|I have written sex columns, relationship advice columns, humor columns, music and
movie reviews, and literary essays for publication on and off the web.
Here are some samples of my non-fiction work. If you are interested in
buying content for your site or hiring me as a columnist, email me at email@example.com.
These Q&A columns originally appeared at Rouze.com, a now defunct sex site that got bought, then eaten and digested by Playboy.com.
I recently divorced after twelve
years of marriage. I’m ready to start meeting new women, but it’s been
a long time since I tried to “pick up chicks” and I don’t want to do
the club and bar scene. Where can I meet women?
Why doesn’t anyone returning to
the dating pool ever want to do the club and bar scene? Is this the fault
of Hollywood and all those pouting ingenues saying in movies how they just
don’t want to do the club and bar scene? Listen, clubs were specifically
designed for picking up chicks – they’re dark, drunken frenzies of
sexual flaunting where men can stand moodily along railings and pick their
prey from gyrating hordes of females on the dance floor. If you don’t
use these venues for the purpose for which they were intended, people will
start wearing cardigans to clubs and buying cappuccinos in bars. Wait,
this already happens. Well, I guess you do have some other options.
First, get thee to the produce
department of your local supermarket. Then, become confused. Stand in an
aisle deliberating between two honeydew melons, or two types of lettuce.
Keep deliberating until a female comes along, and then request her
assistance. The magic of picking up girls in supermarkets is that you get
to use pickup lines that most of us haven’t heard before. There are a
million variations on the “I must be in heaven because you look like an
angel” motif, but how many of us have been picked up with “Are these
beans fresh?” Be warned, however, that it is still possible to pull a
real floater, even in the uncharted territory of supermarket chitchat. Do
NOT say, “Hey, nice melons!” or “Does this zucchini look
familiar?” Stick with sincere questions that might actually sneak by a
girl’s pickup radar without alerting her to the fact that she’s being
hit on. All this of course leads up to “May I cook you dinner?” or
“May I take you to my favorite restaurant?”.
This same technique works in
computer stores, bookstores, and department stores – anywhere there’s
a product to be discussed. Key fact: Girls love to shop, and they love to
help you spend your money. Try the “I have to find a gift for my mother
– do you have any suggestions?” technique. Then follow up with the
“I’m so grateful – let me buy you a cup of coffee!” routine. Got
tickets to a concert? Visit the “Rock & Pop” aisle at your
favorite music store. Want a brainiac date for a cocktail party? Check out
the “Philosophy” section at Borders. Keep in mind that club rules do
not apply in other public places. If you choose not to avail yourself of
nightclubs and all the freedom they afford, you will NOT be able to grab
your girl’s ass mere moments after meeting, and you’re probably not
going to get as good a preview of her tits. But, go your own way. If you
must shun the meat market, good hunting in the deli!
I love going down on my girlfiend and she loves it when I do. The problem is she has never returned the favor. How do I tell her that I want her to give me head without sounding like a pig?
Dear Mr. P.,
you must say this mantra to yourself, seventeen times, in a loud confident
voice: There is nothing wrong with me wanting oral sex! Oral sex is good
and right and honorable! Oral sex is not an imposition! It pains me
greatly to see how you have been trained to think that your desires are
wrong and chauvinistic! There is no sexual activity that is inherently
wrong, as long as all parties consent. Wanting oral sex does not make you
a pig; it makes you a normal, normal man. I hereby absolve you of all
guilty feelings you might have had implanted in you by some pious relative
or some icky feminist girlfriend of yore.
Lives Underwater: Live Concert Review
put my hair in ponytails, even though I knew that was probably a mistake.
My date said, “How does the immortal creator feel about a bunch of
little fucking kids giving away his address?” We sat in the balcony,
where the pierce freaks in black capes were lurking, fingering the rail
road spikes in each others’ chins.
local opener, Low-Tek, was a standard three-piece, a little too melodic to
rock, but a little too rockin’ to host a sing along. The cruel,
unforgiving gallery of little boys in the balcony (it was an all ages
show) berated them while they were onstage, calling them “girls” and
asking how they managed to score backstage passes. Well, the lead singer was wearing a little pink velvet shirt that reminded me of something
I would have worn out to a club in 1993, so perhaps the little boy gallery
was leveling just criticism. I enjoyed Low-Tek, but would have preferred
the lead singer to have pushed the hair out of his face just once, only
once, so that we could see if he was really the singer from the Black
Crowes, or if he just prayed to be every night by the side of his bed.
of Order wore BLACK VINYL and COP uniforms, which was apparently supposed
to convince us that they were excruciatingly hard core, and very much
bad-assed. Other efforts to support this desired effect were strobe
lights, stage fog, and heavy distortion on the vocals, but unfortunately
these only contributed to my irritation that yet another industrial band
was trying to be Nine Inch Nails and failing miserably due to lack of
stage presence. Putting a wire brush down your throat does not make you
Trent Reznor. Some languid and self-conscious chicks were onstage dancing,
with weird square butts, metal bras and panties, and some prop that looked
like it was supposed to invoke S&M fantasies. May have been a whip.
May have been a black kleenex all shredded and used. Maintenance of Order
brought big shiny inflated metallic balls for the crowd to toss around.
It’s regrettable that they don’t have any attached to their genital
the very seriously lethargic industrial band vacated the stage and
Fluoroscein came on. May I say that the dorky lead singer of Fluoroscein,
with his dumb shirt and his stumpy body, had more stage presence and
musical inventiveness in his nose hair follicles than the preceding bands
could have produced in a year full of stage effects and screaming.
Fluoroscein rocked. They had a good sense of melody and counter melody,
like very hard Cracker and good Toad the Wet Sprocket, but with more
bottom end, more axed-up choppy chord changes. Even with an
accountant-looking lead singer and absolutely minimal effects and glitz,
they knocked the shit out of me. Plus, they actually checked the tuning on
their guitars, which I took as a very good sign early on. In the bathroom,
the toilet overflowed. “One of those naked chicks, probably,” said my
date ambiguously. The room (now packed) geared itself up for the arrival
of the headlining band. One
girl stepped on another girl’s too-big boy-pants and fell over.
Apparently, all you
have to do to be the headliner is be bored and depressed to the point that
the audience doubts you have a living pulse. The blonde, emaciated lead
singer of God Lives Underwater played a completely irrelevant tambourine
and sang listlessly and off-key while his band ground through song after
song: slow grooves, slower grooves, and the slowest grooves physically
possible. The lead singer apologized for his lack of voice, saying that he
had the flu. You know, it’s not like we’re asking for volume, or for
calisthenics, but a modicum of accuracy would be nice in finding the
pitch. The saggy presentation lurched on through impossibly hard-to-follow
lyrics and dry marching vibes. It’s sad to see someone concentrate so
much (or appear to concentrate so much) and still miss the mark. What
distracted the lead singer from hitting his notes? It wasn’t stage
acrobatics – he hardly moved. It wasn’t the other members of the band
– they didn’t move either. As he pulled up his pants slowly for the
umpteenth time, I was struck with the desire to give the entire band a
series of B-12 shots. The guitar player could be really awesome, if
supported by any energy at all from the band. Unfortunately, God Lives
Underwater slouches onstage with the weight of the world on its shoulders,
and fails to carry off anything like an exciting live performance.
Henry Rollins: Think
“Think Tank” is a
double shot of Henry Rollins’ brand of spoken word. Instead of spewing
poetry from between a black beret and a carefully tended goatee, Rollins
delivers comic narratives off the cuff, and rants conversationally on pop
topics. With one foot in stand-up comedy and one foot in the traditions of
spoken word, he manages to evade the trite idiocy of the former and the
uncomfortable sincerity of the latter, striking a tone that is abrasive
but friendly, making the audience cozily complicit in his act. However,
despite his spread-legged pose, Rollins isn’t pissing in the gene pool
anymore. In fact, his performance is fairly tame.
The first CD, recorded
live in Chicago, covers familiar territory on easy topics like irritating
airports, silly homophobia, and stupid television. Picking off the sitting
ducks of the mainstream media, to appreciative screams of the crowd,
Rollins knocks classic targets like Michael Bolton and Baywatch with a
pious claim that people aren’t really that stupid, and deserve better
entertainment. How nice. Later on in the disk, as if to prove his finger
is firmly on the zeitgeist, Rollins reports, “There’s nothing wrong
with being gay.”
Here's my review of Darren Aronofsky's first movie, Pi, and someone's bad idea, Dancer Texas Pop 81. These originally appeared at TNT Roughcut.
Dancer Texas, Pop. 81:
An Infomercial from Small Towns and America Youth (STAAY)
"Dancer Texas Pop 81." is about four Smurfs who decide to leave Smurfette and the Smurf Village, and travel to the big scary city. Actually, it’s not really about Smurfs – that’s just the cast and the audience the screenwriter seemed to be visualizing. Actually, it’s about four boys who have made a “solemn vow” to leave their tiny hometown, and the movie begins two days before their scheduled departure. Of course, as we are told, a lot can happen in two days. As we are told, you live your whole life in a town and you think you know it, but you don’t know it until you are about to leave it. As we are told, some people belong in small towns, and some people belong in big towns. If you’re wondering whether Hollywood has any morals left, go and see this movie. It is one big moral after another, along with a magical scene featuring wild mustangs, scenery, and several wacky old men, all accompanied by a soundtrack that should be titled, “The Dear Baby Fawn Learns to Walk.” The movie has no sex appeal (despite many dusty dungarees), and no swearing (although I think I heard someone say “darn”), and as with all Smurf narratives there is a happy ending. I’ll leave you to guess how many (if any) of the four boys make it onto the bus, but be assured that everyone learns a great big fat lesson, including me. My lesson? Any day is a good day to leave Dancer, Texas (Pop. 81).