waxed (though my eyebrows are years overdue). Metros are good looking, stylish guys with square-toed shoes and boot-cut jeans."
I wasn't finished stating my case: "I make $40,500 a year and I drive a Honda. Metros make lots of money and drive BMWs!"

[Sure, I own an unusually high number of pink shirts, and I enjoy a manicure as much as the next guy (and a pedicure on payday), but--deep down--I am a Testosterone Factory who just happens to appreciate a double-Windsor tie knot.

I was stating a very convincing case to my friend, but she just nodded in disagreement.

My insides began to quake... I got sweaty... I began to doubt myself...

"Am I not a real man??"
"Am I a sissy??"
"Will I be the laughingstock with the guys down at the Elks Lodge this Tuesday??"

To help ease my worry, I enlisted the aid of 3 trusted confidants: Gabriel Hernandez, an ex-Marine, gun enthusiast, and a man who, as a youth, once beat up his sister every day for 82 straight days; Elizabeth Busbee, Mississippi-southern-belle and renowned "man expert"; and a slightly more famous Mississippian, Elvis Presley. In addition to being the King of Rock-n-Roll, Elvis was the epitome of Manhood: fame, chicks, hit records, Cadillacs, and shag carpet on the ceiling (drug overdoses, though careless and irresponsible and inherently very unmanly, can be overlooked if they were endured in a "manly-enough" fashion. In Elvis' case, his heart exploded while he was taking a crap, a manly task if there ever was one...).

So these friends and I drafted a list of persons, places and things that absolutely, unequivocally reek of masculinity. I must search my true heart. If I can honestly say that "Paul Gongora" also belongs on this list, then I am truly a man.

The jury is still deliberating:


sports
beer
trucks
guns
fast cars
chicks
fire
motorcycles
barbecue-ing
beards
cussing
Vietnam
barber shops
tattoos
flannel
betting
speeding

boozing away a broken heart
chest hair
weightlifting
big dogs
construction
Mickey Mantle's liver
fried food
flesh wounds
dirty jokes

sharks
jail time
Goodys headache powder
the World's Strongest Man competition
drinking milk from the carton

boxing
Dick Butkus
burning stuff
Hooters hot wings
Burt Reynolds' mustache
calluses
Wyoming
straight-edge razors
lumber
blood
chili
Clint Eastwood
home repair
yard work
cowboy boots
stitches
longshoremen
James Dean
bayonets
tractors
Stephenville, TX
tackle football
butchers
whipping your kid with a belt
OLN
bar fights
black coffee
tools
red meat

Tom Selleck
the Old West
cleats
refineries
dirt
Robert Plant
whiskey
Lava Soap (with pumice)
mercy-killing a dying pet
CB radios
bacon
Charles Oakley
steel

fishing
bullets
hardware stores
cattle drives
Chris Cornell's voice
owning land
groupies
scars
POWs
auto factories
bruises
peeing outdoors
knives
truckstops
mud tires
Ronnie Lott
tanks
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
James Bond
18-wheelers
Wrangler jeans
coal mines
keeping the A/C at 64 degrees
NASCAR
the blues
Sam Malone
Antarctica
hunting

Walker, Texas Ranger
barbed wire

Katrina Damage