The New Year always makes me melancholy. If New York had moors, I’d spend the New Year sulking around the fog in a billowy shirt with a raven on my shoulder. While everyone else says “hello” to the next 12 months, I usually spend this time of year reflecting on the past 12 months. I can’t predict what tomorrow will bring, but I know what yesterday wrought. New Year’s is a time of accounting for one’s actions instead of making odds and betting on what might be. While everyone is gorging on the cake of future opportunity, I’m picking over the leftovers of my decisions. Because, like history, stupidity repeats itself. My funky mood is practical, too. Fate is a sniper, and those people who whoop and holler at the strike of midnight make easy targets. I keep my head down. Keep reading »
Men would rather give than receive. Keep this in mind, ladies, as you freak out, panic, and wring your hands over what to get your beloved for Christmas. Around this time of year, I offer my services to various female friends who are all on maddening quests to buy their boyfriends and their husbands the perfect gift. These women are driven partly out of love, and partly because they feel they have to top the gifts their husbands and boyfriends have gotten them in the past. These gifts were, of course, exactly what the women wanted, and they were either cleverly hidden or extravagantly wrapped.
The secret to buying a woman the “perfect” gift, of course, is simple. You listen to her. Keep reading »
Yeah, I can’t really defend catcalls and I tried. I told myself that this uniquely male sport is harmless fun. That it’s flattering, almost charming. Who else would shout compliments to a woman but a hopeless romantic? Besides, having a construction worker shout “lookin’ good” must appeal to a woman’s vanity, right? It’s not like a catcall has ever resulted in an actual date. If a woman ever positively responded to a man whistling, it would be like a dog chasing a car and catching it. The dude’s brain would be unable to comprehend reality shattering. While trying to craft a defense of catcalls, I found myself blaming women. Why can’t they take a joke? Or deal with a man who just wants her to know she’s hot? Women are so uptight. Feminists must hate romance, because all these roadside Romeos are doing is shouting up at a woman’s balcony. This was my train of thought. Keep reading »
I have something to confess: I am a huge fan of Bravo’s reality show “Millionaire Matchmaker,” and I have a crush on its star, matchmaker Patti Stanger. Usually a feeling of relief accompanies a confession. But I am ashamed. I feel like I should staple my palm to my face. Bravo TV is a slick circus of self-loathing, and no heterosexual man should ever be caught watching its grotesque programs featuring werewolf beauty queens eating each other. But then there’s “Millionaire Matchmaker,” a show that by all accounts should be as bad as “The Real Housewives Of Hades.” It’s not what I thought it would be, namely a show where socially awkward, self-absorbed millionaires are paired up by a sassy pimp with potential prospectors and their gold pans. I mean, it totally IS that. But it’s so much more. Patti Stanger is like Cupid, if Cupid used his bows and arrows as offensive weapons. Keep reading »
Breaking news: I am not a “dating coach.” Yes, I sort of give dating and relationship advice. I write about relationships and love and cupcakes and samurai for this site. I also dispense advice for other websites, and I’ve written for lady magazines, primarily because sleaze pays very well. But to answer a reader who e-mailed me, I am not, nor will I ever be, a “dating coach.” I hate the term “dating coach.” It suggests that love is a game to win. Love is not a game. It is a journey that requires courage. “Dating coaches” sell that love can be won; that it’s about touchdowns, and victory dances, and spiking a heart. But they sell that because if they sold the truth, they’d be out of business. Here’s the truth: love isn’t about scoring points for yourself. Love is intercepting your own pass, and running the ball in the opposite direction. Love is losing. Keep reading »
There’s a saying that goes “hunger is the best spice.” This is true. Without starvation as my salsa, I would never have been able to ingest all of those microwaveable burritos I ate when I was a wee street waif. You know the burritos I’m talking about: They come frozen in packs of 30 and they’re essentially toilet-paper tubes filled with beef caulking. This isn’t a saying anyone says, except for me, but it’s also true: “chastity is the best aphrodisiac.” Which is one reason I am totally pro-dry humping, a highly underrated sexual activity. A good, sweaty grind on a couch is a delightful tease of the wang-pong to come. Knowing that the other person can buck, grab, and slither in jeans is valuable carnal intel, the kind of insider information that turns an average hard-on into Excalibur. Putting off the inevitable for a week, a night or even an hour makes the resulting boner jams hotter, slicker and more gooseflesh-inducing. Keep reading »