I could only do three.

They’re rare, but every now and then in your lifetime, there will come some type of rude awakening that you need to drastically change your lifestyle. For me, this occurs only in desperate situations.

When I was unemployed for four months straight, with no prospect of a job on the horizon, I started writing a screenplay. I worked on it for four months, made significant progress, then stopped. I still haven’t finished it.

Six years ago (damn, that hurts just typing that out), I was a college freshman. That should have been the year I had the most fun in my life by virtue of partying, slacking and hooking up with as many girls as I could possibly muster. While it was indeed a memorable year, it was abated somewhat by the fact that, at the time, I weighed more than I ever did in my life.

As I child I was always a skinny kid. Up until I was about 14, you could always see my rib cage, regardless of what I ate. But when I entered high school, I finally gained weight and for the first time in my life, I actually had fat on my stomach. The trend continued up until my senior year of high school. Ten months later, after eating Taco Bell nearly every day for lunch, I ballooned. By the time senior prom rolled around — I was fat.

Then came college. I remained ignorant to my fatness, and continued to add a little more weight.

Finally, when I hit my peak-weight at 191 pounds (I was approximately 5’8), I realized that it was time for a change. I can’t exactly say what the precise moment was that helped me realize it, but it may have had something to do with waking up every morning hating myself.

I fully acknowledged that I was a fat mess, that I was completely unattractive, and that it was nobody’s fault but myself. I hadn’t set foot in a gym in years. But one morning, I remember, I woke up, and I said, “I’m going to lose a lot of weight.”

Not a little weight, not some weight, but a lot.

From that day forward, I made a point to exercise every single day. I recall the first day at the gym, and almost passing out after using the stairmaster for four minutes. It was that bad.

But I was resilient. I ran every day, even threw a little lifting in here and there, and seriously reduced my food intake. In truth, I didn’t diet. I simply just stopped eating. I was probably digesting about half the calories that humans require for a day. But hey, it worked. I wouldn’t recommend it — but it worked.

Several months later, I was down about 30 lbs., and though I wasn’t still in great shape, I was no longer fat. However, when you are determined to lose weight, you acquire a skewed body image of yourself, and I remained convinced that there was more weight to be lost. Another several months later, I lost another 20 pounds, and the lowest I remember weighing myself was 139 pounds. Yikes.

Don’t worry, within a few months after that, I was back at a healthy 150, and haven’t dipped below that since.

That same day I vowed to lose weight, I also subconsciously made another vow. Not only was I going to stop being fat, but I was going to stop being fat forever.

I am convinced that everyone — at some point in their lives — needs to become overweight. Because only then can you fully appreciate the importance of maintaining good physical shape. Because I know the downs, the lows, and the misery that comes with having a poor body image, and I fully understand the consequences of allowing it to happen again.

It’s been four years since I lost all that weight, and since then, my workout habits have been inconsistent. I still always run, but I go though stretches between actually working out.

Shortly after getting my job in August 2010, I gained about 15 lbs. as a result of sitting in a cubicle six hours a day, and not hitting the gym as much as I adapted to the working life. So I signed up for the gym, went almost every day for about six months, and as a result, I entered the best shape of my life.

But, as life so goes, I stopped again.

Up until this week, I haven’t lifted a weight in over a year. I used to be able to do 40 push-ups at will without breaking a sweat. I could lift a 30 lb. weight like I was lifting a newspaper. I last went for my physical in the spring of 2011, and I checked in at 151 lbs. Perfectly healthy. Since then, I’ve pretended that I still weigh 151 lbs.

Recently, I’ve slowly lifted my cloud of denial and realized that I am on my way towards becoming fat again. I’ve looked at myself without a shirt on, and it’s not pretty.

But what was that final point of awakening? Well, a couple of weeks ago I was at a friend’s house, and he had a pull-up bar attached to his doorway. In the past, I could do at least 10 pull-ups without a problem. So I lifted my arms, grabbed the bar, and did some pull-ups for shits and giggles. I could only do three.

I could only do three.

I could not have been more ashamed of myself. Men are no longer expected to be barbaric physical specimens who must protect their families at all times from outside invasion — however, we still are expected to be strong and able. Right now, I am not.

It was those three pull-ups that awakened me to return to a more strenuous workout regiment. I started it yesterday, and I know, I know, that I will continue. Give me four or five months, and I will be fit again.

The point is that you need these awakenings to kick you in the ass every now and then. Nobody is going to maintain a perfect body weight for the entirety of their lives. We’re not all Lance Armstrong. Your only hope is that these awakenings come to you sooner than they do for most people. My first awakening came to me when I was borderline obese. And from what I can tell from some of my Facebook friends, I can see that is the same for them, too. I’m just glad I got mine out of the way when I was younger.

I suppose something that one never thinks about after losing weight is the possibility that you could one day become fat again. Once you accomplish something, and feel great about yourself, and it is easy to lose sight and become a little deluded with your perception of yourself. Just take Jonah Hill, for example. The dude lost a shit ton of weight, looked skinny as hell, and now he’s fat again.

Even if I do become fit again, and lose about 10-15 lbs., I’m sure in a few years from now (if not sooner), the process will repeat itself. Who knows what the rude awakening will be then.

All I know is that at the end of the summer, I am going back to my friend’s place and returning to his pull-up bar.

I am going to make that thing my bitch.

I mean, come on. Sometimes I feel like girls actually want guys to jerk off to their Facebook pictures

Yesterday I wrote a solemn, eloquent post about my gratefulness towards veterans on Memorial Day.

Today will be different.

When Facebook began, there were really no worries. Only your classmates were on the ‘book, so you could go ahead and post whatever you wanted. You didn’t have to worry about any consequences back then with your use of language or your photos.

Flash forward five years later. Things could not be more different. Everyone from your mother, father, boss, boss’s boss to your grandmother is on Facebook now. Additionally, you hear reports on the news on a daily basis about how companies have fired employees solely because of what they put on their Facebook.

You can’t post pictures of yourself shotgunning a beer. You can’t keep photos of yourself lying face down in the grass after a night of heavy drinking.

Even I have my privacy settings more restricted. If my boss were to ever friend me, I would make sure he can’t see my photos. And right now I have it set so that only my friends can access my profile.

But in this day and age, it’s almost a wonder that people even post photos on Facebook anymore, at least in social situations. Or rather, just nights out at bars. There’s just nothing to gain and everything to lose when you do. Better be safe then sorry, right?

So when I am bored, and want to check out pictures of a girl on Facebook, only to discover that all of them have been removed, I become slightly let down. But then, immediately after, I gain a sense of respect for that person. It shows that they are responsible and that they have a lot of integrity. Also it shows that they are fully cognizant that Facebook can get you in trouble, and as a result, they’ve made the smart decision by removing their photos. If they have this mindset already, it probably means that they will grow up to be a hard and successful worker.

I still think it is a bit overboard when people change their names to avoid being found on Facebook, but I’ll digress.

It almost comes as a surprise when you click on somebody’s profile nowadays, and see that they have 1,000+ clickable photos. It means that they are probably ignorant and naive in thinking that what they put on Facebook can’t cause them any harm. But at the least, you would hope that they would still ensure that no risqué photos ever find their way towards their page.

And Whereas, whenever I see someone who has zero photos and think of them as responsible, conversely, when I see someone has thousands of photos viewable to everyone — I think in my head, “They’re not very bright.” Especially when I am not even friends with them and still have full access.

As Robert Downey Jr. would say in the movie Tropic Thunder, “You went full retard.”

But I haven’t even gotten to my main point yet. If you think that’s bad, what about the people who still, at the age of 25, post photos of themselves in promiscuous situations.

For whatever reason, half of my Facebook friends decided to go to Las Vegas this week. One of them is a group of girls, all of whom are attractive, who are legitimately posting pictures of themselves in bikinis and holding beers every five minutes.

Hey, I have no problem with it.

But given the exorbitant amount of photos I have seen, and we’re talking dozens, here — and this is only during. Just wait for the post-Vegas trip photo album; that’s going to be a doozy — I can only come to these conclusions.

For starters, I can conclude that they know they are hot, and they want to show off. They want girls to see these photos and be jealous of their bodies.

But, doesn’t every girl know that when they post a picture of themselves in a scanty bikini, that guys aren’t just going to look at them, think, “Cool, she looks very nice,” and then X it out and move on? Don’t they know that? They have to, right? So when you post picture after picture after picture, it just tells me that they know what guys are going to do with these photos, and they just don’t care. It’s the only thing that makes sense. It must give them a thrill to know that they are hot enough that they even fit into that category.

Because like I said, girls, like everyone else, know the importance of protecting their privacy in today’s age, both from employers and creepers alike. So to not only post pictures of such a nature, but to do it so recklessly, simply tells me that they encourage the voyeurism from the outside world.

And we’re not just talking photos of them with their arms around each other, standing on the shore with the sunset draped over them. We’re talking drunk bikini photos in provocative poses. And no, I’m not being creepy. They’re on my news feed every five minutes. I also had absolutely no idea that a girl is capable of wearing a bikini for three days straight.

Again, not that there’s anything wrong with it.

The other conclusion I can draw is that they clearly have not placed all of their life focus on maintaining a good career and place more emphasis on partying and having fun. But hey, so have I. So who am I to judge? I just won’t be posting pictures of myself in a speedo anytime soon, probably to the appreciation of all my Facebook friends.

Some things are just best left to the imagination.

That last sentence would have been a great way to end this blog, but I wanted to post something really quickly. Recently, actor and comedian Martin Short was on Kathy Lee Gifford’s daytime talk show that nobody watches, as he was promoting a new film.

The interview was going fine when Gifford asked Short about his wife, Nancy. She kept asking questions about her, and about how she’s doing. It sounds innocent enough, except for one small detail.

His wife died of cancer to years ago.


Realizing her mistake later, Gifford tweeted her apologies.

That seems all well and good. The problem? This is who she tweeted it to:



The prospect of a barbecue becomes more and more enthralling with each passing year

I truly hope everybody out there had a fun Memorial Day weekend, or any other holiday weekend that they thought they were observing. Just as Ron Artest (aka Metta World Peace):

Talk about an outstanding member of our society.

Anyway, back to Memorial Day. I don’t think there’s any question that veterans are greatly underappreciated in our country. Perhaps those who only truly understand their sacrifice are those who obviously have done it themselves, or those who have family members or close friends who are or have been deployed overseas.

But for the rest of us, who don’t directly know anyone who has served, we don’t really do much to show our appreciation. Besides the generic Facebook post on the morning of Memorial Day, of course.

I take my cap off during the national anthem, but that’s really it. And it’s not because I don’t care — quite the opposite, actually. I care a lot — but it’s just because I don’t get it.

Living in the generation we’re in, not being forced to volunteer, and a generation where most people can go their entire lives and never come within a thousand miles of a war — it’s impossible for us to fathom what it is like to go to war and sacrifice your life for your country. Does it make me feel a little cowardly? Perhaps. But thinking about it also makes me feel a lot of respect for those who choose to do so.

However, that all being said, I can’t think of a better way to honor our veterans than by giving the rest of our country a 3-day weekend right at the start of the summer. Having three days to bask in beautiful weather while eating cheeseburgers, drinking beers and throwing around a frisbee is exactly what our veterans would have wanted. I truly believe that. The fact that we’re able to skip a day of work and drink irresponsibly is a sacrifice that veterans fight to uphold, and I applaud them for that. A barbecue is something that can be universally appreciated by everybody.

Although that wasn’t always the case.

As young teens, we preferred to spend our free time doing pretty immature things. Perhaps we went around town causing harmless mischief, like knocking down trash cans or toilet papering somebody’s house. That was our idea of fun.

When our parents threw a barbecue when we were 14, 15 and even 16 years old, we thought it was lame. We’d still invite our friends to it, but we’d detach ourselves from the rest of the barbecue. You’d hang out with your friends inside, or in a different part of your property, and only go near your parents when the food was ready. In essence, barbecues were hassles.

But as we aged a little more, and turned 19, 20 and 21, barbecues became a little bit more fun. Most of us drink at that age, and we’re at a socially acceptable age where we can drink safely in somebody’s backyard with parental supervision. So we’d just sit on a bench and act like drinking was no big deal. This was also the age where we were older and mature enough to hold conversations with adults. And finally it was the age where you’d see your friend’s younger brother for the first time in years and say, “Holy shit. When the hell did you get so freaking tall?!”

And now, as we hit our mid-to-late-20s, its come to the point where we practically live for barbecues.

At our ripe age, we fully understand the importance of savoring a beautiful summer day, along with the limited times we have when all of our friends are together in one setting. Also, we run the barbecues ourselves now. Perhaps if you still live at home, then your parents may contribute with the cooking, but otherwise they will make sure to stay out of the way and let you be the host.

Also, it’s pretty funny how, as we age, we create more opportunities for ourselves to partake in all-day drinking. At a barbecue, you’ll sit down at about 3 p.m., crack open a cold beer, and then seven hours later, find yourself doing the same exact thing.

I’d say that I first started truly appreciating barbecues during my first summer out of college. Mainly just because it gave me an opportunity to drink all day.

But with each passing year, you come to look forward to barbecues, and for different reasons. Obviously the drinking aspect always remains important, but it’s also a great opportunity to catch up with old friends. Additionally, with our sporting “careers” long over, it’s always fun to toss around a football or play some wiffle ball, since the opportunities to do so otherwise have become scarce. Also, how can you not love eating burgers and hot dogs all day?

I definitely did not feel this way about barbecues when I was 16.

I fully expect this trend to continue, and that barbecues will become more and more exhilarating with each passing year. Obviously it has a lot to do with maturity, and becoming more boring as you age. But that’s life. In fact, when I’m 40, I expect barbecues to be as thrilling as engaging in sexual intercourse.

And finally, let me officially note that beer pong is never going away. Older folk may claim it is a “generational” thing, and maybe they’re right. Perhaps 18 and 19-year-olds don’t play beer pong anymore. I wouldn’t know. But I do know that beer pong was at the height of its popularity when I was in college, and as a result, it is part of me. I can’t drink without thinking of playing beer pong. And I hope I’m still playing it when I am 60. I had originally wrote 70, but let’s face it, the way I’m going — I’m not living that long.

So, to bring it back full circle, thank you veterans. I know you risk your life every day, and that many of you have paid the sacrifice for doing so. But everybody thanks you for that.

I want to thank you from another perspective. I want to thank you for giving me a Monday off every year, and allowing it to parlay into an awesome weekend where all I get to do is sit in a lounge chair, rock a pair of sunglasses, drink some beer, listen to crappy pop music, and eventually play some beer pong.

Thank you, veterans, for never letting the college kid inside of me ever die.

Why do all girls instantly drop their pants at the sight of sailors during Fleet Week?

One year ago I was hanging out with a female friend in Manhattan, and later in the night we met up with three of her other friends. We were strolling down the sidewalk, when two sailors happened to cross paths with us as they walked in the opposite direction. The girls I was with stopped them as if they were hailing a cab, and instantly struck them up in conversation.

Within five minutes — possibly less — two of the girls were making out with the sailors.

And that was during Fleet Week.

It is now one year later, and members of our United States Navy are once again flocking the New York City area and stealing women away from us less-brave, lazier, non-uniformed folk, and it is a travesty.

There are three perspectives to Fleet Week: The girl, the sailor and the average guy like me who chooses to not spend his days on the high seas with a boat full of other men.

The first one is the women. The old cliché is that women love dudes in uniform. Girls may deny it, but this is clearly evidenced during Fleet Week. Take a semi-decent looking guy, put him in front of a girl, and watch as she shrugs him off. Take that same guy, shave his head, dress him in a white Navy uniform, and watch her swoon.

Are girls really that hopeless? Are they that predictable? I understand that when you’re 9-years-old, you watch fairy tales about how the strong, capable man climbs to the top of the tower and rescues the damsel in distress and the two fall in love. As a result, you were raised to believe that one day you would be swooped off your feet by some masculine, heroic prince.

But now you are in your mid-to-late 20s, and nothing has changed. It’s sad and pathetic. It shows that every single female out there still, deep down, is a hopeless romantic who thinks that their Prince Charming is out their waiting for them. A random Navy man, who they know they will probably never see again, draped in his uniform, is the closest any of them will come to ever attaining that.

And why is that? It’s because the real thing does not exist. If you’re waiting for Prince Charming, well, you’ll be waiting for as long as I’ll be for Taylor Swift to come knocking on my door. If you want, we can wait together.

It’s pathetic because I can probably walk around in a uniform this week and hook up with several girls this weekend. Whereas if I wear normal clothes, I’d probably strike out. What does that say about females?

And that’s a good segue into another perspective, the average Joe. For us, it is hard enough to go out and score chicks. For some, it’s a slight bit easier, and when I’m on one of my “hot stretches,” then I can do pretty well. However, if I am competing for the same girl with a goddamn member of the Navy, I’m not even going to try.

And the most infuriating part of it is we can’t even complain about it. In fact, it is un-American if we were to complain about it. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Hey you, sailor, who risks his life to defend my freedom, take your hands off that women so that I — someone who runs away and hides at the mere threat of an altercation — can have her. Thanks bro.”

Compared to a sailor, I will never feel like less of a man. My most gripping tale I can tell from my life is the time I got lost in a mirror-maze at a carnival when I was six. A sailor’s most gripping tale is that time they got shot at by a cannon during a thunderstorm in the middle of the ocean.

But seriously, is it really even that cool to be a sailor anymore? Who wages war on water these days? It’s 2012. War is fought in the air and through machines. Life is no longer like The Pirates of the Caribbean. I mean, I know that Somalian pirates are pretty bad ass, but join a real branch of the armed forces, man.

But that brings me to the final perspective — the sailor. I can’t even begin to imagine how much these guys must look forward to Fleet Week. Firstly, it brings them away from any imminent danger, secondly, it brings them to New York City, the best city in the world and one of which many sailors may have never even been to before. And finally, they know — trust me, they know — that they will hook up with dozens of chicks. AND THEY DON’T EVEN HAVE TO TRY.

All they have to do is enter a bar, make sure they are wearing their uniform, order a drink, and then just stand and wait. Those white little caps they don will draw girls like a moth to a flame. I hate them. Yet I envy them.

But how can you blame them? For one week, they are living the freaking life. They probably don’t even need to book hotel rooms because they know that every night they will stay at some random chick’s place.

Again, I can’t hate on the Navy. For many reasons. But I assure you that I will not shed any tears when Fleet Week is over.

On that note, Happy Memorial Day everybody, and particularly to those who protect our freedom! Just stay the hell away from the fine women of New York City, so that my chances with them can increase from 0.0% to 0.4%. Thanks.

Before I depart for the extended weekend, which will be totally awesome, I must bring to light something I discovered thanks to a friend of mine.

I don’t watch Saturday Night Live regularly anymore, but apparently there is a new cast member named Taran Killiam. He, along with the help of some cast members, recently filmed a video (it is not an actual sketch) of him in the writer’s room mimicking the choreography to the song “Call Your Girlfriend” by Robyn. Here it is:

When I first watched it, I’ll admit that I was unimpressed. Mainly because I had nothing to compare it to. But then I watched the actual Robyn music video and thought differently:

And then, finally, I watched a mash-up video of the two videos side-by-side, with the music, and my mind was officially blown.

It very well may possibly be the best thing I have ever seen, and from the video I am convinced that Taran Killiam will be the next rising star of SNL. Also, the actual song has now been stuck in my head for 24 hours. And to be honest, I don’t mind too much. In fact, it may become the official anthem of my Memorial Day weekend.

Maybe if I sing it to a girl at a bar, she will make out with me.

Unless a fucking sailor beats me to it.

Facebook went public and… I have no idea what that means.

One of the biggest ongoing piece of news over the last couple of weeks is the fact that Facebook finally decided to go “public.” I believe that the announcement came a few months ago, and then it finally occurred earlier this month.

Since then, there have been daily stories about how the stock has been doing on practically every national news website.

When I read one of these articles, I swear to god that it might as well be written in Swahili. Between all the different numbers, percentages, decimals, and whatever the heck “IPOs” are, I really have not the slightest clue what the hell is going on.

Today, apparently, the Facebook stock climbed 3.2 percent, but it is still trading nearly 16 percent lower than its $38 IPO price.

What is going on in my head as I read that?

I mean, I get the general gist of the stock market. Companies go public, which allows any random shmoe to buy stock at their own expense, and techincally own part of the company — albeit a very, very, minuscule part. The more people who buy, the higher the price is. Right now, Facebook controls the world, so I imagine that it is probably among the highest costing stock in existence right now.

Obviously one buys stock at their own risk. You can invest money and it can turn into a fortune, but also, can watch it go up in smoke.

I wish that I knew how to accurately follow stocks. I feel that it could be a very practical way to invest money. As long as you know the language, and know how the market works, it’s not very risky.

But then you have someone like me. I’m unsure of how one would even go about placing their money on a stock. Do you just walk into the New York Stock Exchange and approach to the counter? Is there a cashier or a maître d’ like there is in a hotel? Can I just walk up to them and say, “I’ll take one Facebook stock, please?” And this might be a stupid question, but do other U.S. states have stock exchanges?

I can’t even begin to follow these articles about the progression of Facebook’s stock, because I don’t know any stock market terminologies. Instead of these extensive 700-word articles, websites should post articles that simply go either two ways:

Facebook stock: good.

Facebook stock: bad.

Now wouldn’t that be better for everyone? I truly hope that, as long as I live, I never, EVER, find out what an IPO is. And how do I make the Weinblog go private? Can I… can I become rich that way?

I’m going to check on that, but in the meantime, I came across something pretty cool yesterday and I thought that other people might be interested. I’m normally not one who would take a personality test, but after the urging from a valid source, I took one last night, and I could not believe how accurate the test was.

At this website (scroll to the bottom), you will get asked 60 very specific questions that you have to answer based on your own personal behavior. It shouldn’t take longer than six or seven minutes. You will be given a “personality type” when you submit your results, and then you can see a detailed description of your personality here.

Again, I was amazed at how accurate it was. Reading the five-paragraph description felt like I was reading a specialized psychoanalysis that was conducted specifically about me.

If you’re wondering, my personality type was INFJ, which means that I am highly intuitive, creative, selfless and that one day I will be a very good parent. It sounds like me to a T. Unfortunately it did not say anything about sexual prowess. Or maybe that’s a good thing.

Anyway, I’d advise you all to try it out.

In the meantime, I am going to go and find out how I can make the Weinblog public and make millions of dollars and never have to work a day in my life.

If it worked for Zuckerberg, it could work for me. Except I won’t marry an Asian.

Returning to former Facebook profile pictures is an acknowledgement of ugliness

Nothing is more important in this world than your Facebook profile picture. Everybody knows that.

That being said, equally as important is ensuring that your Facebook photo never goes stale. If you leave the same photo for over a year, or longer, well that’s the equivalent of keeping the same exact haircut for years at a time. You become boring and irrelevant.

You have to keep your Facebook photo fresh. By doing so, you prove to people you’re not a “one hit wonder,” meaning that you didn’t just happen to have one specific photo that you looked good in, and not one else. You want to prove that you look good in different contexts, angles and situations. Nobody wants to be the Facebook profile photo version of Natalie Imbruglia.

The Timeline has given people a little more leeway when it comes to this. Because now you have two photos that you have to update — your profile picture and your cover picture. Thus, the shelf life of each photo has expanded a tiny bit. In the past, I’d say that you wanted to change your profile picture about every three to four months. By changing it, you lure people to your page and maintain relevance in other people’s lives.

But now, with the addition of the cover photo, I’d say that the shelf life has elongated to about five or six months. But you have to change your cover photo before that. By doing so it’ll take away people’s attention from your lack-of-change and redundant profile photo.

There have certainly been times in my life when I’ve said, “Man, it’s been a while since I had a good new option for a Facebook profile picture, let me manipulate one.” I’m sure others think the same.

However, I think one of the biggest cardinal sins of this philosophy is changing your profile picture back to a picture that you previously had as your profile picture in the past.

When in doubt, just keep the same picture. A new one will come along. It’ll happen when you least expect it.

But returning to an old picture is dull, unoriginal and basically translates to waving a white flag and saying, “I looked better then than I do now.” Or in other words, “I’m ugly.”

I will be the first to admit that I have done this before. I have gone through stretches where no good pictures were taken of me for a lengthy time period, so I resorted to changing my profile picture to an older one. I will never make this mistake again.

Just imagine a company that designs shoes. They made a great design, but since then, over the next two years, have hit a lull and have not been able to match the same success. So instead of trying to be creative and innovative, they release the same exact design from two years ago in hopes that they can reciprocate the same success they previously had.

That would not happen. Fashion is about evolving and trying to set trends, and not about living in the past. Releasing an old design is basically just admitting that you are not as good as you used to be.

And it works the same way with your Facebook profile picture. When you reuse an older photo, it could not be a bigger cop-out. It’s your own subconscious admitting defeat that you looked better in the past than you do right now, and you are informing the public of it. Whenever I see people do it, it is exactly what I think.

Like always, I’m just trying to help, because I don’t think that people realize this. If you do indeed have that once-in-a-lifetime great photo that makes yourself look like you have the face of Marion Cotillard, the playful glow of Marilyn Monroe and the body of Catherine Zeta Jones during the filming of Entrapment, then keep it for a while. Shelf lives become extended for those rare golden pictures.

But someday you have to retire it, and retire it for good. It’ll always be there in your archived photos and other people will see it. As much as we all want to, we cannot relive the glory days.

The only thing you can do is keep hanging out with people who take a lot of pictures. And then you wait.

But do not, DO NOT, revert to old photos. It’s weak and you’re better than that.

So speaking of Facebook, how did Mark Zuckerberg’s wedding go so unreported? Why was there no giant buzz surrounding this? And who even knew he was engaged?

In my opinion, this wedding should have garnered as much publicity as the Royal Wedding did. Prince William’s accomplishments are nothing to compared to Zuckerberg. All he had do was… be born.

It could have been called “The Zuckerwedding.”

At the very least, the wedding should have been streamed live over Facebook, and millions of people could have “liked” it. Also, I wonder if the two of them met by poking each other?

I think I’m going to now spend the next ten minutes poking every girl who I know. Actually, that would probably only take two minutes.

I had forgotten how cliquey colleges girls are

No I am not dead.

I took off the last two days of last week and headed up to my alma mater, Binghamton University. I had not been there in two years, and I took the days off, along with the weekend, as a mental health-vacation/hiatus from all things work and blogging. Normally, I would inform you all if I am planning to take some time off, but the truth is I had actually planned to blog on Wednesday before departing on my trip, but didn’t get around to it. But my apologies.

If I do spontaneously die one of these days, I’ll do my best to knock out one more blog during my last moments as I cling to life. That is where my priorities lie.

So, anyway, I attended Binghamton for an event that goes by the name of “Senior Bar Crawl.” In short, on the Thursday that lies between the end of finals and graduation, the seniors embark on an all-day pub crawl, starting at noonish, and make their way down the entire strip and drink all day.

Nearly every bar in the downtown area takes part in it, and beers cost anywhere between $1 to $2 pretty much all day long. Sadly, this was actually my fourth bar crawl. You’re really only meant to do it once. And even more sadly, it probably will not be my last.

Now I had greatly anticipated this trip. During my college years, from roughly 2005 to 2009, I didn’t have as much success with the female gender as one would hope. I was young, lacking confidence and inexperienced.

Three years later, as a 25-year old, I am slightly older, a little confident, and …kind of experienced.

I mean, it’s not like I expected every younger college chick to sway at the sight of me as if they were laying eyes on one of the Beatles circa 1972, but, I thought that my somewhat respectable abilities now would translate fairly well.

As a working man, I have a lot of things going for me. I assumed that 21-year-old girls would be very open to the idea of hooking up with older guys, and since I actually have money, I could buy shots and drinks for people and not even think twice about it. Especially since one drink in Binghamton costs about one-third the price as it does in New York City.

So, all in all, I went into Binghamton with pretty high expectations. I owed it to the younger college kid in me to hook up with college girls. I wanted to do it for him.

But what I forgot is that young girls who are on the verge of graduation have absolutely no desire to meet new people. None.

A tradition of Bar Crawl is that close friends will design their own matching shirts and hit up all of the bars together. It’s a form of camaraderie and allows kids to show off their creativity. I saw some funny ones, one of them being a parody of Carly Rae Jepsen’s song, which said “Fuck Me Maybe.”

Essentially, if you weren’t wearing the same shirt as another girl, then she really had no interest in talking to you.

But, in hindsight, that should have been expected. It reminds me of my own college days. Towards the end, all you really wanted to do was hang out with your friends who you will not be seeing much anymore. I also recall all of the times when I didn’t even try to talk to random girls in bars. It turns out that it probably wouldn’t have even mattered anyway.

On a side note, I was also reminded of the blind and naive optimism that collegiate seniors exude during their final days before graduation. Whereas I expected them to be glum, they were all smiles and actually seemed prepared to move on to the next stage of their lives.

Suckers! They have absolutely no idea of the rude awakening that is in store for them. On a couple of occasions, when I did talk to some people, I thought about sharing some insight with them about how the next couple of years of their lives are going to be awful, but I digressed. I’ll let them discover it for themselves… why take the fun away?

So while I had fully expected the line “Hey, I graduated three years ago, and I have a job now” to win over all the ladies, it only amounted to the same success that I experienced during my own college years.

It’s high school girls who get the bad reputations for being bitchy, bossy and cliquey, but I discovered this past week that it is really college girls who deserve that reputation.

Or maybe I’m just no where near as good looking as I think.

Nah that can’t be it.

I have no problem with fat people, but fat families annoy the shit out of me.

One thing you realize when you are out and about in the world is how many people who are overweight. And I don’t just mean overweight — I mean borderline obese.

If you are in decent shape, then that most likely means that your friends are likewise probably in decent shape. This is because we tend to hang out with people who have the same interests, and that might include working out or playing sports. Think about how many best friends you know where one of them is extremely skinny and one of them is extremely fat.

That might be what sitcoms are made of — but it doesn’t occur very often in the real world.

So when you go somewhere that holds a large mass of people, it may become surprising how many fat people you run into. Maybe it’s the mall, or the movies, or a restaurant.

And, you know, if I see a fat person, I will probably glance at them and think subconsciously, “Oh, that person is fat,” and then I will forget about them two seconds later and never think about them again. It’s the same thing as looking at a hot girl and thinking, “Damn, that girl is fine,” and then forgetting about her once she continues on her way and walks out of your life. We will always make very general, stereotypical observations about others with a glance. Its basic human nature.

But I genuinely have no problem with fat people. In fact, I used to be very chubby myself for a couple of years when I was a freshman in college. So I understand how it can happen. If I hate a fat person, it’s because they are annoying or mean, and not because they are fat. Everyone is free to live the way they want, and who am I to judge?

That being said, today, I walked into a Moes Southwest Grill to grab some dinner. If you think fat people abound when you visit a public setting, then just imagine how many are prevalent when you enter a fast food restaurant.

I was already in an irritable mood because I was running late, and I wanted to get home quickly, and of course, there was a lengthy line at the Moes. So, as any good samaritan would, I killed my time by observing other people in the restaurant. My eyes immediately fell on a family of three sitting nearest to me, and all three of them were fat as hell.

The family consisted of a mom, a dad and a daughter. Actually, the dad was the only one who might simply qualify as “overweight,” while the mom and daughter unquestionably were grossly overweight bordering on obese. I’m sorry to say it, but I became disgusted. The evidence of their gluttony could not have been more visible, as they chowed down on massive burritos, layered with queso and sour cream and all other condiments that made me want to vomit.

What peeves me most are the parents. First off, for allowing themselves to become so overweight in their elderly and vulnerable age, and secondly by setting a terrible example for their daughter. Clearly they are the biggest enablers for her fatness. How is that okay?

I seriously wanted to walk over them and say, “Hey, you guys should probably drop the burritos, and try going to a gym.”

And to top it off, the father, having finished his bowl of chips, walked over to the salsa bar and filled the ENTIRE bowl with salsa. I have been to Moes possibly 75 times in my life, and I have never once seen this occur. I’ve seen people fill up several small cups with salsa, but never A WHOLE ENTIRE BOWL. My jaw literally dropped and my anger increased tenfold. That family embodies everything that is wrong with this country.

It’s not that freaking hard to not be obese. It’s undoubtedly very difficult to acquire six-pack abs, and it’s hard to maintain good shape. But to just not be obese, all you have to do is try walking every now and then, and by not eating shitty food during every moment of the day. And yet, so many people are incapable of doing that and it baffles my mind.

When I see an entire family of obese people, it just makes me wonder how it went so wrong. How could all of you be so nearsighted towards your own personal health?

If I ever have kids, I will certainly never force them to work out, but I will make sure that I properly educate them as to the importance of maintaining good physical shape. Not only does it do wonders physically, but for your mental and emotional state. Going outside and going for a brisk mile-long jog is one of the best remedies in life.

Again, if you enjoy eating so much that you don’t really care about your physical appearance, then go for it. If you’re happy, then I’m happy. But if, by doing so, you enable your significant others, siblings, and even worse, your children, to follow suit, then you are basically killing them. You might as well be a murderer.

The worst part about all of this? That bowl full of salsa will haunt my dreams for years to come.

Save me lord.

Sorry, but if you don’t drink, we probably can’t be friends

Let me begin by saying that I have absolutely no problem with people who choose to abstain from drinking alcohol.

Whether it’s because of medical reasons, or because you’ve been raised to believe that alcohol is unacceptable, or because you just don’t enjoy the taste of it, then that is absolutely fine. I respect your lifestyle decisions. In fact, if you are able to go out with your friends, and you have enough of a freewheeling personality that you can seamlessly hang out with other people while they drink, then more power to you. I wish I was as good as you.

That being said, I’ll respect you, I’ll hang out with you, but we probably won’t get along too well.

I am not an alcoholic, nor am I an alcoholic in denial, but I prefer to spend my weekends imbibing in it. During the week, I don’t have the slightest desire to even think about alcohol. I want to be in my jammies at 8 p.m., lying on my bed and watching reruns of Bones with a sporting game on in the background.

But come Friday or Saturday night, I am disappointed if a beer is not in my hand come 8 p.m.

Am I capable of having fun without alcohol? Of course. It depends on the context, and who I am with, obviously, but, let’s face it, alcohol brings you to a level of euphoria, boldness and immaturity that would never occur if you were not inebriated. With that sensation comes wacky situations that form memories which last a lifetime.

I’m not saying to get drunk by yourself — that would be depressing — but get drunk with your closest friends.

It’s safe to say that all my close friends highly enjoy getting intoxicated on weekends just as much as I do. It’s a common bond we all share, and it makes for great times. My coworkers pretty much always expect me to have a good story ready whenever I come to work on Monday, and I can thank that all to alcohol.

Might it take a year, or five, off my life? It may. But at least I can say I had fun.

So, when I meet someone, and one of the first things I learn about them is that they don’t drink, my initial thought is, “why?”

And since alcohol is involved most of the times when I am hanging out with friends, it’s safe to say that me and this person will not become best friends.

Again, I respect other people’s lifestyle choices. Recreational drinking is one of my big lifestyle choices. If someone else doesn’t partake, then that is a big thing that we do not have in common. It works just like any other character trait. If I meet someone who just happens to be a racist, then I probably won’t get along with them too well either.

If I were to ever go on a blind date, and within five minutes of the date, I offer to buy the girl a drink, and she responds, “No thanks, I don’t drink,” then I would probably not utter a single word, get up, put on my coat, and simply leave. From that point forward, it’s not going to work. I don’t care what she looks like, or how cool she is, no girl is ever going to change that about me.

Might I lose a little bit of my desire to drink as much if I found a girlfriend who I truly loved? Probably. But I’d still want to drink a lot. In my opinion, that’s one of the most important aspects of having a significant other; being able to go out and party with her and your friends. If I ever have a girlfriend that prefers to spend her Friday and Saturday nights cuddling and watching television with me, then I’ll know that I’ve settled for the wrong girl.

I’m not just looking for a girlfriend — I’m looking for a partner. And more importantly, a beer pong partner. It’s probably a moot point anyway, because I fully expect to meet the girl of my dreams when I’m drunk, either at a party or a bar, and not at a library or a museum. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

One more time for emphasis: I am not saying that people who choose not to drink alcohol are inferior to anybody else, nor that they are boring, or even that they are missing out.

All I’m implying is that if we were ever to hang out, we’re probably going to have a hard time finding something to talk about. But we can sure try, ya boring loser!

Happy Mother’s Day/My flower shop experience

Normally I would be vocally adverse towards the exorbitant number of people who posted on Facebook about Mother’s Day today. It’s not because I am insensitive and lacking in compassion, but I don’t understand why it is necessary. For example, my mother doesn’t even have a Facebook. So why would I wish her a happy Mother’s Day on Facebook?

Every son and daughter in the world should wish their mother a happy Mother’s Day verbally, but if you’re posting it on Facebook, I feel like it’s just another way of people attempting to make themselves look good publicly. If people even put half the effort into making their mom feel special today as they did on their first-thing-in-the-morning-paragraph-long Facebook post, then they would be great people. But everyone knows they will do no such thing.

But I digress, because it was the Facebook posts that reminded me that today was Mother’s Day. It’s not that I forgot — I knew all week that Sunday was Mother’s Day — but I hadn’t remembered upon waking up, and who knows how long that would have lasted. So, thank you, you self-aggrandizing, narcissistic, politically motivated, time-wasting Facebook posters.

So upon realizing the significance of this day, the next question that my hungover mind immediately jumped to was “What do I do?” The obvious choice to at least start the day off with was to pick up breakfast. After checking if my go-to porn sites had anything of interest, I googled the name of my town along with the word “florists” and discovered that there was one within five minutes of my house.

I proceeded to leave my bed, brush my teeth, get dressed and embarked on a journey towards the florist. I parked around the corner and started walking there, and learned that there is apparently a bakery and coffee shop right by my house as well. I have no idea how long its been there, but it’s pretty remarkable how unaware people can be of local businesses that exist right near their homes. just because they don’t pay enough attention. I could tell you where every Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts is within a five-mile radius of my home, but from now on, I think I am going to try the local shop and support local businesses.

I really, really hope it’s a hipster place, with a 27-year old ruffled hair looking dude who loves nothing more than to pour people coffee with indie music blasting in the background and a chalkboard behind him that has the menu on it. Nothing would make me happier.

Anyway, I walked into the flower shop, and immediately felt lost. I have never actually bought flowers in my life — except one time when I bought a single rose for someone, but let’s not talk about that — and I had no idea what to do.

A few months ago I blogged about how out-of-place I felt when I was in a tool shop, but I think a flower store sits atop that list as well.

My eyes immediately darted to the already-made bouquets, but they just seemed so… unoriginal. So I then observed the flowers that were sitting in pots, ready to be planted, but saw that most were around $60. Mom, I love you. But not that much.

So I hung back and observed other customers. At first, the line was pretty lengthy, but as the minutes rolled by, the line was out the door. Mother’s Day is pretty much the Superbowl when it comes to Florists, I suppose. Well, that and Valentine’s Day.

I’ve been pretty vocal in the past about my distaste of the unoriginality of purchasing flowers, but considering how rarely I do it (never), I figured that the sentiment would surpass that notion, and that my mother would be very appreciative.

Upon my survey of other customers, I saw that some people were actually handpicking their flowers, and the florist would put them together in a personally made bouquet. I figured that was the way to go. Although I lack a keen eye when it comes to picking flowers, I figured — just make it colorful. Even an idiot could do that.

I ended up selecting two red and orange roses, a sunflower and a purple daisy. The total was $27. Perfect.

Being in a flower shop is an interesting experience on Mother’s Day. I momentarily exchanged glances with several other male customers — not because I’m gay — but because it’s funny to see other people’s expressions and to decipher if they were as uncomfortable as I am. In those momentary glances, I definitely caught that “Yeah, f’in Mother’s Day…” look.

Also, if you’re reading this and you have small children, please leave them in the car if you ever go flower shopping on a busy holiday. In a flower shop, there’s very little room to walk because flowers are all over the place, and because the employees are often walking around so they could attain the specific flowers that people request. So, that, mixed with the flurry of customers in the store at the time, made me want to step on every little kid I saw who kept running around and picking at all the flowers. I physically wanted to step on their faces.

Finally, another observation I made is how touchy it can be to shop for flowers on Mother’s Day. Other people see what you bought, and consequently, might make a judgment on how good of a son or daughter you are by your purchase. If you simply bought one of the aforementioned already-made bouquets at the front of the store, then forget it, you’re the worst.

If you buy one of the aforementioned $60-plus dollar flower pots, then screw you guy. You’re showing me up. I also hope your mother hates you and that she throws the flowers out later tonight.

But I made my purchase, finally left the hell house that was my local flower shop, and walked down the road back towards my car holding a large bouquet of flowers like a jackass. In total, between my initial fish-out-of-the-water bewilderment, subsequent indecision, waiting in line, picking out my flowers, and then waiting for them to be wrapped, I was in the store for about 30 minutes.

It was the first time I had ever purchased flowers, and hopefully, it will be my last. Now who wants to marry me?