deodorant, threesome responses, warning, ukulele, music, shore/loneliness
20 April 2006
I am a big sweaty man who takes his deodorant very seriously.
I hate gel deodorant and don’t understand how anyone likes it. I already sweat enough under my armpits; I don’t need to apply some cold, wet goo under there. I mean, fuck.
Sprays and roll-ons do nothing for me. I might as well spray Pam under my pits for the protection that most spray deodorants offer, and roll-ons are for girls.
I don’t even mess around with "deodorant" proper. Though slick, scented nicely, and colorful, it doesn’t work for me.
No, I wear anti-perspirant, the chalky white stuff. I have to cake that shit under there, in order to clog up those sweat glands. The negative is that 15 minutes into my day there is a nice paste of deodorant, sweat, and armpit hair accumulating like a snowball under my arms. But that’s ok, because this is better than any of my other options and at least I don’t have body odor.
I’m particular about brand of deodorant, too. For years, I wore old school Right Guard. I’m talking ten or so years here. It never failed me, properly clogging my sweaty pores and allowing me to choose from many different scents, from everything from Musk to Spice.
Then one day, it was gone. Or rather, changed. Right Guard remade the deodorant, made it hipper looking, and changed the formula. And I sweat right through it. Soon I was getting live; by 3pm, my office would have a faint pit smell emanating from under its closed door. Not good.
For the next two weeks, I went through deodorant after deodorant, trying to find something that would work. I must have spent $50 on deodorant in those two weeks, using a particular stick for a day or two before throwing it out once it failed me.
Finally I found my next deodorant, Adidas. With names like Sports Fever and Urban Spice, I was not only smelling fresh, but sweating minimally. Things were good.
But now this: Adidas, like my old Right Guard, has remade its deodorant. Now it claims to have "24 hour protection" and is no longer "Anti-Perspirant", but "Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex Gly Anti-Perspirant" (I shit you not, this is what it says on the label).
I have no idea why companies use big chemical-sounding names to sell products. For example, Trimspa, in various subway ads, claims to be "#1 in Hoodia gordonii." What the fuck is "Hoodia gordonii?" Am I supposed to read that subway ad and say to myself, "Holy shit – I didn’t know Trimspa was #1 in Hoodia gordonii. I’d better get some of that shit, and fast."
"Hoodia gordonii" means nothing to me. It’s totally fucking gibberish. Trimspa might as well be "#1 in Rentrix Et Somaliani" for all I know. Pure fucking gibberish. Just like "Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex Gly Anti-Perspirant."
You know what does mean something to me? Not having fucking body odor. So keep your Aluminum, your Zirconium, and your Tetrachlorohydrex Gly and give me back my old deodorant. Because now I have to spend the next two weeks stinking like a 230 pound ham left out to be eaten by scavenging birds of prey on a summer day. Thanks, Adidas. Fucking assholes.
*********************
I lot of responses, both criticisms and kudos, about yesterday’s post about threesomes. Most of the criticisms I easily shrugged off, because, you know, I’m always right. But there’s one thing that I admit I neglected to mention, as I was consumed by my own ego.
The man must never let on that he is the focus of the threesome. The threesome must exist first and foremost to pleasure the most reluctant member, then the second most reluctant member, then the man. At least, this is the approach that the man, as the driving force, must take. It’s important for the girl(s) to feel sexy and wanted. If you admit that you’re doing this just to tell your buddies about it, it’s going to be hard to find two willing female participants.
I apologize for not emphasizing this more in the post, but the truth of the matter is that I got so aroused writing the post that I couldn’t even think straight. So there.
*********************
WARNING: Next week will be light with the posting. I am loath to talk about this, but my book is due to the publisher on 5/1. Have you ever written a 250 page paper? It’s hard. Especially writing a 250 page paper that the rest of your life depends on, that will determine if you’re working 9-to-5 until your death at 29 or will launch you into a career of sleeping in, getting drunk on Tuesday afternoons, traveling whenever and wherever you want, and make you a superstar.
So please, cut me some slack for a week. It’s crunch time, so I don’t know how frequently the posts will come. And I know I’ve been slacking lately (well, not so much this week, although this post is a real stinker), but now you know why.
(But seriously, if Brendan and I don’t get the monthly email out by next week, I’m going to shoot myself. We are the least motivated people on earth. Horrible, horrible work ethics.)
*********************
Last weekend, I got a ukulele. I love it and am already using it to compose all sorts of songs about the rash I currently have on my scrotum and inner thighs (god I wish I was kidding, both about the rash and the songs about the rash). It’s a concert ukulele (there are a few different types) and – and I saw this with a nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality - it is adorable, especially when placed next to my full-size acoustic guitar. It has been pretty much attached to me since I got it and I am making it my goal, once I retire from this blog, to become a touring ukulele player. If anyone would like to be one of my backing musicians, please apply within.
*********************
Six Songs
"Cruisin’" D’Angelo
I am a white boy, but I really want to have some serious sex to this song. The major problem, aside from my pasty ass, is that the song is nearly seven minutes long. This is entirely out of my love-making range. Usually I can give two solid minutes of jackhammering before giving out, or until her involuntary muscle spasms of rigor mortis set in, whichever comes first. Either way, I might have to wear one of those desensitizing condoms. But we don’t need to go down this road…
"I Don’t Want To Know" Fleetwood Mac
I’m on a major Fleetwood Mac kick right now. Maybe because I want to have a band with a girl or two in it and have sex with them after we perform. There’s nothing like making love while high on adrenaline (which is why I so thoroughly enjoy masturbating while reading over old posts). But I never had sex with anyone in the 1.5 bands I was in in college. Probably because both were all-male bands. Although once the drummer from my first band and I slept in a car and when he was asleep I poked his boner. And then in my second half-band, the drummer and I got into a fight and he fishhooked me (when you stick your finger in someone’s mouth and pull on the inside of their cheek). It was at once disgusting and arousing. So I guess I have a thing for drummers. At any rate, good song.
"In Hiding" Pearl Jam
My favorite Pearl Jam song not on Ten, Vs. or Vitalogy. And it’s not even really close.
(Listen for the piano. Subtle, but it really adds to the song.)
"Tell Her This" Del Amitri
This week’s sappy love song, which makes me want to hug. I feel kind of weird recommending a song by fucking Del Amitri, but hey – I like this one.
"Only Love Can Break Your Heart" Neil Young
I have a love/hate relationship with Neil Young. When he makes things complicated and writes songs about politics or social issues, I can’t turn him off fast enough. But when he keeps it simple and writes about love, there are few people better. This song makes me want to rent a cabin in Colorado, lock myself in there for a week with only 600 beers and a gross of Lunchables and just work through a break up.
"Okkervil River Song" Okkervil River
This song was recommended to me about a year ago by the lovely Lisa in St. Louis and then again a few months ago by the lovely Lisa in Philly. And now I present it to you. A sad little song, coming from an album with an sad big title: "Don’t Fall in Love With Everyone You See." This command/request would be a major, major problem with me.
*********************
I am heading down the Jersey shore tonight (North Wildwood) for a long weekend of solitude and writing (read: drinking by myself and smoking cigarettes on my aunt’s patio). Have a good, safe weekend and wish me luck.
I hate gel deodorant and don’t understand how anyone likes it. I already sweat enough under my armpits; I don’t need to apply some cold, wet goo under there. I mean, fuck.
Sprays and roll-ons do nothing for me. I might as well spray Pam under my pits for the protection that most spray deodorants offer, and roll-ons are for girls.
I don’t even mess around with "deodorant" proper. Though slick, scented nicely, and colorful, it doesn’t work for me.
No, I wear anti-perspirant, the chalky white stuff. I have to cake that shit under there, in order to clog up those sweat glands. The negative is that 15 minutes into my day there is a nice paste of deodorant, sweat, and armpit hair accumulating like a snowball under my arms. But that’s ok, because this is better than any of my other options and at least I don’t have body odor.
I’m particular about brand of deodorant, too. For years, I wore old school Right Guard. I’m talking ten or so years here. It never failed me, properly clogging my sweaty pores and allowing me to choose from many different scents, from everything from Musk to Spice.
Then one day, it was gone. Or rather, changed. Right Guard remade the deodorant, made it hipper looking, and changed the formula. And I sweat right through it. Soon I was getting live; by 3pm, my office would have a faint pit smell emanating from under its closed door. Not good.
For the next two weeks, I went through deodorant after deodorant, trying to find something that would work. I must have spent $50 on deodorant in those two weeks, using a particular stick for a day or two before throwing it out once it failed me.
Finally I found my next deodorant, Adidas. With names like Sports Fever and Urban Spice, I was not only smelling fresh, but sweating minimally. Things were good.
But now this: Adidas, like my old Right Guard, has remade its deodorant. Now it claims to have "24 hour protection" and is no longer "Anti-Perspirant", but "Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex Gly Anti-Perspirant" (I shit you not, this is what it says on the label).
I have no idea why companies use big chemical-sounding names to sell products. For example, Trimspa, in various subway ads, claims to be "#1 in Hoodia gordonii." What the fuck is "Hoodia gordonii?" Am I supposed to read that subway ad and say to myself, "Holy shit – I didn’t know Trimspa was #1 in Hoodia gordonii. I’d better get some of that shit, and fast."
"Hoodia gordonii" means nothing to me. It’s totally fucking gibberish. Trimspa might as well be "#1 in Rentrix Et Somaliani" for all I know. Pure fucking gibberish. Just like "Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex Gly Anti-Perspirant."
You know what does mean something to me? Not having fucking body odor. So keep your Aluminum, your Zirconium, and your Tetrachlorohydrex Gly and give me back my old deodorant. Because now I have to spend the next two weeks stinking like a 230 pound ham left out to be eaten by scavenging birds of prey on a summer day. Thanks, Adidas. Fucking assholes.
*********************
I lot of responses, both criticisms and kudos, about yesterday’s post about threesomes. Most of the criticisms I easily shrugged off, because, you know, I’m always right. But there’s one thing that I admit I neglected to mention, as I was consumed by my own ego.
The man must never let on that he is the focus of the threesome. The threesome must exist first and foremost to pleasure the most reluctant member, then the second most reluctant member, then the man. At least, this is the approach that the man, as the driving force, must take. It’s important for the girl(s) to feel sexy and wanted. If you admit that you’re doing this just to tell your buddies about it, it’s going to be hard to find two willing female participants.
I apologize for not emphasizing this more in the post, but the truth of the matter is that I got so aroused writing the post that I couldn’t even think straight. So there.
*********************
WARNING: Next week will be light with the posting. I am loath to talk about this, but my book is due to the publisher on 5/1. Have you ever written a 250 page paper? It’s hard. Especially writing a 250 page paper that the rest of your life depends on, that will determine if you’re working 9-to-5 until your death at 29 or will launch you into a career of sleeping in, getting drunk on Tuesday afternoons, traveling whenever and wherever you want, and make you a superstar.
So please, cut me some slack for a week. It’s crunch time, so I don’t know how frequently the posts will come. And I know I’ve been slacking lately (well, not so much this week, although this post is a real stinker), but now you know why.
(But seriously, if Brendan and I don’t get the monthly email out by next week, I’m going to shoot myself. We are the least motivated people on earth. Horrible, horrible work ethics.)
*********************
Last weekend, I got a ukulele. I love it and am already using it to compose all sorts of songs about the rash I currently have on my scrotum and inner thighs (god I wish I was kidding, both about the rash and the songs about the rash). It’s a concert ukulele (there are a few different types) and – and I saw this with a nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality - it is adorable, especially when placed next to my full-size acoustic guitar. It has been pretty much attached to me since I got it and I am making it my goal, once I retire from this blog, to become a touring ukulele player. If anyone would like to be one of my backing musicians, please apply within.
*********************
Six Songs
"Cruisin’" D’Angelo
I am a white boy, but I really want to have some serious sex to this song. The major problem, aside from my pasty ass, is that the song is nearly seven minutes long. This is entirely out of my love-making range. Usually I can give two solid minutes of jackhammering before giving out, or until her involuntary muscle spasms of rigor mortis set in, whichever comes first. Either way, I might have to wear one of those desensitizing condoms. But we don’t need to go down this road…
"I Don’t Want To Know" Fleetwood Mac
I’m on a major Fleetwood Mac kick right now. Maybe because I want to have a band with a girl or two in it and have sex with them after we perform. There’s nothing like making love while high on adrenaline (which is why I so thoroughly enjoy masturbating while reading over old posts). But I never had sex with anyone in the 1.5 bands I was in in college. Probably because both were all-male bands. Although once the drummer from my first band and I slept in a car and when he was asleep I poked his boner. And then in my second half-band, the drummer and I got into a fight and he fishhooked me (when you stick your finger in someone’s mouth and pull on the inside of their cheek). It was at once disgusting and arousing. So I guess I have a thing for drummers. At any rate, good song.
"In Hiding" Pearl Jam
My favorite Pearl Jam song not on Ten, Vs. or Vitalogy. And it’s not even really close.
(Listen for the piano. Subtle, but it really adds to the song.)
"Tell Her This" Del Amitri
This week’s sappy love song, which makes me want to hug. I feel kind of weird recommending a song by fucking Del Amitri, but hey – I like this one.
"Only Love Can Break Your Heart" Neil Young
I have a love/hate relationship with Neil Young. When he makes things complicated and writes songs about politics or social issues, I can’t turn him off fast enough. But when he keeps it simple and writes about love, there are few people better. This song makes me want to rent a cabin in Colorado, lock myself in there for a week with only 600 beers and a gross of Lunchables and just work through a break up.
"Okkervil River Song" Okkervil River
This song was recommended to me about a year ago by the lovely Lisa in St. Louis and then again a few months ago by the lovely Lisa in Philly. And now I present it to you. A sad little song, coming from an album with an sad big title: "Don’t Fall in Love With Everyone You See." This command/request would be a major, major problem with me.
*********************
I am heading down the Jersey shore tonight (North Wildwood) for a long weekend of solitude and writing (read: drinking by myself and smoking cigarettes on my aunt’s patio). Have a good, safe weekend and wish me luck.
