I threw down the hairy paw (read: gauntlet) this morning in a challenge toward the only human in the mostly estrogenic LBHQ capable of taking it on.

“Dude, you have less than two weeks to get your stache on.”

I was addressing my dad of course. Despite the ongoing flirtation peri-menopause is having with my mother, a decent moustache is well out of reach for her…this year. So it’s up to my dad and me to be Bloggers for Movember.

Poor Dad. Only rarely has he ever tried to grow a stache—each time a failure! Some guys look great with facial hair, and my dad can pull off five o’clock shadow, but an honest-to-goodness moustache? Ha! My dad looks like a tool with a moustache, which I suspect is why he said it’s “not gonna happen” this November.

He even cited his work regulations—apparently the very large company he works for regulates facial hair. OMG!

If you’re wondering why I’m so confident about winning this would-be throwdown against my dad, consider that I already have a moustache. I just have to shave 95% of myself and leave a bit of fur under my nose. Voilà!

This was pretty much my path today. The razors were in the bathroom. It’s much easier to get that little plastic tab off a Daisy razor head than it is to open a bottle of wine, let me tell you. There I was, poised to sculpt my latent moustache, when three little girls came screaming into the bathroom wearing Disney princess dresses. The youngest immediately dropped drawers to deposit solids in the toilet. The others went into a flurry of clothing exchange, obscuring Miss V’s plops with their 4-KHz exuberance. My ears exploded and the razor skittered off into the sink, from which my mother sternly retrieved it. There would be no bear shaving on her watch, she said, particularly in front of her two daughters and their playdate witness.

“P and V are used to shit like this,” I remonstrated. “They like it.”

“No they don’t,” she said. “They’d rather put makeup on you, which would be almost as difficult to undo, so make yourself scarce.”

“But I need a moustache. I’ve already committed to Bloggers for Movember. I’ve liked the Facebook page already. And I have only recently garnered the attention of Le Clown, whose charitable fundraising effort this is. If you thwart my moustache you’re basically endorsing prostate cancer. You’re telling prostate cancer to go forth and multiply.”

“That’s a bit strong, LB.”

“Speaking of strong, do you recall the alcohol percentage of LOST SOULS CHOCOLATE PUMPKIN PORTER?” (This is what is called a gratuitous segue.) “I think it was 6.5%. Do you remember?”


“Because at a respectable ABV it would address my DTs in short order, and one could settle for drinking it slowly; moreover, with its moderate level of fine carbonation it wouldn’t interfere too much with one’s moustache. Assuming one was allowed to groom oneself a moustache.”

I don’t recall my mother ever calling any of her other children a douchebag.

Fact is, and I’m not even going to save this for the final punch, LOST SOULS CHOCOLATE PUMPKIN PORTER is the best beer I’ve had all year. With its comic-book-style Grim Reaper label and scary moniker, it’s freaky not just for its Halloween theme but because—holy crap, people—it won’t be here for very long. In fact, when we returned a second time to the liquor store for more, it was all sold out.

Let’s break it down, my fellow inebriates:

LOST SOULS is an inky cola color with a tan head. Across the room you might take it for a Guinness, but then you’d be surprised by its snappy carbonation. Aromas of sweet malt, espresso-touched chocolate, subtle spices and just-perceptible pumpkin waft from the glass. On the palate LOST SOULS delivers a rich baker’s-chocolate wave of toasty malt and mild pumpkin, reaching into you like a succubus and stealing your very soul. Yes, guard your soul, people, if you’re lucky enough to sample this Parallel 49 product before it evaporates into post-Halloween nonexistence. With its bewitching flavor palate and satisfying viscosity, LOST SOULS will own you. (Maybe eternally.) I would sell my soul for another, people. And don’t tell Le Clown, but I would probably sell my nascent moustache for it too. Except I won’t; damn it, I’m growing that fucker.

Visit Le Clown for full details (click the picture).

Pursuing the elusive six-pack

My Fellow Inebriates,

Every so often it dawns on me that my parents really don’t love me. After I tried to recruit four-year-old Miss V to open my mescal bottle on Wednesday, the suspicion grew stronger still. Words like “unwholesome” and “dissolute” were used. I grew paranoid (more so than usual) and wondered whether I should attempt some small reform.

Just then I accidentally clicked on Men’s Health: The World’s Most Efficient Workout.

For one insane second, this article seemed like a good idea. The “density workout” is recommended three times a week.

Now, I’m an idiot, but I’m not that kind of idiot. I know this will be the one time I ever try this nutty plan. Here goes.

The first exercise is the Pushup. They show this model dude doing it. Hands shoulder-width apart, feet together, body straight.

Does he look happy, though? I’m not sure.

I can get into position, I think…

The up-and-down part—not so much.

Next: Reverse Lunge and 1-Arm Press.While holding these dumbbells you have to step back, then press the dumbbells up. Switch sides while lowering the dumbbells.

I can’t even figure out how to hold onto dumbbells without thumbs. I have to wrap my whole paw around them. Screw it! No dumbbells. Dumbbells are for meat-heads.

This is madness. Seriously, too many variables.

Okay, here’s where I make a judgment call and skip 10 exercises, making the World’s Most Efficient Workout just a tad more efficient and considerably less dangerous for yours truly.

There aren’t many exercises on the list that I don’t find terrifying, but I don’t feel finished. I haven’t done my show muscles, my guns. Time for a Biceps Curl.

Arggghhhh!! Holy shit!!

I am a total washout at working my muscles. But at least I can get some six-pack abs.

This dude looks so happy. Look how cut his abs are. I bet he walks around shirtless all the time. Let’s give it a go.

Or not. Holy crap, my fellow inebriates, this working out business is all wrong. The only thing that isn’t wrong is the term six-pack.

POF, will you ever bring me love?

My Fellow Inebriates,

Every week Plenty of Fish continues to send me my ideal matches, even though my inbox is (imagine!) empty except for the occasional mass email regarding a party/orgy/swinging event in my neighborhood.

I must say I’m overwhelmed by the egalitarianism of Plenty of Fish. When I first joined, I expected to be immediately eliminated based on my ursine qualities and the inability to meet any height that might be specified as desirable by women seeking mates. I really did think the POF administrator(s) would flush a creature like a bear out immediately, privileging human males at my expense.

Not so. My animal profile continues in its lonely fashion, attracting no one in particular but everyone in general. This week’s POF email drew my attention to the following seekers:














Don’t they sound outgoing?

I have to admit I’m out of my depth with such forward prospective partners. Dolly was, shall we say, demure in comparison. Even our foray into porn had nothing on the sheer sexual hunger apparent in the ready-and-willing candidates at Plenty of Fish.

But who are these women in reality? I was curious about the sort of person who would advertise herself sexuality first (although RustedMetal may or may not fit this category). It got me thinking about identity negotiation—we all 😉 construct a public self as a means of negotiating relationships with other people. So what is being negotiated with a handle like screwmehardplease?

Probably not a whole lot. In all likelihood Plenty of Fish’s 32 million-strong membership is vastly inflated or at least padded out by multiple profiles, pet profiles, and trolls. With 30,000 new signups every day, it’s no wonder POF hasn’t had the time to weed my profile out. And in fact they may not, since large numbers constitute the site’s biggest selling feature. Profiles such as kinkynsilly make good bait for new members—does it matter whether they’re real or serious?

This is what makes dating sites so frustrating for people who genuinely want to meet someone. They have to wade through a shitload of profiles, some false, many nonserious, probably some professionals if you know what I mean, and tons that were put up on a whim and never visited again. POF is probably a cyber ghost town with a population of one hooker for every nine “normal” people. Or worse.

Or is that a misogynistic trap? Google “online dating” and you’ll find plenty of men disgruntled with POF and its ilk, criticizing not just the sites but the women who use them. Men’s magazines describe the sites as minefields, coaching readers how to spot “liars.” Presumably everyone wants to make a good impression (do you put your most unflattering pics on Facebook?), but online dating critics are quick to pounce when pictures don’t match reality.

So, to the charming potential partners viewing my profile on POF, I tried to be as truthful as possible. Date LB and here’s what you get:

  • Fur. Call it mangy; call it matted—it’s all over me.
  • Odor. Call it animalistic; call it funky—it’s the smell of old empties, and it goes with me everywhere.
  • Vice. I’m an alcoholic.
  • Seven inches. That’s seven inches tall, ladies. You got it.

And perhaps that’s why no one wants to get with this.