FAILURE.

The Asian scarlet letter.

There’s something about failure that reminds me of Yoga; you become more flexible with practice. I used to be terrified of the Hindu stretchercising back in high school, and not because all of my friends thought it was gay. My fear was spawned by the fact that I could barely touch my knees due to many years of lethargy and several months of Accutane. (Side Note: One of Accutane’s MANY unfortunate side effects is joint stiffening.) 

Because adolescent acne isn't depressing enough.

Despite being about as pliable as a plate of glass, I took my dermatologist’s advice and attended a yoga class. As if the Enya tunes and abundance of grandmas weren’t bad enough, the class began at 6:00 AM. (That explains the influx of elderly folk.) After fighting the urge to flee the scene, I unrolled my yoga mat and prepared for my first Downward-Facing Dog. 

It was a very rude awakening.

Sure enough, I sucked. Some would even say I failed. Not the Yogi, of course, because that kind of negativity doesn’t jive with the Namaste lifestyle. Instead of berating me like an abusive football coach, he grabbed my hips and readjusted my body in ways that would make my homophobic friends run to the nearest Chick-Fil-A. (Topical Zinger)

As I assumed the Child Pose during the cool down, I assessed my first Yoga experience. Was it uncomfortable? Absolutely. Was it embarrassing? Undoubtedly. Did I survive? Seemingly. Would I be back? Possibly. It wasn’t until I got up from the floor and began gathering my things that I realized something magical; I was touching my toes! Unfortunately, that atypical flexibility was gone by the time I reached the car, but I could finally see the path to elasticity!

Breathe through your mouth on this one.

And that, readers, is what it feels like to fail. Somewhere buried in that haystack of humiliation and discomfort is the key to success. Every time a creative recruiter blackballed me from their agency, I saw how to better my book. (Sadly, it took A LOT of blackballs.) Whenever a romance turns into a Gotye song (you know the one), I learn what to (and not to) look for in my next mate. And every time I fail to capture a respectable blog following, well, that class is still in session.

Point is, failure is not the end of the world. (Unless you’re Asian.) You just have to put on your stretchy pants, unroll your Yoga mat and make some adjustments.

FATHERS.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, please tell me I will never be this bald.

There's something about fathers that can shape a boy's understanding of masculinity. To some sons, a man is a buck-shootin', beer-drinkin', blue-collar type-a-fella. To others, a man is a Benz-driving, business-running, tax-evading baller. And to an unfortunately large portion of our population, a man bounces before his son is even born.

My concept of masculinity stems from one powerful piece of fatherly advice – "Always be the master of your own mind." My dad didn't care if I was wrestling a bear with my bare hands or swapping stocks like the E-Trade baby. What mattered was whether I was acting on my own accord or because someone told me what to do. (Chores excluded.) So how did my dad (and mom) make sure I was cognitively in control?

I wish my ads made me this happy.

1.) No church for you!

Now before you burn me at the stake and accuse my parents of being heretics, allow me to explain. My mom and dad aren't atheists. As a matter of fact, my dad is the son of preacher man (Yes he was, he was, ooh, he was), but after spending most of his youth playing hide-and-seek in pews, he found that Jesus was the least judgmental person in the chapel.

I saw this for myself during a childhood playdate, when my "friend's" mom unexpectedly asked me what church I belong to. After answering, "I don't," I didn't receive another invitation or PB&J sandwich from their family ever again. Even as a primary schooler, I could see that church is a breeding ground for bigotry and conformity.

Gospel or gossip?

2.) Censorship is BULL#*%^!

How old were you when you saw your first R-rated movie? (And I'm not talking about some edited, bleep-ridden rerun on TNT.) For me it was the mature age of 7, and the film was a murder mystery called Rising Sun, starring Sean Connery and Wesley Snipes. According to the MPAA, Rising Sun is rated "R" for sex and nudity, violence and gore, profanity and frightening/intense scenes including a fatal car crash and a rape/homicide. So why expose a 7-year-old to such heavy subject matter?

My dad believed in the "scared straight" method when it came to sex, drugs and violence. Rather than blinding my brother and I from the mature side of life, he would take us to R-rated movies. Afterwards, he would thoroughly explain what we had just seen on the screen. Say what you will about this controversial reality check, but watching Uma Thurman overdose on heroin (Pulp Fiction reference) was a lot more effective than Daren the D.A.R.E. Lion.

I dare you to watch this without doing drugs first. (Side note: Churches could learn a thing or two from Daren.)

3.) "What did/do you think?"

Whether it was a movie, dinner, family vacation or bowel movement (just kidding), my dad would force me to formulate an opinion before sharing his. This, even more so than religious freedom and R-rated movies, gave me the keys to my mental development. (It might also explain why it takes me 30 minutes to pick a toothpaste, but that's the price you sometimes pay for making your own decisions.)

Although that constant introspection resulted in a lot of tears during my teenage years, it spawned the pensive, self-deprecating writer you're currently enjoying (I hope). Pouring your heart into a blog post may not seem as masculine as pouring a pitcher of beer down your throat (conventionally speaking), but choosing to publish your thoughts in spite of other people's opinions takes some serious cojones. Or at least I think it does. And according to my dad, that's what it means to be a man.

MOTHERS.

MY GOD! It started earlier than I thought!

There's something about mothers that are like regional accents; if you're around them long enough, they'll start to rub off on you. After 25 years as my mother's favorite son (suck it, Justin), I'm starting to see how my much of an impact my mom has had on my personality. In honor of Mother's Day, I'll rehash the ways I pay homage to her everyday.

I'M DELIGHTED BY DANCE.

This wasn't me, but it might as well be.

It all started with the movie Grease. Just because her grade school friends dubbed her Sandra D's doppelgänger (the non-whorish version), I was forced to sit idly by and watch her live vicariously through Olivia Newton John. Once Stockholm syndrome set in, I found myself hand jiving during my little league baseball games. I traded in the effeminate show tunes for a different kind of hand jiving come high school (no-pun intended), but I had a choreography-dance relapse several years ago after watching So You Think You Can Dance. Guess who pushed me off the wagon? 

I'M GOING "GREEN."

It's like that, minus the broken part.

My mom is Al Gore's biggest fan; she just doesn't know it. To her, the only Inconvenient Truth is the fact that heating and cooling your house can be costly. Unless you're an Inuit in the winter or Usain Bolt in the summer, it's impossible to get comfortable in that household. Lo and behold, who resisted turning on the A/C until Austin temperatures reached the 90s and his roommate politely insisted he flip the switch? I'll give you a hint; he's Usain Inuit's kid. And don't even get me started on her refrigerator policy. I felt more pressure reaching for the orange juice container than Indiana Jones going for the golden idol (Raiders of the Lost Ark reference). But even now, more than 1,250 miles from my childhood home, I'm haunted by the thought of a neglected refrigerator door. 

I'M SHREDDER OBSESSED.

Twice.

I don't know if my mom thinks she's Ethan Hunt or what, but anything containing her name and address is immediately shredded. Whenever she gets a magazine, she rips off the label and turns it into confetti. If she gets a package, she ransacks the shipping info like a bear to a picnic basket. And when her credit card expires, she grinds the old one down to a substance finer than powder. But who am I to judge? Even though someone is more likely to offer me charity than steal my identity, I feel the need to shred my mail to smithereens. 

I'M RESISTANT TO CHANGE.

"This one still works just fine." – Mom

There's a reason I had a flip phone until a couple of months ago, and it's not because "It gets better reception." It's because my mom insisted we use our appliances until the day they die. Up until last year, she recorded her soap operas and dance shows on VHS tapes. If my brother and I didn't force her to get a new computer, she'd still be using a desktop with a 2 MHz processor. (For those of you who aren't nerdy enough to know, that's incredibly slow, and probably exaggerated.) And her microwave is from the same era as the first A-bomb. Is it any wonder I continue to wear 8-year-old ROOS and sleep beneath the same lion blanket I've snoozed under since birth? 

I'M THE MASTER OF SPITE.

Although we rarely traveled in my youth, I went on plenty of these.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and a woman scorned hath no hell like my mother spurned. Not even deep space can compete with her silent treatments. (Get it? If not, click this link.) Her grudges are as permanent as a spring break tramp stamp. And although she constantly forgets even the simplest computer operations, her memory is iron clad when it comes to past transgressions. After studying her methods since my first temper tantrum, I've officially mastered the art of my mother's malice. But don't get me wrong, we're not hateful people... unless you f*** with us.


I could go on for days about trivial similarities like our hyper hyperboles and incessant ice chewing, but I think the five main traits give my psychologist friends plenty of material for their confidential psychoanalysis. One thing is for sure – I wouldn't have it any other way. Happy Mother's Day, Mother Dearest. Although I'll never willingly let you read this, I want the Interwebz to know you truly are the best.  

BOWLING.

There's something about bowling that makes me think about more than athlete's foot, cheap beer and the highlight of Steve Buscemi's career (Name that movie). Maybe it's just the Lysol or oil fumes, but when I tippy toe to the foul line I see THE FUTURE. Allow me to explain:

THE BOWLING ALLEY OF LIFE

In case my little diagram wasn't clear enough for you, this metaphor contains three major elements; the ball (your life), its path (your path) and the pins (your regrets). As a bowler (human), your goal is to put your ball (life) on a path (path) that will leave the least amount of pins (regrets) once it's done. 

If I wanted to get REALLY into this metaphor, I could liken the oil pattern to life obstacles and ball weights to existential importance, but I'm pretty sure the three major elements have already earned me a straight jacket. So, before I'm abducted by the local insane asylum, I'll elaborate on the most important part of this analogy, the paths.

PATH 1: STRAIGHT & SAFE

The Path

What's everyone's biggest fear when rolling that sphere down the lane (other than a friend stealing their unsupervised fries)? Ending up in the gutter. And what's the easiest way to ensure that won't happen? Aim straight for the middle. That's where most balls (lives) end up, the middle. And why not, you're less likely to fail, you maintain some dignity and there's even a tiny chance you'll hit every pin. That's fine for those bowlers (humans) with low expectations, but if you're the type who sees each lingering pin as misshapen middle finger, you may want to find another way down the alley. 

The Result

PATH 2: CONSTANTLY SAVED

The Path

Bumpers (parents and/or guardians) are fine if you're celebrating your 8th birthday or suffering from cerebral palsy (or another physically debilitating disability), but no one's going to give you a high five for depending on gutter guards your entire life. Just look at Paris Hilton. Aside from her sex tape, she hasn't made a single significant contribution to our society. She just bounces between DUIs and roles in horrible DVDs (aforementioned sex tape excluded) with her family name protecting her every step of the way. Bowlers like Paris may be immune to the gutter, but their achievements will always be marred by their reliance on bumpers. 

The Result

PATH 3: A LITTLE RISKY

The Path

Have you ever seen a serious bowler use either of the previous approaches? Dumb question; no one besides me and your grandparents watch professional bowling. The answer is no, they don't. They make their ball (life) flirt with the gutter and recover just in time to take out every pin (regret). But this technique isn't for the weak. It requires a kind of control and dedication that most bowlers just weren't born with.  

The Result

So, bowlers, how do you roll?

EXCUSES.

There's something about excuses that are kind of like babies on an airplane; nobody wants to hear them. But would you be willing to read them?

I haven't posted in a while because...

I started working here.

And after three weeks of employment, I STILL haven't been fired. As a matter of fact, a handful of my coworkers decided to mimic my standing desk lifestyle. Granted, it started as mockery, but the joke has since run its course and at least ten of my colleagues continue to meerkat out of their cubicles. Now, I just have to prove my writing abilities. 

this circus came to town.

And even thought I didn't partake in most of the musical performances, movie premiers and interactive circle jerks, I was perpetually distracted by what was going on in my backyard. For two weeks straight, I was like a dog whimpering at squirrels on the windowsill. Luckily, I did spend one day cheering for fun. before sunrise, growing a mustache, dodging balls, stalking Kimbra (aka, that girl from "Somebody That I Used To Know"), envying Graffiti6 (b#*%es love British accents), getting over it with Fanfarlo, Going Godzilla on a vending machine, throwing up in my mouth and getting bombed at dinner. (Get it?) It was worth every word I didn't type.

my rambles landed me a paying gig.

Which makes writing for free seem kind of silly. I'm not saying I'll never Yelp or blog again (obviously), but my free time has a price. Besides, I get to write about things like Austin's most potent cocktails and a sushi making class. Oh, and did I mention they pay me to do this? No Yelp Elite party or blog advertising can compete with a reliable second income. 

deal sites are too damn addicting.

Between Goupon, Living Social, Google Offers, Yelp Deals and Scoutmob, my lovely accomplice and I have potential dates lined up from now until the end of time. So far, we've been pushed down a hill in an inflatable hamster ball, backflipped from a flying trapeze bar, survived a sketchy carnival (aren't they all) and tried more restaurants than you can fit in Myrtle Beach's city limits. Not to mention the trampoline, ATV and rock climbing vouchers we've yet to use. It's hard to find free time when so many activities are practically free. 

I wised up and got a pseudo iPhone.

Why did it take me so long, you ask? Fear, my friends. Fear of what would happen if I finally got my hands on one of these mobile procrastination devices. It was bad enough when I Yelped, blogged, pinned, Tweeted and Facebook stalked from my laptop, but all productivity came to halt once I discovered Words With Friends and Draw Something. The other day I came home from work around 6:30 PM, sat on the couch and caught up on each game. When I finally hit the "home" button on my phone, the clock read 10:10 PM! I haven't spent that much time in front of a screen since my bout with unemployment (which I will soon face again if I don't trash those apps). 

You might not like it, but that's why I've been neglecting the few fans I have left. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me (again), I promise to be more like this baby.

RELIEF.

My hero.

There's something about relief that almost makes suffering worthwhile. Admittedly, this is coming from a middle-class American who's faced little-to-no adversity. When I say "suffering," I'm talking about spotty WiFi and slow baristas; not the famine, starvation and violence taking place in less-fortunate nations. Alas, I can only speak of what I know, so here goes some of my most memorable feelings of relief.

Physical Relief

I still don't see how a glue stick stops headaches?

Despite their hilarious commercials, I will NEVER use Old Spice deodorant again as long as I live. Why the armpit embargo? It all started one sweaty, South Carolina summer when I ran out of my faithful Speed Stick 24/7 antiperspirant. (I have since changed to Gillette Clinical Strength, but that's irrelevant to this anecdote. I just highly recommend it.)

While perusing the array of deodorants on the hygiene aisle, I started feeling a little frisky. Instead of sticking with the sweat reducer I knew and loved, I decided to stray outside of my toiletry matrimony. That one-swipe stand resulted in a rash that spanned from elbow to hip on both sides of my body. (Like this, but worse.)

I tried every over-the-counter drug and home remedy imaginable, but they all just seemed to irritate the flesh-eating infection. Finally, after a week of scratching my pits more than Mary Katherine Gallagher, I decided it was time to visit the doctor. After I bashfully removed my t-shirt like an insecure girl at a pool party, the doctor gasped in horror and diagnosed me with the worst allergic reaction he's ever seen. With one steroid injection in my left ass cheek, my rash disappear like a waning moon. 

I walked out of the office with tears in my eyes. Not because of the pain in my anus or roid rage, but because I was overcome by a euphoric feeling of relief.

Mental Relief

I think the Ed Hardy is blocking her ch'i.

When I first moved to Austin, Texas, it took me one Craig's List search and a weekend to find an acceptable apartment. I figured things would be just as easy when the time came to find a new roommate. That's when I discovered the true pitfalls of a "buyer's market."

I began my tenant hunt a month and a half before my lease expired, leaving me ample time to weed out the weirdos. I even stated my views on smoking, partying, pet ownership and general cleanliness to expedite the approval process. Despite my strict requirements, I received over a dozen responses in the first 24 hours.

My confidence was shaken once I realized 75% of the responders were just scammers requesting my name, address, driver's license and social security numbers in exchange for the first month's rent. The only thing more suspicious than their bartering technique was their butchering of the English Language. Below is an actual example of one of these schemes:


"Hello
How are you doing today and hope all is well with you?actually  i got your ad on Craigslist concerning the room you want to rent out. i will like to know if the room is still available at the moment ,if it is still available try to get back to me as soon as possible cos am very much interested,i will be very glad to read from you soon till then have a great day and God bless."


Of the remaining applicants, two were turned off by the price (Although, $520/month for downtown Austin sounds damn reasonable to me), one was frightened by my complex's poor reviews (only some of which are true) and two failed the background check (one for "criminal reasons" and the other for having a credit score lower than Forrest Gump's IQ).

Before I knew it, my month and a half had whittled down to ten days. Between the eviction notices attached to my front door and my former roommate's constant reminders to remove him from the lease, I was on the verge of an aneurism. 

Then, like a knight in casual attire, a Maryland native who recently relocated to Austin responded to my post. Not only did he ignore the negative reviews and pass the background check, he also came bearing a couch, toaster, XBOX 360, HBO Plus subscription and a 42" inch HDTV. After a month and a half of panic, I was pleased to renew my lease and breathe a sigh of relief. 

Emotional Relief

This makes me frown.

Aside from my older brother, nothing causes me more emotional distress than the fairer sex. I thought it was bad back when "the ladies" considered me a non-sexual entity, but those solitary days were a cakewalk compared to the courting of my first girlfriend. (Coincidentally, cakes were part of the reason it took me sixteen years to land a lady friend.)

It all started in middle school when my testicles dropped and I developed my first legitimate crush. Unfortunately, I had yet to develop a jawline (or backbone), so she banished me to the friend zone until our junior year of high school.

Although my sweet sixteen didn't warrant a lavish party or a brand-new car, I did receive the greatest gift of all; a growth spurt. In the course of one summer my baby fat melted away and my previously unobtainable temptress became a viable dating option. The only problem was I had NO IDEA how to go about it. After seeking the counsel of her closest friend, I decided to pop the question at one of our weekly Blockbuster nights. (And by "our," I mean me, her and approximately twenty of our classmates.)

The plan was set. I'd suggest we rent The Ring, my crush's friend would urge us to go pick it up and somewhere amidst the new releases and the microwaveable popcorn, I'd ask her to be my first girlfriend. (Not in those words.) The only thing I didn't foresee was a third wheel. 

Thirty minutes later, the THREE of us returned with The Ring, and I remained a single man. To make matters worse, I had to buy the DVD because all of the rentals were taken. To make matters worse than worse, my family didn't even own a DVD player at the time. I shelled out $30 for the sake of some fear-induced cuddling in my wealthier friend's living room. 

With everyone's curfews rapidly approaching, it was time to throw on the movie. I pounced on the vacant spot next to my crush like a cat on a laser pointer. I'm not sure if it was my aggressive moves or my uncontrollable nerves, but my palms began spurting sweat like Spiderman webs. While everyone else trembled in fear of a cursed Nine Inch Nails video, I was petrified by the fear of rejection. I remained as motionless as a mannequin, EVEN when my crush shielded her eyes with my shoulder. 

Once the ending credits began rolling across the screen, I came to the scariest realization of all; I STILL HAD TO ASK HER OUT! I dashed to the restroom for a mirror pep talk before walking my crush to her car. I could hear a few of my asinine friends following us as we strolled down the driveway. I remained speechless until we reached her driver-side door. She turned, leaned her back against the window and looked me in the eyes as if she knew I had something to say. 

I smirked, looked down at my feet and whispered into my shoulder, "Willyougooutwithme?" Although the world's finest speech pathologist would've been lost on my words, my request was met with a giggle and a, "yes."

That syllable led to the largest emotional relief a late-bloomer could ask for. Until two weeks later when she traded me in for another member of our movie club. The rental process is a cruel mistress.

Side note: Keep an eye on my LinkedIn page to see my latest source of relief.       

SUPER BOWL COMMERCIALS.

"I used to drive a Ferrari and date a SUPER hot brunette. Now I'm married to Carrie Bradshaw and plug Honda CRVs. #FML"

There's something about Super Bowl commercials that reminds me of defusing a bomb. In a matter of seconds, you can become a hero or have the whole thing blow up in your face. Although I've yet to get my wire cutters around one of these big-budget assignments, I'm going to weigh in on the bombs and saviors of Super Bowl XLVI.

THE BOMBS 

1.) Go(ToHell)Daddy.com - The Cloud

In the same way musicians like Miley Cyrus diminish the integrity of the music industry, these soft-core pornmercials completely degrade what I do for a living. Their blatant exploitation of the [celebrity+partial nudity] formula has always ground my gears, but this year they upped the anger ante by throwing a QR code on the bottom-lefthand corner of the spot. God help us if they discover the power of toilet humor.

2.) H&M - The Full Beckham

As if football weren't full of enough suppressed homosexuality, H&M decided to make things even more awkward for homophobic sports fans by throwing a fútboller's crotch in their face for thirty seconds. If I wanted to see Beckham's balls, I'd find his televised physical from a few years ago. The most creative thing about this ad is Beckham's oriental tattoo. And yet, somehow, this complete waste of money managed to get over 2,000,000 views on YouTube? Way to go, sexually frustrated housewives.

3.) Any Movie Trailer - Especially This One

There's a time and a place for movie trailers. It's called the movies. Well, that or the internet. Either way, the Super Bowl is a ridiculously wasteful place to promote a summer blockbuster. First, it's a SUMMER blockbuster. Even if you've got some fanboy creaming in his sweatpants over The Avengers, they still have to wait until May to actually see it. Did Warner Brothers buy any ad time for The Dark Knight Rises? No. But will it still gross more than any movie advertised during the most expensive media buy of the year? No doubt. Especially the piece of trash above. "In the immortal words of Jay-Z?" Really? That's the line you're going to use to hook potential viewers? Not even John McClain can make me want to see the G.I. Joe sequel. 

Dishonorable Mentions

• Century 21 - "Smarter. Bolder. Faster"
• Horrible acting and celebrity endorsements
• Bud Light - "LMAFO Halftime"
• The most unbelievable plot since G.I. Joe: Retaliation
• The Voice - "Vocal Kombat"
• 1.) They VERY POORLY parodied my favorite movie. 2.) Hasn't the Betty White craze passed already, AGAIN!?

THE SAVIORS

1.) Cars.com - Confident You

At first glance I thought I was going to hate this spot. I can't stand commercials that are weird for the sake of being weird. But instead of closing the browser, I decided to give it the benefit of the doubt. Man, am I glad I did. This ad is a testament to great casting. The actor's juxtaposing performances of a stoic car buyer and his oddly-conjoined confidence couldn't have been executed better by Daniel Day-Lewis. As someone with a HORRIBLE poker face, I could easily relate to the man struggling to hide his happiness. And if you've read some of my previous posts, you already know about my soft spot for soul music. However, the real finishing move was the appendage's pelvic thrust just before the art card. Kudos to Cars.com for realizing that simplicity is key during these crowded commercial breaks.

2.) Chrysler - Halftime In America

If there's one thing I've learned since entering the ADHD world of advertising, it's that sentimental ads are almost always doomed from the start. Take Toyota's Kentucky spot for example. (The one without the time traveling baby). This sappy tale of a Camry manufacturer moved nothing more than my bowels, but when Dirty Harry walked down that dimly-lit hallway everyone in the living room froze like a Zach Morris "time out." Granted, at least half of the credit is due to Clint's captivating vocal cords, but there's definitely something to be said for that appropriately-timed metaphor. Props to the copywriter and media buyer who collaborated on that one. You almost had me believing our country wasn't on the brink of destruction. Then I saw the making of the GoDaddy "Body Paint" commercial.

3.) Old Milwaukee - Whatever Will Wants

Will Ferrel is the comedian of the future. Why? Because instead of pulling a Seinfeld or a Leno and staring in a big budget (but barely laughable) Acura commercial, Ferrel took a $1,500 North Platte, Nebraska media buy and turned it into a YouTube sensation. Although it's over a week after the big game, some of my late-adapter Facebook friends are STILL spreading this video around the Intertube. How many times has one of them shared the Budweiser "End of Prohibition" ad or ANY of those horrible, Tom Haverford inspired Bud Light Platinum commercials? About as many times as I intend to host a website through GoDaddy.com, buy underwear from H&M or see G.I. Joe: Retaliation. 

Honorable Mentions

• Toyota Camry - "It's Reinvented"
• They had me until baby time machine. 
• Chevy - "2012"
• Did they have to say, "Ford?" I think we all know what they were insinuating by, "Dave didn't drive the longest-lasting, most dependable truck on the road." Please don't insult my intelligence, Chevy.
• M&M - "Sexy & I Know It"
• What can I say? I love the M&M mascots. Especially the wiggle at the end.

Care to argue any of my picks? That's what the comment section is for.