Don't Ask Me To Take Your Picture

I go to bars to drink, be stupid, mix with walks of life, revel in the randomness and drink some more.

What I don't go to a bar to do, however, is work. By work, I'm referring to having to set down my beer, cigarette and halt a conversation in order to photograph a group of rich, vile, judgemental bitches.

I can tell by the shirt you're wearing that you are proud of the new tits you bought, but do you have to photograph them all over town? Is your self esteem that low?

How did we go from simply enjoying the bar, to trying to document and record an experience as common as going out for a drink?

The digital camera, of course. The invention of the digital camera has lowered my quality of life and it is polluting the bar scene.

Now, everytime I go to the bar I turn into fucking Ansel Adams.

It makes me want to fucking puke. Here's how it usually goes down:

I'll be in an in depth conversation with a friend about whether Tiffani Amber Thiessen was hotter as Kelly Kapowski on Saved By The Bell or as Valerie Malone on Beverly Hills 90210 when some girl interupts by handing me a digital camera and asking to take a picture of her and her friends.

Then, like eight girls will gather round. What? Pictures? Women start running out of the bathroom to get in. A trap door opens in the ceiling and women repel down to get into the photo.

Then they begin with what I call the Picture Girl Smile. Most women have this smile that only appears in pictures.

It's the fakest fucking facial expression ever. It's so forced it almost looks like they're taking a shit.

Anyway, I snap the photo. Poof! Half the bar goes blind.

Now comes the sick part. The women start running after the camera like baseball fans scrambling for a foul ball. Somewhere, Ivan Pavlov is smiling. The women grab the camera and immediatley gaze at the picture.

I'm thinking, What?

I guess their mentality is this: "Oh! Remember this one. That was a fun time when we all went out to The Saloon. When was that anyway? .... Oh, I know. IT WAS FIVE FUCKING SECONDS AGO!"

How can you be naustalgic about a concept like five seconds ago?

I have no problem with photographing the party. But only if something extraordinary is going on. Posing for a forced picture at a bar is boring as shit. If you're blowing the bartender or puking on someone's arm, please take a picture of that.

Of course, the saboteur in me likes to play games.

Back in the days of film, I would always frame the picture so none of the girls' faces were in it. Of course, they wouldn't know until a week later when the film came back.

Now, ruining these worthless photos takes imagination. That's where my friend, who we'll call B-Diddy, comes into play.

B-Diddy loves to sneak in the back of these pictures and make inppropriate gestures just to illustrate how childlike, fake and artless these "bar photos" are.

That's my guy. (Editor's Note: To avoid a violation of B-Diddy's probation, he is not the saboteur pictured above, but rather one of his protoges).

Is Everyone A Lesbian?

I'm lying in bed. It's late. I'm trying to sleep.

By "trying to sleep", I mean I'm just lying there waiting to lose consciouness.

Then, I hear a woman moan through the wall behind me.

The moment you hear someone having sex, you do a double take, much like the first time you hear the wedding singer in Old School drop the F-Bomb while singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart."

Curious, I placed my ear to the wall. Indeed, my neighbor was presumably getting a stiff one.

Two nights later I heard my neighbor getting fucked again. This piqued my curiosity because I had never seen my neighbor.

But now that I've listened to her getting fucked, I was extremely curious to see what she looked like ... and maybe even what the dude who was slamming her looked like, too.

Finally, I got a glimpse of her just yesterday. As I'm leaving my complex, I see her door open. The moment of truth. What came out of the door stunned me: Two girls, holding hands.

















This threw my mind into upheaval. What I had actually been listening to through my wall was nothing close to what I thought I was listening to.

I suddenly felt like Banky in the movie Chasing Amy when he says to Alyssa, "You just said fuck to that girl. You said you were going to fuck her. Were you talking about strap-ons or something?"

This was so predictable, though. It has been happening a lot to me lately. One of the most beautiful women I have ever seen was in line in front of me at the deli a few weeks ago and next to her was her short-haired, lesbian lover. They held not hands, but pinky fingers. Yeah.

There was also another woman I see frequently whom one of my friends works with. I had always thought she was hot, but I had never actually met her. When I tell my friend of my attraction, he goes, "Oh, she's gay."

Not only that, but he kicks me in the balls with this follow up statement. "Did you hear about her and Sarah P? Yeah, they used to hook up."

"What?" I stammered.

I, too, liked Sarah P. Here's two women I was interested in, and they're fucking each other. If it's any consolation, my friend says that "Sarah P. might be willing to throw a guy into the mix."

Apparently, Sarah P. occasionally craves the dick. The others, it seems, are hard-core lesbians. Isn't everybody these days. The U.S. Government's Center For Health Research determined, in a 2002 study, that 11 percent of women ages 14-45 reported having a "sexual experience of some kind" with another woman.

I'm pretty confident most of these women live in my town. One of them lives right next door.

Is This Porn, Or The Weather Channel?

I think Maxim Magazine is the most juvenile publication out there.

It is aesthetically appealing, I suppose, because it’s pages are graced with bony models slipping out of their underwear.

But the editorial content in the magazine rivals the Weekly Reader I was forced to read in 3rd grade.

The articles largely revolve around manipulating your girlfriend.

Some examples are, “How to get your girlfriend to have a three-way” or “How to convince your girlfriend into watching porn with you” or “How to watch the big game on the night of your 2-year anniversary.”

Maxim basically just feeds the worst appetites of men. And tons of dudes love it. Not me.

I don’t like Maxim girls. I don’t even like Playboy girls. How could I?

I’ve already given my heart away … to The Weather Channel Girls.

You see, it doesn't take great vision to ogle Shakira's ass or Carmen Electra’s tits. Their sexuality is obvious. You have to look well beyond the fire light to capture the beauty of TWC Girls.

When I watch Kristina Abernathy describe how the unusually northern flow of the jet stream is going to bring lake effect snow to areas of Buffalo … something inside me feels alive.

The Weather Channel is unquestionably the hub for hot women. In terms of variety … it is second to none.

It starts with Alexandra Steele, co-host of “Evening Edition.” If I have to choose between watching Sharon Stone ride Michael Douglas over on HBO or Steele’s Weekend Planner on TWC, I go with Steele 10 times out of 10.

Steele has stunning facial features and resembles the hot soccer mom in your neighborhood. Her signature wardrobe is a tight silk top, and often times, it looks like a slick janitor (or savvy producer) has turned up the AC in the building.

For those into younger, curvier women, look no further than Stephanie Abrams, a former Hollywood of the East Coast resident. Abrams' breakthrough performance came during Hurricane Season 2005.

Abrams, a staple on TWC’s roster of reporters in the field, was frequently seen being hammered by 80-m.p.h. winds and pelted with rain while wearing the tightest t-shirt I have ever seen. Instantly, the barometric pressure began rising in thousands of living rooms across America.

The clincher is that Abrams (and all of the TWC Girls) is articulate, smart and well informed, unlike such television boob-puppets as ESPN's Erin Andrews or CBS' Jill Arrington.

If you’re into exotic women, TWC’s deep roster has you covered. Take a peek at Vivian Brown, a former track standout at Jackson State University. Let's not forget Jennifer Lopez, Kim Perez and Eboni Deon.

All told, these TWC Girls exude sexuality, further evidenced by their porn-star like names. I mean, Alexandra Steele? Are you serious? How about Jennifer Lopez, Betty Davis and Kelly Cass? (For fun: Do a Google search for images of Alexandra Steele and watch the stunning amount of porn appear on your computer).

I know I’m not alone in my obsession of TWC Girls. Has anyone else noticed these women have collectively been pregnant about 328 times over the past five years?

One day, Kristina Abernathy is looking like the money. A few weeks later, she’s carrying a keg in her stomach.

These women are always knocked up. It appears someone is slipping them a stiff one while we’re enjoying some light jazz and watching Local on the 8s.

We’re getting the 7-day forecast, and Jeanneta Jones is getting 7 inches.

I blame Jim Cantore. He looks like a complete womanizer, and I’ve noticed the increased sexual tension building on the set between him and Steele during “Evening Edition.”

There’s no way two attractive people can work with such chemistry on the set and not have that electricity spill over into the bedroom.

It’s only natural, and, of course, weather is all about natural forces.

In many ways, I respect Cantore. I also am fanatical about Dave Schwartz, Mark Mancuso and Jeff Morrow (whom I’ve actually met).

These guys don’t need Maxim. They work with the hottest women in show business.

Would Dylan McKay Eat Sushi?

Remember the Beverly Hills 90210 episode where Donna Martin nearly drown when Dylan McKay snorted some coke and accidently knocked her into a swimming pool?

Well, you should.

The lesson I took from that episode was that snorting blow is wrong (later in life, I would learn that this was just network television propaganda and I would learn to judge those who did drugs on a persont-by-person basis).

However, what we, as young teenagers, also learned in that episode is that those who did drugs were viewed by those who didn't as having major personality flaws.

Now we're all much older. We've matriculated from 90210 to The O.C. It's the new millenium. Doing drugs no longer makes you cool and mysterious, as it did in the 90s.

Instead, there's a new subculture of cool. A new underground group of hipsters. They don't smoke pot, drop acid or snort coke.

They eat sushi.

Sushi is the drug of the new millenium. The 6-foot bong has been replaced by Futomaki. Pass the wasabi.

Let's face it, if you don't eat sushi, you can't hang out with people who do. Sushi eaters hate you and secretly wish you would leave.

Not eating sushi is kind of like being the really sober guy who hangs out on the couch as everyone else takes bong licks and listens to Phish for two consecutive hours. He understands the dance, but can't hear the song.

I have no problem with sushi. If people want to eat a tray of something resembling an autopsy of the lower intestine, that's their business.

However, I have a major problem with the Holier Than Thou attitude of sushi eaters.

If you don't eat sushi, you are judged by those who do as having a major personality flaw. Of course, this is done by women, the professionals of personality judgment.

In the last year, I've had three conversations with different women that went like this:

JANE DOE: "Do you eat sushi?"

ME: "No, I don't."

JANE DOE: "You Don't! ... What?"

Immediately there is a clear division, a distance between us. She will stand back, stare and express an overall disaproval that is absolute and steadfast.

I mean, it's not as if I told her my hobby was burrying cats and running over their heads with a lawnmower. But the reaction is the same.

What?

If these women ever had any intention of slepping with me or - God forbid - wanting to marry me, the thought has been disolved due to my distaste for uncooked fish wrapped in seaweed.

I live in a trendy town (The Hollywood of the East Coast). I live near a trendy sushi restaurant. And each day I see large groups of woman filing in. They're wearing their best shoes. They are drawn more toward the glamour than the food. It's a vain attempt to live their own little Sex & The City lifestyle.

Then I think about the ultimate symbol of cool: Dylan McKay. Would Dylan McKay eat sushi? Absolutely not. However, you can bet your ass he would mysteriously show up to the after party.