Dallas Dating Tips

The Singles scene in Dallas should be, if at all possible, steadfastly avoided.

However, for many hapless souls dating is unavoidable.

When the few viable alternatives to dating are considered (among these are: entrance into the priesthood, relocating to Samoa with the Peace Corps, and suicide), one's options seem limited.

And thus marriage, with its relatively long-lasting side effects and 50/50 failure rate, becomes the path chosen by many twentysomethings to avoid the pitfalls of the Dating Life. Marriage might be be the logical next step for you (and if it is, congratulations!), but if not, and you must still apply your brave face every time you leave the house, then I am here to help!

If you are already married, you most likely (and hopefully) do not need my guidance, since your only worries now revolve around who is taking out the garbage in the morning, or how the Holiday-InLaws-Visitation-Schedule is going to be divvied up this year. Read on, and thank God you are no longer one of us.

Likewise, if you are a homosexual, you also may not benefit from my forthcoming recommendations. Being that homosexuals cannot legally marry each other in Texas, you are-in theory-doomed to spend your entire life dating. I'm sorry. Dating in perpetuity... ouch!

And finally, if you are an Aggie or a Mormon (or just graduated from the seminary), you were married at a very young age and probably have a few kids by now. My dating tips might not interest you, either.

But for the rest of you, here we go:


1. Acquire an expensive (read: European) car.
Your car is not just the means by which you transport yourself from one bar to another. Your car defines you. And if that means forking over $795 a month for that Range Rover, then so be it.
If you are a wealthy man with refined tastes (and a rich father), you wouldn't be caught dead driving something that the common man could obtain. You must place yourself above the hoi polloi. You must pay $70,000 for the Mercedes SUV.

Put simply, if your car of choice could possibly be purchased by a plebian in Mesquite or Grand Prairie, it is not the car for you! Stick with Sewell or ParkPlace, and you're guaranteed to never be mistaken for a public school teacher or (even worse!) a fuse salesman.


2. Become familiar with -and make a habit of- Conspicuous Consumption.
Conspicuous Consumption is the Dallas Way, it turns on all the hot ladies, and it can be displayed by various means.

Perhaps the easiest way to boast of your mindless wastefulness is to show ambivalence to issues that "normal" people concern themselves with, such as the cost of gasoline. When somebody asks you if filling your Hummer's 30 gallon fuel tank twice a week gets rather expensive, simply shrug your shoulders and nonchalantly respond (in the loudest voice possible):
"Ehhh... it's just a write-off anyways."
Be certain that everybody at the bar hears you, and repeat every hour.

Also, any ol' dope can go on vacation. So, to distinguish yourself from the huddled masses, be sure to go on extravagant trips, to destinations seen only on the E! Channel. Everyone at the party already knows that you ski in Colorado twice a month (perhaps the ski lift ticket still attached to your coat tipped them off?), so it is imperative that you announce to people the details of your upcoming jaunt to Ibiza or New Zealand.
"Yeah, we have a place in Vail. But it's getting too crowded up there... So next month I'll be in Bali for ten days."

Though while in Bali you will constantly bemoan the local food choices ("this place sucks, let's go to Joe's Crab Shack!"); and you will bitch about the lack of DirectTV in your hotel ("I can't watch NFL Fantasy Update this week?!"); and you will log on to your work email account 16 times a day ("just in case!"), it is comforting to know that while the working class stiffs travel to San Francisco, you sat poolside in Bali last month.

More Conspicuous Consumption tactics that work include: running up a $600 bar tab at Candle Room (but only if you have informed all the ladies that you have a big bar tab going... if not, then what's the point?); talking incessantly to your date about the $90 steak you ate for lunch; and repeatedly offering to buy your new flame that $2100 handbag she was eyeballing at Neiman-Marcus last weekend.


3. Looks mean everything.
It's what's outside that counts. Nothing else matters.

Who cares if that big-breasted, small-waisted slut is dumber than a handful of gravel? She's got what counts, my man! Your old frat buddies will love her.
Sure, your hair looks like you woke up five minutes ago... but that's how everybody else wears it, so it must be in style, right? Go ahead, babes love a stylish man.
So, you noticed that every other fella in the bar is wearing the same shirt as you? No problem! Yours is probably the most expensive. And, if you untuck that shirt, you'll look exactly like 250 other dudes that night, and you'll look great. You will score for sure!


Good luck, and happy dating!

Merry Holiday!

In five short days, we will celebrate the Holiday Formerly Known As... well, if I say it, I risk offending somebody, so henceforth I'll just call it "The Holiday."

Anyway, The Holiday has arrived so quickly this year! It seems like just yesterday that we- wait a minute! What am I doing? It's CHRISTMAS, you sonsofbitches! It has always been CHRISTMAS, and it will always be CHRISTMAS! What's going on here?!

I'm a Texan and a Christian, dammit, and I'll be damned if I allow some bleeding-heart Yankee liberal pinko communist Muslim Jew to keep me from celebrating my dear Santa Claus and slaughtering fir trees and going into severe debt to buy my sister an iPod!

You bastards cannot take this from me! I was raised in the church, and no Vermont ACLU greenie is going to stop me from spending hundreds of dollars at NorthPark Mall and fighting for parking spaces and getting completely plowed at CHRISTMAS parties!

What's next? Where will the PC-ness stop? Are they going to keep us from memorializing our swimming pools and barbecue pits next Memorial Day?? Are they going to strip us of the true meaning of Easter next year (good luck banning the Easter Bunny, idiots)?

Besides, why the sudden uproar over CHRISTMAS? Why this year, and not last year? I don't understand why this is happening now.

I might have understood if CHRISTMAS was banned in 2001, when-in the aftermath of 9/11- people were not thinking clearly and everything we previously knew as truth had to somehow change (including, but not limited to, the freedom to pack nose hair scissors in your carry-on luggage). Maaaaaybe you could have pulled this stunt that year.

Or perhaps the commies could have outlawed CHRISTMAS the year when Ernest Saves Christmas was released. A movie that bad has to prompt some kind of change, and that was as good a reason as any. We could have lived with it back then...

But not now!!

If SteinMart is having a sale in December, just who is aggrieved if they call it a "CHRISTMAS SALE"? If you practice Wicca, and therefore deny the existence of Jesus in order to worship fairies and field mice, will you forgo purchasing that heavily discounted Ralph Lauren sweater (up to 70% off!) just because the sign says "CHRISTMAS"?!

I bet not.

If you are a polytheistic Buddhist or Hindu living in Dallas today, are you going to pass up the "10 for $10 half-gallon of Skim Milk" at Kroger's CHRISTMAS SALE? Like hell you are!

Hey Buddhists and Hindus, if you choose to worship cows and six-legged elephants and eight-armed goddesses, that's fine with me, but when you wake in the morning you've got to realize that you might be in the minority with those deity choices, and the word "CHRISTMAS" should not be on the top of your List of Things to Worry About.

(personally, I'd be concerned with the possibility of being reincarnated as a marmot in my next life, but hey, that's just me)

So you say you practice Islam or Judaism, and you accept the existence of Jesus Christ, but you struggle with the whole "son of God" thing?? That's ok. But do you honestly feel snubbed when you hear people talking about CHRISTMAS??

Look Jews, I eat bagels all the time. I occasionally read the New York Times. And, while I don't particularly think Woody Allen is very entertaining, I do think Mel Brooks and Seinfeld are hilarious. You don't see me complaining about that stuff do you??

And Muslims, I enjoy throwing rocks at Israeli tanks as much as the next guy, and I'll have you know that my sister Rebekah consumes close to five pounds of olives a day; and if that isn't keeping your 18th-century economies going, I don't know what is (lord knows strapping a bomb to your chest and blowing up restaurants isn't really boosting your GNP!).

So why must you attempt to ban our CHRISTMAS?! Just lay off, ok?

You'll never take CHRISTMAS from us!

And if you ever did, we'll still never forget the reason for the season. ("if that fat woman grabs the last XBox 360, I'm tackling her from behind!! What do you mean, no rain checks? A-hole!! Why do I have to buy something for my co-workers, I don't even like them!! I hate the holidays...)

Fun with Evolution

Intelligent Design, Schmintelligent Design....

With the Christmas Crunch upon us, who has time for cockamamied and fanciful religion-based creation tales?!? Evidence of scientifically-supported Darwinism is all around us; all we have to do is open our eyes!

On a recent Saturday afternoon in Dallas, Texas, while shopping for gifts for loved ones, a local resident snapped these grainy photos of what appears to be a homo erectus (or possibly homo neandertalensis) tooling around town, performing normal, ho-hum Saturday afternoon tasks.

The entire Dallas scientific community (1 SMU archaeology professor from New York) and local religious leaders (thousands of middle-aged white men from Collin County) are up in arms over this discovery, and are racing to either prove or disprove the authenticity of the photographs in question.

However, it is rumored that all one has to do to glimpse this Missing Evolutionary Link is visit SuperTarget on Skillman and Abrams, or Starbucks on Knox Street, where Monkeyman reportedly holds court every weekend...

"Nice melons, baby.... how'd you feel about a little 'monkey business' (nudge nudge wink wink)?!!"

"...Personally, I find King Kong offensive. Tarzan, on the other hand, now that's a classic!!"

"Hanes--Above the Calf. These are the only kind that comfortably fit my opposable big toe..."

The female Homo neandertalensis in action.

"...Move it, pal, or I'm gonna go ape sh*t on your ass!!"

How could I have forgotten- the one indisputable piece of evidence to support the Theory of Evolution, the Missing Link himself: Pat Ewing?!?

Guess Who

If you have four or five hours to kill at work today (or is it just me?), there's a new and exciting game that you can play, to help pass the slow-moving pre-Christmas hours.

This new pastime is all the rage; it's a guessing game in which the participants [you] attempt to surmise the identity of a mystery speaker, using only ambiguous clues about the anonymous narrator's life.
Here we go:


I own arguably the worst hair in the western hemisphere. The irony is, I spend perhaps 2 or 3 hours per day attempting to style it. It's so unkempt and unwashed that small, furry rodents have been known to scurry out of my coiff on the rare occasions that I actually comb it. I enjoy playing "dress up," and I harbor delusions that the general public regards me as a sartorial trendsetter. Little do I realize, people (even my friends) are making fun of me behind my back, saying things like "he thinks he's cool 'cuz he appeared in GQ, but he really looks like a queer." I enjoy playing basketball, but I'm not very good at that, either.

Who am I??

HINT: I'm not Steve Nash.




My sleep habits are very inconsistent. Some nights I rest peacefully; some nights I can't catch a wink and end up crying all night. My entire life generally consists of eating, sleeping, and pooping at random intervals. Also, my bowel movements have been known to inconvenience loved ones. Honestly, all I want is a nice teet to comfort me, but too often I have to settle for a latex substitute. I would rather be naked.
Who am I??

HINT: I'm not Baby Rachel.




I also have awful hair. I live in self-imposed exile, and rarely (if ever) leave my dimly-lit apartment. I tell women I meet that I'm a writer, but nobody has ever actually read any of my work. That's because my writing is incredibly boring and rambling and simply not very funny. I am quite reviled by my peers, so much so that religious leaders of third-world fundamentalist Islamic countries want to kill me. I was popular for 20 minutes, about 15 years ago. Did I mention that I have bad hair?!
Who am I??

HINT: I'm not Salman Rushdie.



While you're racking your brain to figure out the answer, here are more gratuitous photos of the cutest baby ever, The Baby Rachel:

Ok, time's up. If you guessed "Paul Gongora," you win!!

Give yourself a pat on the back, and email me the name of a qualified and affordable hairstylist.

Now get back to work.

Man's Only Friend

LOST BULLDOG - "OSCAR"
REWARD - $1000 the sign says. NO QUESTIONS ASKED!


The flyer has been posted in my parking garage for a few days now, but I just recently got around to reading it.

"Wow," I said to my neighbor, "one thousand dollars is a lot of money to pay for a dog."

"Those dogs are expensive," he explained. "And how much would you pay for a member of your family..."

My neighbor rambled on and on about the probable monetary and sentimental values of this bulldog, but I tuned him out immediately after he mentioned "dog" and "family" in the same sentence. So, neighbor, in case you are reading, let me finish our conversation:

News Flash: It's a dog.

My corner of Dallas is heavily populated by the Young Urban Professional, a demographic with whom the pooch is very popular. Man's best friend is also held in very high esteem among another neighbor of mine, the Dual Income No Kids.

YUPs and DINKs are not inherently flawed people. They advance our civilization in many ways (none currently come to mind, but I'm sure those ways do exist). It just seems that whenever I'm relaxing on the patio at the West Village Starbucks, I always end up being salivarily accosted by a loosely-leashed mongrel with an Hermes collar that happens to cost more than my monthly car payment.

"Oh, he's just being friendly," the YUPs and DINKs assure me, as I freeze in terror and search the premises for a Wet-Vac with which to clean my newly-slobbered NewBalances.

"If I were that friendly," I think to myself, "I'd end up on the receiving end of a female backhand; or on the phone with Jim Adler, brainstorming unscrupulous ways to beat the sexual harassment rap I'd no doubt be facing."

C.W., one of my best friends in the whole world, absolutely loves dogs. Throughout his life, he has spent oodles of time and money on the acquisition and upkeep of his dogs. I love this man like a brother, and in no way does his canine infatuation ever affect our friendship.

In spite of his fondness for fleabags, I am able to continue loving CW not only because he shares my passion for 1980's hair bands and the San Antonio Spurs, but also because he is capable of holding a relatively enlightened conversation with other humans, friends and strangers alike. CW contributes to our society. In short, CW has social skills.

The same cannot be said for thousands of YUPs and DINKs in Dallas for whom the term "dog" is synonymous with "only interaction with another living creature I ever experience."

"You don't understand," they say, "my dog has been my best friend for nine years."

Well, there's a good reason why your dog has been your best (and more than likely, only) friend for the past decade, and it might have something to do with the entire human race growing tired of you. If you'd only had something to talk about besides your boring job or your BMW or your ski trip, perhaps every other living human soul on the planet would not have given up on you long ago.

The thing about most people is: we're attracted to certain redeeming social qualities. Among these are 1. a personality, and 2. the ability to maintain eye contact with another person and hold their attention for more than five seconds.

When a member of the animal kingdom occupies the front seat of your car more often than a human does, you make it hard for the rest of the world to assume you possess either of these two traits.

"No matter how bad things get," they argue, "Fido will always love and accept me. He's there for me at the end of the day, no matter what."

If a tick-infested animal (animal!) that licks his own anus and eats his own turds is the only one who loves and accepts you, it may be time for that Self Evaluation you've been putting off (or- it may be time for that bullet in the head).

But who am I to judge?? Maybe I'm missing something... Maybe there's something to be said for a wet, cold tongue waking you at 4:45 every morning (it's more tongue than I ever get!).
And maybe there's some value in having your entire wardrobe covered with a malodorous animal's fur (unlimited access to tapestry supplies, if you ever get that old loom up and running).


Not too long ago, because I'm a horrible friend, I decided to put CW to the test.
Smack dab in the middle of the NBA Playoffs, while our revered Spurs were staving off elimination against the Detroit Pistons, when CW's beloved dog Gordo was not on the top of his priority list, when I knew CW would be most vulnerable, I broadsided him:

"If you had to pick between the Spurs winning the NBA Championship and Gordo's life," I asked, "which would you choose?"

He hesitated.

He sighed.

He paused.

CW could not betray his Spurs. He could not betray his childhood team. He wanted a championship more than anything else in the world.... But he loved Gordo.

"Dude, that's not fair," he argued. "Wait until after the playoffs to ask me that."

Now that's a man with his life in order: Pets are temporary... championships are forever!


Recently, CW surrendered his dearest Gordo to an ex, in order to avoid a protracted and potentially messy custody battle. His life, predictably, moved on.

The Spurs won the NBA title this past June, and nobody--NOBODY!--can ever take that from him.

I told you so.

Quit While You're Behind (part 2)

"Rhonda" and I met at my new church.

I'd recently left my old house of worship and decided to move down the road, ostensibly to "try something new," but actually to lay low for a while, "girl problems" at my previous church being the foremost reason for this decision.

On just my second visit to this church du jour, I was made to feel at home by a lovely, chipper blonde named Rhonda. She knew I was a newcomer (it's that 6th sense that ChurchFolks have; the innate radar they possess that alerts them when somebody is alone and vulnerable and doesn't know another soul in the foyer that morning).

She displayed a pointed interest in my teaching career ("that's soooo sweet!") and, in turn, I volunteered my opinions about downtown Dallas architecture (the fact that she worked in the accounting arm of a local architecture firm, and therefore did not know 'Mid-century' from 'Madonna' did not matter to me; I sounded smart, dammit).

Being the grizzled veteran that I am, I did not take her flirting seriously. I figured it was just an example of Happy ChurchGirl being Happy ChurchGirl. But she continued. And continued...
Soon she was approaching me on a weekly basis; after the service, like clockwork. It wasn't long before my old instincts kicked in.

"Could this girl really like me?" I wondered. I tried to talk myself out of it. "I really don't need to get involved in any dating shenanigans at this place... I'm new to this dating thing, and girls don't ever pursue me!"

But her advances didn't stop.

One morning, her winking and touching and smiling crossed the line and triggered an almost involuntary reaction from me. Rhonda began talking about the degree to which she enjoys sushi and wine, and I interpreted these comments as any other lonely, straight male would: That she wanted to go out with me sometime in the very near future!

"Why don't I get your number, and maybe we can grab some sushi this week?" I coolly suggested.

With that smooth display of skillz, the die was cast. We hammered out the terms and conditions, and the date was set.

Later that week, on an otherwise uneventful and ordinary Thursday night, I shaved and showered and headed out to pick up the cheerful blonde for a night of (unknown to me at the time) unparalleled torment and torture.

The agony began almost immediately.


"Your seats are freeeeezing!!" she announced as she landed in the passenger seat of my Honda.

"Sweetie, it's 40 degrees outside and they're leather," I replied. "It happens."

"Well, I just figured your car would have heated seats or something..."

"Or something?!" I thought to myself. What the heck does that mean? "Or something" She never seemed bitchy during any of our previous time together, and now she was bitching about my car seats just 20 seconds into our date!?

I was at a loss...

"Or something"??

Like, something besides heated seats? What did she want, two flint rocks and a pile of twigs under the passenger seat? Perhaps a 55-gallon drum in the back seat, filled with newspaper and set ablaze (homeless man and bottle of Thunderbird not included)?

"This is hopeless," I thought. "What am I doing? ... Am I this lonely? ... Can I go back in time and try again?"

She had already given me a headache, but maaaaybe a nice dinner would change things. Besides, it was too early in the date to give up all hope.

During one of our many after-church flirting sessions, she had mentioned that she liked sushi. So we headed to The Blue Fish on Greenville Avenue. A hip and attractive crowd frequents The Blue Fish and, as if the short skirts and enhanced bosoms were not enough to seal the deal for me, the sushi they serve is pretty darn tasty.

"I'm not real hungry, but I heard this place is cool," Rhonda said as we walked through the front door.

"Not real hungry?" I mumbled, just loud enough for her to possibly hear me. "You were eating lunch when we spoke at 1 o'clock today. That was six hours ago..."

"I've always wanted to come here," she explained, "but I guess I just ate too much this afternoon."

"What did you eat, a whole goat?"

She didn't laugh.


But things were already looking up!

I discovered a blessing in disguise: Rhonda's goat lunch meant that only a tiny amount of food would be ordered tonight, and large amounts of alcohol would -naturally- have to fill the void.

Drinks at The Blue Fish are notoriously potent, and this night was no exception. After a few rounds, Rhonda gradually became more tolerable, and our conversation slowly turned more pleasant. We were making each other laugh! My headache went away! The genial, extroverted blonde I'd known from church had returned! This was now a date!

One thing, as it tends to do when large quantities of sake and Sapporo are consumed in a short period of time, led to another. Before long, we found ourselves at Kismet Lounge, alternating hits from a hookah pipe, inhaling all manner of Central Asian wacky tobaccy, ingesting numerous shots of liquids that neither of us could pronounce, and dissecting the works of Philip Johnson and Mies van der Rohe.

Unfortunately for me, the smorgasbord of illicit substances coursing through my bloodstream had significantly dulled my senses. For almost three hours now, Rhonda had been nearly doubling my chemical intake, and I had been none the wiser.

The cute, vivacious blonde cavorting in my lap in the dark corner of a hookah bar had morphed into the sloppy, blabbering, embarrassing slut that every other man in the bar is thankful he is not burdened with.

Rhonda had crossed the intoxication threshold that every man dreads; that Maginot Line separating "this girl is loads of fun and wants to hook up" from "if I have to carry this girl to the car I just might leave her face-down in the parking lot." Some unscrupulous men strive for their dates to achieve this level of drunkenness; I, being a gentlemen, find it annoying.

I had to get her home as soon as possible.

"Baby, let's go to the car," I firmly said to her. "You need to sleep."

"Aaaghh... mmmmm....aghghaaahh... nooo," she gurgled (apparently defying my order).

I was in no mood to argue with an incoherent blonde, and so I grabbed her waist, slung her arm around my shoulder, and limped out of the bar with her nearly-lifeless corpse in tow.

We obviously made for quite a spectacle, since all 400 other patrons at Kismet made sure to point and laugh and heckle us. Some even jumped around and signaled their friends to come get a glimpse of the carnage, which reminded me of Lawrence Taylor waving hysterically at the Redskins' sideline that they'd better come and look at Joe Theismann's broken leg, before it's too late (it was later revealed that LT was sky-high on blow during that game, but at the time it was seen as a very compassionate act of good sportsmanship).

"Just a few more minutes, baby," I pleaded. "We'll be home in no time."

I attempted many of the tried-and-true methods for sobering up quickly while riding in a car: windows down, sunroof open, no seat belt, seat pushed back, slow speeds, gentle turns... I tried it all. But still she sat doubled over and moaning loudly.

As I was praying for the health of my leather seats, I heard a blood-curdling sound.

It all began quite innocuously, and gradually grew to a steady, constant stream. There was no explosion or climax or apex, it just kept coming and coming...

Pink in color, and full of bits and pieces of marble-sized, half-digested sushi, Rhonda's vomit was a force to be reckoned with. There was no end to it. Like that volcano in Hawaii that has been slowly erupting since 1983, this barf also seemed eternal. She feebly attempted to catch the spewage in her cupped hands, but those quickly overflowed, leaving my leather bucket seats and then my (previously) spotless floorboards to act as puke receptacles.

She just sat there, expressionless, spitting up liquified fish chunks and simultaneously tossing it out the window.

"Well," I thought, "at least she knows she's being unforgivably disgusting."

If only I'd more closely monitored her alcohol intake! If only we'd done dinner and a movie! If only I'd heeded my hunch that she was a closet lush and rented a car for the evening!!

The regurgitation did not stop until we arrived in her driveway.

I dragged her indoors and set her down in her bed. After toweling off a good amount of "pink stuff," I left a note on the counter, apologizing for not cleaning the remaining vomit from her chin, arms, and pants. "I'm sorry," I wrote, "I was fresh out of handi-wipes..."

I spent the rest of the night doubting God's benevolence, and most of the next morning on my hands and knees, scrubbing a sushi/martini mix from my car's upholstery.

Rhonda and I have spoken only once since the night in question, and it was an awkward 5-minute conversation re-capping the lowlights of our date. I think she is too ashamed to ever call me again, and I, frankly, won't mind if she doesn't.

God and I have since made up, but He made me promise to never date again, as long as I shall live.

Anything you say, Big Guy, anything you say...

The Cheeto Blues

Craig and I were scarfing down a bag of Cheetos the other day (marijuana was not involved at all; it was simply two men enjoying their favorite processed, fake-cheese-dusted, puffed snack food).

"Dude, these taste like shit," I lamented.

"Even worse," Craig said, "they taste like paper."

We racked our brains for seconds, trying to decipher this Riddle of the Bland Cheetos.

"I've always loved Cheetos," Craig continued, now near tears. "I don't get it... They used to be so good, so cheesy, so crunchy... I don't understand! Am I just getting old?!"

"Well Craig, you are getting old," I replied, reminding him that we'd celebrated his 35th birthday only a week prior, "but I think I've discovered the perpetrator of this crime."

And right there, in bold blue print on the front of the bag, for the whole junk-food-loving world to see, were the words "0 GRAMS OF TRANSFAT."

And with that revelation, we knew something had to be done. When two grown men can't even enjoy a bag of man-made starches, empty calories, and fake cheese without being reminded how harmful it is to our bodies, then it is high time for a revolt.

This Disappearing TransFat Debacle is preposterous! Who took it from us?? Why?? Were our snacks not perfect the way they were?!?

I'll fix this outrage, Craig (it's the least I can do, since I did forget to give you a birthday present). I will not rest until our junk food once again clogs our arteries; I won't stop until TransFat is liberated (or, until I dress up in a flight suit and pose for pictures on an aircraft carrier beneath a banner that reads "Mission Accomplished").

What the heck is TransFat?? Good question. I'm not a nutritionist, so I cannot answer that... But I am a fat slob, and I do know that our lives were just fine and dandy when TransFat was so deliciously intertwined with our every meal.

And now TransFat has been burgled from right under our noses! We, the unsuspecting public, lost our focus; we lost our desire to be as obese and grotesque as we wanna be, and the Organic Granola Heads have (temporarily) prevailed. In our quest to be something we're not (namely, "healthy"), we lost all of the taste, all of the flavor, all of the joy from our most beloved foods.

Now there is Zero TransFat in our bagels; Zero TransFat in our peanut butter and our jelly; and Zero TransFat in our Beef Stroganoff Hamburger Helper.

This is unacceptable!

Who decided that TransFat was bad for us? Can we, as adults, not determine for ourselves what we should and should not eat? We've been merrily fattening up for hundreds of years (or at least since Frito Lay was founded) and millions of us are satisfied being plump, dumb, and happy (and at risk for heart attacks and strokes).

And now some bleeding-heart-liberal Chicken Little In A Lab Coat tells us that we can no longer have TransFat, all because he stuffed 5 gallons of the slop into a mouse's rectum and the poor thing died on the spot?!?

I'd die too, if someone shoved 17 times my body weight of TransFat up my ass.

"Hold still, little guy, just one more serving up in there.... Ahhhh! He's dead!! TransFat will kill you, too!!"

Powers That Be, please give us back our TransFat.

Reinstate TransFat into our Cheetos, or risk a mutiny of unparalleled proportions. We are husky and hungry; we are stubborn and stout. We demand that our snacks leave us just as porcine and portly as they did long ago!

As a Mexican Revolutionary hero said long ago, "It's better to die on my feet than eat crappy, flavorless Cheetos!!"

Viva TransFat!!

"Where You From, Sissyboy?!!"

Pleated khakis.

Tapered leg jeans.

Extra faded, or (God forbid!) stonewashed jeans.

A tucked-in T-shirt.

Socks with any kind of sandal.

There's nothing worse than announcing to the world that you are a tourist. While Dallas is not exactly a destination city on par with Las Vegas or Orlando (or even San Antonio), if you look closely you can still find a plethora of sartorial faux pas on the streets.
Sad, indeed, but oh so true...

While enjoying my Sunday afternoon at NorthPark Mall today, I sat down to catch my breath after a furious 4-hour Christmas-shopping frenzy. It was then that I began noticing people that looked like they just did not belong. This may sound judgmental and condescending, but it's the truth. The one thought I kept fighting off was, "Dude, what are you wearing?!!"

I realize that most of these uncultivated boobs were probably in town for the day from Oklahoma or Arkansas, but the whole "ignorant, inbred redneck" excuse just won't fly anymore. Those poor souls from Little Rock and Tulsa and Norman have television and internet just like the rest of us in the civilized world, so why should they be given any more slack when it comes to horrible fashion sense??

No matter where you are from, there are certain rules you should always follow to keep from being lumped in with illiterate white trash from Shreveport. Following are a few simple examples of what you should wear when traveling:

Even while being photographed in Times Square (the epitome of tacky tourist-iness), it is possible to maintain some semblance of sartorial sensibility. In this example, I may seem to be clothed in the classic "tourist standard" khaki shorts favored by millions of frumpy, middle-aged men from Topeka to Omaha to Okinawa. But a closer look reveals that they are FLAT-FRONT CARGO shorts! No pleats!! And nothing tucked in!! The Tshirt emblazoned with my hometown Double-A baseball team's logo is usually a no-no, but the green undershirt and NewBalance shoes with ankle socks lend an air of "unaffected trendiness" to the otherwise Middle-American Tshirt/shorts combo. (by the way, are those Man-Boobs you see beneath my shirts?? A different discussion for a different day.... )






When dressing for an evening out on the town, in a town other than your own, there is no such thing as "overdressing." When vacationing, remember that you are representing the city in which you live. This is an important responsibility. Dress accordingly, and dress to impress. While aware that New York City is the one place where--fashionwise--anything goes, I still felt the need to properly convey the "Dallas Aura" when choosing my outfit. And to project that Dallas Aura of high fashion, big ego, and imagined wealth, I (on the far left) chose a conservative black-and-white striped button-down with low rise indigo jeans (not visible). Or maybe the 79 beers on the table just made me think I looked good...

Snapping photos of yourself on the Golden Gate Bridge screams, "I'm from the sticks!" So your wardrobe MUST announce to passers-by that you are somewhat cosmopolitan, relatively educated, and at least minimally aware of the ease by which one can experience modern interstate travel (it is optional, however, to actually scream out to everyone else on the bridge that the pictures you are unfortunately taking are, in fact, "for your mom"). My ensemble pictured above is completely harmless and almost neutral, but note the ankle socks and untucked polo shirt. Remember, tourist: wear no tube socks and untuck your shirt!! Even the simplest of combinations can be ruined by the tiniest misstep. Don't blow it!!

As evidenced above, really hot babes rather enjoy this dandy ensemble: boot-cut jeans with a V-neck merino sweater, layered over an intentionally disheveled button-down oxford shirt. The V-necks says "classy," the half-untucked undershirt says "too cool to care." [...thanks ladies, here's the 10 bucks, I appreciate your time... are you sure I can't buy you a drink?? Hey, come back...]

Even when waiting out an airport layover (poring over the new GQ, of course), it is imperative to avoid that Tourist Appearance at all costs. I (on the left) look coolly casual, with khaki shorts, trademarked ankle socks, and bright green-yet-tasteful polo shirt. The man across from me--sadly--is practically yelling out to the whole terminal, "Be patient with me!! I'm a Jets fan from rural New Jersey, and this may be my first time on an airplane!!"

For some people, there is simply no hope...