A Guy's Guide to Laying That Hot Bartender

I have run across several articles in men's magazines and similar, er, "developmentally challenged" publications that list the top five (or ten or whatever) most exclusive kinds of girls to bed. Let's ignore the ridiculousness of that premise and just move on to the part I want to talk about. Without fail, female bartenders always appear on these lists. As a lady who pours drinks for money, this makes me think.

Look, first things first: Bartender chicks, as a rule, are not hard to sleep with. I'm sorry, but these girls aren't nuns. They are typically girls who liked to hang out in bars so much they decided to get paid for it. Let's call a spade a spade.

That being said, it is really, really easy to completely destroy your chances with any bartender in one move. So, with the input of other lady bartenders I know, I have compiled a guide to help you fellows lay that hottie bartender you've been drunkenly lusting after.

1. Stop getting so goddam hammered.
I know you go to the bar to have some drinks and unwind, and your bartender knows that, too. She obviously wants you to drink because she wants you to pay her. She gets the deal. However, chances are that your sexy drink slinger is relatively sober. I don't know if you know this, but dealing with obliterated people when you are sober SUCKS. It it not fun or funny or anything but 100% sucky. So be less drunk than the other guys in the bar.

If your bartender is as hot as you think she is, a lot of guys are hitting on her on any given night. You have competition. If the other dudes are slurring and you're not, you've got a leg up. See how that works?

2. Don't be a pain in the ass.
Decide what you want to drink and stick with it. Make it something simple like a beer or a manly mixed drink. If you want shots, make sure you know how many you need before you fucking order. Don't ever, ever, ever give her shit about prices. This is common sense.

This gets a little bit more complicated when your bartender starts reciprocating your attentions. As much as you might want to, do not use this as an excuse to turn into a pain in the ass. Just because she flirted back does not mean you now get to monopolize her time. It does not mean you need to make her make a round of shots for just the two of you every 3 minutes. She still has a job to do, and if you fuck it up, you're out. Also, for the love of God, if she says she doesn't want to take a shot with you, don't pressure her! She knows she is at work, and she knows her limits, and let it go already!

3. Tip. Tip early and often.
Bartenders live and die by tips. You are not going to gain any favor by being a cheapskate. If you are paying cash, tip every round. A lot of times we hear, "Oh, I'm gonna tip you fat at the end of the night." While this may be true, your bartender does not know you or if you're a liar or what your definition of "fat" is. Meanwhile, some other schmuck is dropping cash on her every time he buys a drink.

If you are running a tab, run it up early. Start with a big order. Make sure she knows this is going to be a decent sized tab that may warrant a sizable tip. This may all sound like buying into your bartender's good graces, and it is to some extent. However, girls in general don't like cheap guys. They like presents, and presents require a man to separate himself from his hard-earned dollars.

If that turns you off, think about it this way; If your bartender thinks that you don't value her time at work, why should she think you would value her time in any other capacity?

4. Don't over flatter.
Dudes tell this girl all night how pretty/hot/sexy she is. It's all just noise. If you feel the need to compliment, at least be original. For instance, many girls respond favorably to compliments about their work. Everyone likes to be perceived as competent. Instead of telling your girl how fine she is, look her in the eye and say, "It's pretty packed in here, but you're working it out, girl." Say exactly that, but change all of the words to make it sound less like the gay sidekick in a movie.

5. Stay up late
Look, part of the reason bartenders are more difficult to sleep with than normal, daywalking human beings is that they work so freaking late. They don't get off when the bar closes; they typically have all kinds of terrible, exhausting nonsense to do after everyone else has tied a few on and gone to bed. You need to stay up late, and you need to do it without getting so drunk you either turn her off or render your dick useless. Not an easy task.

Obviously, different girls and bars etc. call for different game plans. In a perfect world, though, this is how it goes down. You show up halfway through the night looking hot and sober while half the competition is already sloppy and annoying. You have several but not dozens of drinks while building a rapport with your bartender. After she has responded and you have tipped her "fat", an exchange of numbers occurs. Then you make sure she knows you are going out and will be staying out late, and you GTFO.

Do not be the reason she cannot close as early as she would like. Do not try to hang out while she closes and wait for her. She doesn't know you like that and you're going to be in the way, and it will be awkward. Just let the girl know you'll be downtown/uptown/at a house party/whatever, tell her you'd like to hear from her, and go. Desperation is yucky and other social engagements make you seem cool. I promise this is your best shot. If some other douche ends up hanging out all night and making her drive him home and somehow gets it in, well, that's life.


Now go get 'em, tigers.

Advertisers Hate Women (Even More Than Other People Do).

The debut Dr. Pepper 10 commercial is the most offensive thing on TV right now, bar none. Jersey folks may hate Jersey Shore and everyone may hate Basketball Wives but not as much as I hate this motherfucking commercial.

For those who have not witnessed this 20 second shit fest, let me give a brief synopsis. Two guys are riding through a stereotypical action film set in some kind of open, military style vehicle with all kinds of bad action movie bullshit happening around them. One of the men says something like, "Hey ladies, are you enjoying this? Of course you're not because this is man stuff." Then some vaguely ethnic guys get stuck in a net and the man drops the commercial's super clever catch phrase: "You can keep your romantic comedies and lady drinks; I'm good." Then, because the point that Doctor Pepper 10 is for men and men are too awesome for girl stuff has not been driven home yet, it says "Dr. Pepper 10: IT'S NOT FOR WOMEN".

Ok, breathe. Here we go.

The idea that "lady things" and feminine qualities are inferior to man stuff is one of the most pervasive and destructive in all of society. While actual servitude and inferior treatment for women have largely been weeded out of Western society, somehow this idea has not. Not when you really look at the way we communicate with each other.

One of the most insulting things one can say to a man is that he is acting like a woman. While tomboyish girls are often considered the "fun girl next door" and allowed to be sexy, feminine men are pretty much universally reviled. Even men who enjoy the company of women in non-sexual capacities tend not to like the qualities associated with women, namely emotional volatility, helplessness, and manipulative thinking/actions.

To make matter worse, most women don't even really like other women for the same reasons. The problem is, I'm not sure these qualities are actually that much more present in women than men. I know just as many women who can one-night-stand and break hearts without getting emotion involved as men. I know for a fact that women can do pretty much whatever the Hell they want, on their own, if they put their mind to it. And men frankly play just as many games as women do, and often without actually understanding the consequences, which is worse in my opinion.

Still, this idea that feminine equals weak is not going anywhere. I have even heard it argued that the reason homosexuality meets so much resistance is because the popular conception of gayness is that it feminizes one or both of the men, and we as a society just can't get down with that. I buy that 100%.

This brings us to the advertising-sucks-ass portion of the post. Women in ads, ninety percent of the time, are one of three things: Sexy, bitchy, or not present and being mocked. The rare exception to this rule is the occasional quirky-yet-funny girl like the crazy Target lady or the "Drop it Like it's Hot" awful soda girl. (I forgot the name of that soda.) Good for Target and Awful Soda. Good for them.

Everyone else, though, is guilty of perpetuating the idea that stuff for women is stupid or bad because women are stupid or bad, unless they are sexy, in which case they are sexy and stupid and probably also bad.

(Edit: The previous paragraph is way, way too general, in hindsight. "Lady stuff is bad," is unsurprisingly not the strategy used in marketing products to women, such as household goods and cosmetics. Home goods often employ the bitchy/domineering woman, who annoys me, but at least she is given some power. The beauty industry is just awful for us a gender, but we love our makeup.) Still...

Dr. Pepper is the worst offender. If you are a woman, DO NOT BUY DR. PEPPER 10. They said explicitly that it is not for you. Their product is too good for you. So let them survive off of the ten men who drink 10 calorie soda. When that doesn't work, they can choke on a big, feminine, gay dick and die.

Modern Christmas Survival Guide: Santa Edition

Christmas in America used to be simple for Santa Claus. His responsibilities were straight forward: fly around to every Christian home in the country, slide his pudgy ass down the chimney, and leave presents for the all the nice girls and boys. Naughty girls and boys got a stocking full of coal, which was really a gift to their parents for putting up with their naughtiness all year, as everything was coal-powered back in the day.

These days, the increased commercialism and political correctness in America have complicated Christmas beyond recognition. Santa has to watch his back now. So, to help him out, I am going to explain some of the new rules.

1. Merry Christmas vs. Happy Holidays
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night," is pretty much Santa's catchphrase. After his booming, "Ho, ho, ho!", it is the phrase most identified with Old Saint Nick. In recent years, though, the words "Merry Christmas" have come under attack from the political correctness nazis. The phrase has been labelled too exclusive and given up by many businesses and families in exchange for the bland-but-all-inclusive "Happy Holidays".

The confusing aspect to this phenomenon is that, as offended as the P.C.-types are by "Merry Christmas", it does not hold a candle to how offended the Keep-Christ-In-Christmas-types are by "Happy Holidays". The key is to figure out which of these groups one would rather offend. For a normal person like myself, it is completely appropriate to make fun of both of these groups of people, because they are all morons who are getting fired up over a benign, appropriate phrase. However, Santa has to enter these people's homes.

This decision in simple if you look at it from the right point of view. The chance that a "Happy Holidays" champion is armed is slim to none. I suspect that the people who want to include everyone in every holiday phrase are the same people who want firearms outlawed completely, at least 8 times out of 10. On the other hand, the folks who are insisting that Christ permeate every aspect of the season own a lot of guns. A LOT of guns. Side with the gun owners, Santa. Merry Christmas it up.

2. The Competitive, Suburban, Commercial Mom
Mothers and wives in commercials are crazy bitches. They are controlling, competitive, crazy bitches. They base their self worth at least partially on their ability to buy their families a ton of shit for cheap. As a result, this year they seem to have begun competing with Santa Claus. We have all seen the commercials where Santa comes down the chimney with a few nice gifts only to encounter some coupon-high suburban housewife glaring at him. She has already laid out an array of modern tech gadgets under the tree. She defies Santa to pull anything more amazing from his sack.

First of all, these hoes don't deserve your time, Santa. Don't they know you are magic? You could pull the most amazing thing anyone has ever seen from your majestic sack, you just choose not to because these bitches' kids have learned from their mothers' example and suuuuck. Just skip these houses, Santa. Delete the whole family from your list.

3. Americans want Santa to work a Lot of OTHER jobs around Christmas
Santa pops up all over the place at Christmas time. He is the jolly car salesman, the jolly furniture salesman, the jolly Coke truck driver, and so, so much more. Apparently Santa is unaware of our unemployment problem. We might think we want Santa to just take over all of our major commercial industries this time of year, but is it really the best idea? You know what is even better than seeing Santa selling cars? Putting Christmas dinner on your family's table.

It seems no one has picked up on the Santa Claus/holiday unemployment connection yet, but it is only a matter of time. Look at Barrack Obama's approval ratings, Santa. And that's not a guy who is actually stealing American jobs, he just can't seem to find a way to make more. If you want to maintain your always-high level of support, you need to back off, old man.

4. Justin Bieber
Justin Bieber made a Christmas album, and every tween girl wants it. As much as it may wrack your very soul, Santa, you have to give it to them. 10-13 year old girls are powerful. They all have twitter accounts. Did you see what twitter did to Egypt and Tunisia? Imagine what it could do to your reputation, Santa. Just become a Belieber, and Christmas will go smoothly this year.

The X Factor: A Study in Unstable Teens Under Pressure

Simon Cowell has stated unequivocally and often during this season of The X Factor that he is glad they lowered the minimum age for contestants to 12. He cites the talent of young contestants like Rachel Crow, 13; Drew, 14; Astro, 14; and Melanie Amaro, 19 as proof that this is a teenager's competition.

However, there has proven to be a somewhat cringe-inducing downside to putting oddball teenagers in a high-stakes talent competition on national television. They seem to keep having breakdowns.

First to crack was young hip-hop prodigy Astro, who was voted into the bottom two early in the competition. Astro seemed to be a young man with an overabundance of precocious confidence. In his initial audition, he pretended to scold Simon for being rude as a set up to his original song, "Stop Looking at My Mom". No one else was in on the joke, and there were several moments of stunned anger from the judges' table before everything clicked. In the end, the stunt paid off, and the judges unanimously praised the young rapper.

This cool persona remained unbroken until Astro's first appearance in the bottom two, when his youth really began to show. He walked out to his save-me song obviously upset and threatened not to perform at all before giving a lack-luster performance. When asked about his attitude, Astro first stonily avoided eye contact before tearfully explaining that he did not want to perform for an audience that did not want him. Suddenly, it was all too clear that Astro's cool, confident, and mature exterior was masking a lot of little-boy insecurities.

The next week, Astro apologized and gave a performance that kept him safe, but he was voted off after receiving the lowest number of votes during Michael Jackson week.

Next to have a bizarre break down on live TV was Miss Melanie Amaro. Melanie has been a strong contestant from the beginning due to her pitch-perfect diva voice and inoffensive demeanor. Early in the season, we were made aware of Melanie's family's history of money issues. Melanie spent some time living with her grandparents in the Virgin Islands when her parents could not take care of her.

Despite her somewhat difficult past, Melanie's personality seemed pretty muted, and she showed very little emotion. That is until rock week, when Melanie sang R.E.M.'s "Everybody Hurts". At the conclusion of her performance, with the crowd still on their feet, Melanie began thanking her mentor Simon Cowell for bringing her back in the competition after stupidly sending her home after the judges' houses round. This was a nice moment because it seemed Melanie was finally coming out of her shell, but it did not stop there.

As L.A. Reid began giving his comments, Melanie started to cry and began shouting in a previously hidden Islands accent about how she wanted to be herself. "This is the real Melanie," she cried, "This is really me." As the judges continued to try to give their feedback, Melanie continued to interrupt in her new voice to thank the judges, the audience, and anyone else who would listen, for the opportunity to compete on The X Factor. She was tearful and breathless and suddenly full of some bizarre, insuppressable energy. It was honestly difficult to watch.

I am not going to post a link to Melanie's odd transformation here because Fox is really good about getting videos down quickly. However, I suggest you search "Melanie Amaro accent" when you are done reading this. Melanie is still going strong and part of the final five in the competition.

Finally, we have little Drew. Drew charmed the judges with her Sarah-Mclachlin-gone-country voice and her sweet, creative take on current hits. She was a very strong contestant from the word go. However, as the weeks went on, Drew began to receive criticism from some of the judges for being too stagnant. Each week, she performed a slow, airy song. In time, all of the judges save Simon were practically begging for an uptempo song from her.

One week, the contestants were asked to dedicate a song to a person who had had a big impact in their lives. Drew chose her best friend Haley, whom she claimed was the only person who really understood her. Apparently, Drew often felt like an outcast and a loser at school. Haley was the girl who told Drew not to worry about what other people thought. In honor of their friendship, Drew sang Demi Lovato's "Skyscraper", a song about not letting others tear you down and a tween anti-bullying anthem. When L.A. accused Simon of picking 40-year-olds' songs for Drew, Drew spoke up, explaining in a cracking voice that the song was for anyone who has ever felt like they weren't good enough.

Fast forward to the Michael Jackson week results show, where Drew found herself in the bottom three. As a result, she would have to sing head-to-head with resident Bobby-Brown-type Marcus Canty. As soon as Drew learned that she was in the bottom, she began to cry as hard as I have ever seen anyone cry on TV. I'm talking about sobbing, snotty, tears-streaming-down-the-face crying. Also trembling.

As one might predict from all the trembling and sobbing, Drew's save-me performance was not her best. Still, I believe that the judges should have kept her around. Simon took credit for the mistakes they had made when picking songs and asked the other judges to give Drew another shot. However, the other judges all chose to save Marcus, and Drew was sent home. Upon learning this news, Drew opened up another level of waterworks. Leaning on Simon and bawling, she looked ready to fall over. When she hugged Marcus Canty in congratulations, her sobbing could be heard on his mic.

When asked for her final comments, Drew did something a little bit odd. "Jesus loves all of you," she sobbed. "That's why I'm really doing this, and now I'm going to say it." In the midst of a bawling breakdown, Drew found the guts to own up to her religious convictions.

I'm not sure where Drew got the impression that she could not talk about Jesus earlier. Perhaps it was an alienate-no-voters strategy that she and Simon came up with. Given the recent winners of similar shows (ultra-conservative Scotty McCreary, anyone?) I don't think I would have given her that advice. I'm glad she got to declare her love for JC before she went home, but all the crying was really, really hard to sit through.

So, have we learned anything? Not really. The youngest contestant, Rachel Crow, is still in the competition and as sunny as ever. Other shows, like American Idol, have had a plethora of teenage contestants without any painful moments. Still, for some reason, The X Factor has become a showcase for unbridled, hormonal emotions, and I blame all those damn kids.

A Girl's Guide to Surviving a Modern Halloween-Season Killer

Every girl knows how to survive a classic horror movie slasher. Don't have sex at the lake house. Don't run in heels. Don't answer the phone. Always assume THE KILLER IS IN THE HOUSE! Don't be a black man, etc.

These days, though, horror movies are hardly ever about one man killing a sexy group of teenagers. With the advent of advanced technology and the popularity of the bullying issue, movies have turned their focus to manipulative, game playing teens and killer tech gadgets.

As a result, the rules have changed. Fortunately, I have time to watch a lot of TV, and I have learned them. Now, I will teach them to you.

1. Know your friends
If you are a hot girl, and you hang out with a group of other hot girls, chances are one of you is the uber-bitchy queen bee. If this describes you, congratulations; you are the bad guy. Enjoy destroying your friends' lives.

If you are not the queen bee, make sure you know who is! This girl is going to aide other members of the community in killing you. The other members of the community will be hot, slightly older guys. They will visibly want to have sex with your popular friend, even though the age difference is borderline creepy. It will be very obvious.

Unfortunately, there is a slight chance this bitch will not help some attractive, skeezy men murder you. If this is case, she will instead manipulate you to believe someone is trying to murder her. It will be very believable because you would like to murder her. However, this is very dangerous because it will distract you from real threats.

Fortunately, the solution to both of these deadly scenarios is the same: keep the queen bee extremely drunk at all times. Help her develop crippling alcoholism. If she is super popular, she already carries a flask in her purse. Make sure it is always filled. Carry water bottles that you purport to fill with vodka. Fill them with water. Get "drunk" with the queen bee.

Drunk people suck at planning. They are especially bad at sneaking around old houses waiting to scare you. They're bad liars. I could go on and on, but trust me, just keep that girl wasted.

2. Know your enemies
A lot of people in your school hate you. If you think you are very popular, this is especially true.

You need to know who hates you most because they are involved in a sick plot to make your life Hell before quietly killing your ass.

Is there anyone who you teased relentlessly when you were younger? (Bonus points if you have ever physically crippled a peer.) How about a girl who was in love with a boy you slept with? Whose prom date did you steal? Did you beat someone out for class president even though she works much, much harder than you?

These are the kind of people who secretly plot your murder all day. Be aware of all of them. Back in the day, one of them would have snapped and begun murdering your friends one by one. These days, you do not have the luxury of that kind of predictability.

Your enemies will almost certainly team up and develop a plan to drive you crazy before they finish you off. You need to watch them like a hawk. Be especially wary of odd pairings. When people who hated each other start hanging out, and their only link is a hatred for you, prepare for the crazy, anonymous text messages to begin. Which brings us to...

3. Do not use technology
Best case scenario, technology plays into your (fri)enemies' evil plans. They use cell phones, the internet, and surveillance equipment to bring about your demise.

Worst case scenario, technology itself fucking kills you. If you hear about a movie that causes weird things to happen to anyone who watches it, don't. Never listen for ghosts in the static on your radio.

If your cellphone starts doing anything weird, never touch another phone again. Watch out for sentient cars and appliances. Do not put a high-tech panic room in a house that is already haunted. You know what? Just don't buy a high-tech house to begin with.

We all know that technology will ultimately bring about the end of the human race, but you have the tools to prevent it from killing you, now. Be smart. Be aware. Be a hermit.

If the Earliest Christians Could See Us Today...

They would be surprised by how often we eat shellfish, how infrequently we beat our wives, and how few crimes we consider to be punishable by death.

They'd be super glad it no longer takes weeks to cross a damn desert.

They would be psyched that we allow our leaders to make decisions based on what it says in the Bible, even though we said we wouldn't.

They would be terrified of "The Passion of the Christ."

They'd be bummed Jesus didn't come back yet, saying something like, "I thought he meant in like fifty years or something."

They'd be like, "When I was your age, we only had one denomination, and we had to walk fifty miles to church, across a desert, up sand dunes both ways."

They would think Kirk Cameron is crazy.

They would be glad we haven't made a Jewish person president yet because of, uh, what happened with you-know-who.

They would be impressed by our strong, American hatred for them damn Muz-lems.

They would wonder why we say "Jesus" all the time when we aren't talking about Him.

They would go to zoos to reminisce about camels they once knew.

They would hate Lady Gaga.

They would not think Dane Cook is funny.

They would wonder where all the arks went but freakin' love yachts.

They would think Bono is a tool but be inexplicably drawn to Creed's Scott Stapp.

They would wear Uggs.

They would be completely overwhelmed by the sexualization of society, and probably, like, do it in the streets or something.

They would occupy the shit out of Wall Street.

They would all want iPhone5's.

A Nazi/fascist American 9/11 Conspiracy theroy

Last night, I told my husband that I thought all the TV programming devoted to remembering 9/11 each year (and particularly this year, for the tenth anniversary) is a systematic method of riling the American people into a falsely nationalistic frenzy so that we may be more easily controlled by government and corporate interests. He then implied that I was a little bit crazy.

However, today I started reading Jim Marrs's Rise of the Fourth Reich, and the more I read, the more correct I feel. Marrs argues that many of the characteristics of fascist Italy and National Socialistic (Nazi) Germany leading up to World War II can be observed in modern America. He also claims not to be pushing any political or conspiracy theorist agenda, but he writes about conspiracies for a living, so maybe take that with a grain of salt.

Still, some of his points are difficult to argue against. Fascism and National Socialism both gained momentum in those nations when the governments took over corporations. Marrs claims that in America, corporations have effectively taken over the government, and that the end result is exactly the same.

In both fascist Italy and particularly Nazi Germany, the government invested much time and money into creating a sense of rabid nationalism among its citizens, using intricate propaganda campaigns. Then, on a tide of false nationalism, they took preemptive, unnecessary military action against countries that had not actually done them any harm. This was, in essence, a strategy to gain power and wealth, and to inflate the corporations that now belonged to the government.

We have all heard theories about America's involvement in the Middle East being largely about oil and other economic interests. I'm sure that that is true, but I doubt it's the whole truth. I'm more concerned about increasing government involvement in our day-to-day lives, and the implications that has for the future.

The American government and large corporations know more now about what we do, think, and own than they ever have before. (The cataloging of people and their belongings was also rampant in Hitler's Germany.) This knowledge has, above all, provided corporations with easier, faster, more effective ways to advertise to us and push their agendas. It has given the government the ability to control more closely where our food comes from, what we build on our own land, and what firearms we own. This, in turn, provides corporations with better information and better ways to sell us stuff.

I shouldn't need to point out that these same corporations control television broadcasting. The same broadcasting that spends a week each year emphasizing how angry and vengeful and goddam AMERICAN we should feel, regardless of what our government is doing, because some guys, most of whom weren't from either of the countries we attacked, made some buildings fall down in New York.

9/11 was tragic. It was heartbreaking and it made us mad. But we need to move on. Because dwelling on it every year just makes us more susceptible to being bullshitted and pushed around by the American government and their corporate bosses.

And about 70% of me believes this is true.

A "Guy's Girl's" Take on the Scary, Scary Men

This is something I have been thinking about somewhat obsessively for a few weeks, so I decided to share my neuroses with you all, as I am wont to do. Here goes.

I have always been what could maybe be described as a "guy's girl". The majority of my friends were male when I was growing up, and despite feeling incredible love for a small group of close girl friends, I do not build strong relationships with women easily. I have never had trouble relating to men on a non-sexual level. I have many guy friends who I believe honestly feel 100% platonic towards me.

That being said, my take on men as a whole changed some as I grew up and gained some perspective. A man is inherently more threatening than a woman, because men have a more diverse set of natural weapons. As a woman, I have come to understand that pretty much any man I encounter has the ability to hurt me physically, emotionally, psychologically, and special bonus sexually. The penis is literally a weapon, and, unless we are having a conversation about HIV and other diseases, female genitals don't really work that way.

The immediate response by most people, and my reasoning for a long time, was that men who intentionally cause sexual harm (i.e. rapists) are a psychologically flawed minority. Normal, nice guys like my friends don't do things like that. And usually that is true. I know plenty of decent guys who, accidentally or otherwise, have used sex to contribute to some not-very-nice psychological mistreatment, but I don't view that as a uniquely male tactic.

However, I recently came to a realization that really shook my perception of the male population at large. That realization is that throughout human history, during war times and similar conflicts, the rape of women in conquered areas has been extremely common and rampant. The rapists were not all sexual or psychological anomalies. They were people's young sons, their neighbors, even nice girls' boyfriends.

Seemingly normal, decent men, under war-type circumstances, are capable of maintaining erections and often achieving orgasm while a strange woman begs them to stop.

That's god damn scary. The thought that my nice friends, or my brother, or my husband could be in that situation and potentially do something like that is horrifying. It doesn't mean I love them any less, of course, and it doesn't mean that I think they would do that. But they could. They could because they are men, and men are a scary bunch.

That's all.

Update: I received a lot of responses to this post on here, on facebook, and in private messages. Unsurprisingly, the response from women and men was completely different. The men pretty much universally either made cases for the extenuating circumstances in war that lead to atypical rape or told me to take self defense classes. The women did not miss the point and saw this post for what I meant it to be: the acknowledgement that it is a bummer that every single man on Earth has the ability to cause irreparable psychological and physical harm with his sex organ, whether he plans to do so or not.

I did not mean to imply that I or other American women live in constant fear of being raped all day. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I am unafraid of strange men, possibly to a fault. I also didn't mean that I don't love men. I love guys. Guys are awesome.

I would liken my feelings on this subject to the way guys feel about PMS. Guys pretty much universally think it sucks that girls get real bitchy for a few days before bleeding from their vaginas. There is nothing anyone can do about it, but it's pretty gross and kind of upsetting to talk about.

That's pretty on par with how I feel about this rape potential issue. I don't think any of the men I am close with are going to rape anyone. It's just really crappy and gross that they could.

And before any feminists yell at me for comparing having a period to committing rape, let it be noted that I was merely likening having a period to having a penis.

SECOND AND FINAL UPDATE: I also feel a bit bad for implying that men alone sexually damage and scar people. In heartbreaking and irreparably damaging cases involving the sexual abuse of children, women are sometimes the culprits. I still insist that is a more natural instinct for men to use sex as a physical weapon. For instance, I 100% guarantee you that a man coined the phrase, "hate fuck."

Since I Killed That Guy: A Short Story/ Free Write

I wipe black eye liner from below my lower lashes once again and begin to reapply with lightly vibrating hands. I am stalling.

Any minute now, my boyfriend, Tom, will be here to pick me up and drive us both to the wedding of two of our dear friends. I generally enjoy weddings, and especially wedding receptions, but I have come to dread the question Tom and I inevitably encounter at them. For the better part of our five year relationship, we have been asked frequently and by a wide range of acquaintances when we are going to tie the knot.

It always seemed obvious that we would eventually get engaged and then married. We are that couple that people actually enjoy being around. We rarely fight and have a notoriously good conversational rapport. We are best friends. Everything feels a little bit different since I killed a man before Tom's eyes, though.

Several weeks ago, Tom and I returned to his apartment, slightly drunk and exhausted after yet another wedding reception, to find a man rummaging through Tom's roommate's bedroom. I had entered first and was quite a bit deeper in the house when a man seized me from behind and placed something cold against my throat. A split second later, Tom walked into a terrifying scene. Our eyes met, mine huge and imploring and his going wild with the realization of what was happening, here.

Tom implored the man, as calmly as could be expected, to take what he wanted and leave. The man's reply, "What if I want your bitch?" was not well received. Tom suddenly lurched towards my captor, who shifted to block him while attempting to hold onto me, around the neck. He loosened his grip enough for me to shift though, and my hand darted into my purse and emerged with a three inch switch blade I always carry out of habit. I stabbed the intruder once in the side and again in the neck after he released me.

He fell to the floor and quickly bled to death. Tom, with surprisingly steady hands, called 911.

These events-- not just the intruder/killing incident, but the ensuing, seemingly endless police questioning-- would have been unthinkable just a month ago. The police originally seemed to suspect that Tom had actually stabbed the man and that I was covering for him, probably because he had a previous assault conviction. That charge stemmed from a bar fight years ago, and does not reflect Tom's general demeanor in the least. Still, our repetitive, identical, united police statements brought us closer somehow. We were a team.

And yet, when I look in Tom's eyes now, I see something different than what was there before I killed that guy. I'm not sure I see my husband anymore. I see my warrior partner, or something like that, and I think he might see the same.

I don't know how I would feel watching Tom end another man's life. I'm sure it would be frightening and upsetting and all kinds of disturbing, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't kind of turn me on. So, I don't know if Tom wants to marry me anymore, but I'm damn sure he wants to fuck me.

As I finally get the thin, black line under my left eye just right, I find myself hoping we can find a quiet nook in the reception hall where we can make out and rub desperately against each other periodically, until we have put in enough time at the reception to reasonably leave. Go back to his place, beating his roommates home so that we can make love with the door open, in plain view of the place where the bloody body fell.

Dave Eggers, Self-aware literature, and Where to draw the line

In the year 2000, one of my favorite authors, Dave Eggers, stormed onto the popular literary scene with his memoir, "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius". The book is a memoir in the most unique and exciting sense of the word: an account of Eggers' young adulthood spent raising his much younger brother after the untimely death of both his parents. This tale is snarled together with a manic, who-knows-how-much-is-true, typically GenX tale of anger, loss, art, and the much-resisted fading of one's youth, written with atypical grace, passion, and understanding of his audience's tolerance levels.

It is a book that is keenly aware of its reader and even more fully aware of its author. It is not disguised in a novel's clothes, nor presented in a sequential and dry manner as so many memoirs tend to be. "A Heartbreaking Work..." became a Pulitzer finalist for its utter disregard for literary constraints, its poetic and often furious structure, and the violent language and sometimes sickening imagery that make it so vibrant. The memoir also opened doors in terms of structure, shattering the confines of "what makes a memoir."

Some authors and literary critics-- Chuck Klosterman, for example-- have credited Eggers with creating and/or gaining acceptance for the "self-aware memoir". He proved that a book need not pretend it has no creator nor reader in order to be valuable. The acknowledgment of audience and/or author tended to be gimmicks reserved for "lesser" forms of literature- children's books, mysteries, etc. "A Heartbreaking Work..." blew that out of the water. And it did so with such energy, heart, and creativity that not many people seemed to mind.

Skip ahead four years to Eggers' publication of a collection of short stories, titled "How We Are Hungry". One of the stories in this collection is called "Notes for a Story of a Man Who Will Not Die Alone", and it is just that; an "inside look", so to speak, at Eggers' presumed creative process when writing short stories. It is not the story itself, but notes about the character's life, characteristics, motivations, and actions as well as a general idea of the plot. In this way, the reader experiences the story, but also gets a behind-the-scenes look at where the story comes from. The question of how Eggers develops his-- often brilliant-- short fiction is answered. Or is it?

It is unclear whether this "story" is an actual excerpt from the author's notes or a cleverly constructed fake-out intended to give the audience a glimpse at near-reality. It is like trying to determine if a great artist's "unfinished" canvas is truly a work that was abandoned half way through or a doctored, scrutinized underpainting fully ready for public consumption.

Before the release of this story, slews of authors tried to give readers a peek into the creative process behind writing fiction. Usually, this was done through characters who were themselves writers. My favorite example is Michael Chabon's "Wonderboys", a novel about an aging, washed up novelist/professor struggling to complete a new book. It is a touching story that provides insight into the madness that many authors struggle with. It also lovingly describes the way that a writer's process is never fully turned off, depicting the novel's characters sitting in a diner, joyfully and in great detail making up back stories and character flaws for all of their fellow patrons.

This scene is essentially the same thing that Eggers produced when he wrote "Notes for a Story of a Man Who Will Not Die Alone": an affectionate and possibly honest expose of the inner workings of the author's craft.

Still, I think it is easy to argue that Chabon's characters' antics are more valuable and valid than Eggers' revealing short story. There is a fine line between self-awareness and self-indulgence. Publishing something that, whether true or not, comes off as a few scribbled pages in your "concept notebook" may just qualify as the latter.

My Trial-and-Error Stuffed King Cake Recipe

You will need
FOR DOUGH (this makes enough for two)
1 envelope dry yeast
1/4 cup warm water
1/2 cup milk
1 cup butter
1/2 cup sugar
5 egg yolks
4 cups flour

FOR FILLING (x2 if desired)
8 oz cream cheese
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg yolk
1ish tbsp milk

FOR GLAZE
1/4 cup butter
1 cup confectioner's sugar
1 to 2 tbsp milk

OTHER
cinnamon/sugar blend
sprinkles/colored sugar crystals/whatever other decoratives
uncooked bean, pecan, or plastic baby

OK, HERE WE GO
1. Make your dough:
Combine yeast, warm water, 1 tsp flour and 1 tsp sugar. Set aside in a warm place until other ingredients are mixed. Yeast should show signs of life by this time.

Boil milk, stir in butter and sugar. Remove from heat and pour in bowl. Wait for steam to stop rising. Beat in yeast and egg yolks. Beat in 2 cups of flour and continue to add until the dough forms a ball. Knead for 10 mins or so, or until elastic. (Add more flour while kneading if stickiness persists.)

Grease a bowl well, and turn the ball of dough in the bowl a couple times. Set the dough, in the bowl and covered with a cloth, in a warm place until it has doubled in size (1.5 to 2 hours)

Pat down the risen dough, cover with a wet cloth, plastic wrap on top of the cloth, and leave in refrigerator overnight.

2. Prepare your dough (next day)
Remove 1/2 dough from fridge with floured hands, and roll it into a 24-30 inch "snake" on a well-floured surface. With a floured rolling pin, roll your snake into a 6" by 30" rectangle.

3. Stuff that bitch!
Combine cream cheese, sugar, vanilla, egg yolk, and milk for filling, until smooth. (Save the white from the egg)

Brush a line of egg white down the middle of your dough rectangle, and sprinkle generously with cinnamon sugar.

Spoon your filling along the length of the dough, on top of the cinnamon sugar. Fold one edge of the rectangle over to cover the filling, brush the top with egg wash. Brush the inside of the other edge with egg wash, and fold this on top of the first edge. You should now have a long tube of dough with filling inside and a seam on top.

4. Bake
Butter a cookie sheet. Transfer your dough tube, seam down, onto this sheet and form a circle, pinching the ends together.

Place this cookie sheet, covered by a cloth, in a warm place until the dough has doubled in bulk. Poke several small holes in the top of the dough.

Bake at 350 degrees for 25-30 mins or until golden brown. Remove and cool.

5. Double Stuff! (optional but totes recommended)
Mix up another batch of the cream cheese filling (may need more milk for slightly thinner results) and inject filling into the center of the cooked dough at strategic intervals. Our Cajun injector worked nicely.

6. Finish
Melt 1/4 cup butter on the stove, stir in 1 cup conf. sugar and enough milk to make a gel-like texture. Spoon this glaze on top of the cake. Finish with sprinkles, etc.

Push your bean, pecan, or plastic baby through the bottom of the cake and remember where you put it so you don't have to make the next one of these pains in the ass.

How I am Blessed

There is a tiny head resting in the center of my chest, breathing sweet milky mists in gurgles and sighs. And every day is brimming with joy. So much that the laughter, if strung together, would stretch for days and weeks. Maybe months, until it became foggy and faint, and we wouldn't know what it was for anymore, nor care. Deep, tickly breaths on the back of my neck at night; the kind that feel like they could have and should have been there every night since forever. And a sense that every day, simply waking up amounts to one step a little bit further into Happily Ever After.

Motherhood and the Decimation of an Angst-hole

My son, Charles Anthony Pumilia, was born on Tuesday, January fourth at 5:52 PM. Just as I suspected he would, he arrived in an undramatic fashion after just seven hours of active labor. He was perfect.

I thought that, upon getting the little guy settled in at home, I would immediately rush to my sketch book, notebooks, and even to this blog to commemorate and fawn over him in a "creative" fashion. As it turns out, I have yet to touch a sketching pencil, and aside from facebook updates, this is the first I have written about him.

This is partially due to the fact that the old "Caring for an infant is a full time job," axiom is completely true. I spend at least eight hours a day just nursing. Add to that diaper changes, baths, cuddles, and wardrobe changes, and my time is pretty well spoken for.

Still, I have quiet moments like this one where I could sit down and paint a picture or write a poem. I often choose instead to just watch the baby. I find him to be completely enthralling.

Having created something so completely unlike anything I ever created before has kept me in the moment. Art and writing require a sort of mental check out; a break from reality during which one must retreat into her own head and fish out the bits that need removal, massaging, or grooming before smearing them across a page with an eye towards either entertainment or self-therapy. Now, watching my child's facial expressions while he sleeps is endlessly entertaining and snuggles from him provide unmatched therapy.

I have always known that my creative impulses, and thus the work I have done in various artistic fields, stem largely from holes or gaps I felt in myself. I will almost certainly never again produce as much poetry as I did during a stretch of time in 2003 and 2004. In six or seven months I filled five, five subject spiral notebooks to the brim with verse, much of which has been deemed "good" by various readers, and a small percentage of which has been published.

The cause for such a rush of creation during that time period was a desperate search for a teenage identity coupled with a fair amount of angst and some mind-enhancing activities. My periodic unhappiness and instability needed an outlet, and thus I bled onto a page, rather than down a sink drain as some other "arty types" choose to do.

In the spring of 2005, while I was in my second term at Tulane and certainly at my most nihilistic, I wrote over 200 pages of a single spaced, 10 pt. novel in less than two months. It was almost definitely my most emotionally tumultuous phase, and it resulted in a manic flurry of word vomit in the form of a dark and melancholy monologue that will never be finished for various reasons.

The point I am trying to make is that I have always used creation as an emotional outlet, which is not unusual. Perhaps unfortunately, that means that as I have gotten older, happier, and more stable, my desire and need to create has diminished. By the time I got pregnant, I had only a very tiny angst-hole in my soul left to fill.

Now, I am filling that hole in the simplest of ways. Rather than absorbing my energy into myself, I am bouncing it off my little one to be consumed by the ethos. I am filling my hole by staring into the tiniest, steel-blue eyes and singing "You Are My Sunshine" on repeat. By kissing little foot arches and tickling minute ribs. By waking up in the middle of the night to petite whimpers that sound remarkably like Nicki Minaj's entire catalog of work. And I can't feel any holes anymore.

I have been told by numerous individuals who make their living in various artistic fields that the arts need not be an escape from pain and unrest. That Elliot Smith and Vincent Van Gogh are the exception and not the norm. These people claim to project positive feelings into their art. They hope that their work can inspire and entertain on its own. It need not be laden with hard-wrestled traces of their demons in order to have worth.

I never really believed any of that. I thought it was a grown-up line used to mask the unchecked adolescent torment that all artists must still possess. However, I might be changing my mind. I have a tiny, tiny, perfect face peering at me out of a fish-themed bouncy chair right now, and its vaguely simian expression is making my heart swell a bit. Maybe, if I can find a way to massage this love onto canvas and paper in the place of the formerly smeared pain, I can create something beautiful.

If not, it isn't really a big deal. My most beautiful creation is right in front of me, and I am pretty sure he is hungry again.