What had happa?

We've Moved!

2010-05-04T21:44:00.000-07:00

I have officially moved my blog over to it's grown-up address. Check me out at:
whathadhappa.com

Adventures in Vacationing Part 4 - How to Have a Proper Vacation

2010-04-11T19:27:00.000-07:00

I've probably recovered all the memories I'm going to recover without going into some sort of psychiatric treatment like the people who go into hypnotherapy to recover suppressed traumatic experiences or past lives. Suffice it to say all the memories I do have point to the fact that I had a kick-ass vacation.

From what I've pieced together I've been able to come up with a list of things for a great vacation.

1. Pace yourself
If you're going to start drinking at 10:30 am that's perfectly acceptable. After all, it's 5 o'clock somewhere. Don't however, start off with the hard stuff pounding shots like an 18 year old on Spring Break in Mexico finally able to legally drink. Start off slow and remember to eat lots of protein to absorb the alcohol. Plus you'll need the energy you get from food to dial all your friends, family and exes when you're completely wasted and tell them the business.

2. Chillax
There are vacations you take where you go visit family. There are vacations you take with the intent to sightsee and cram as much as humanly possible into the time you have. Then there are the vacations where you just want to chill and relax. If you are on one of these vacations, don't stress. You may be in a new town but more than likely this place ain't going anywhere and you can see the sights on your next time here. For now, pick up the phone to have room service bring you another bucket of beer and find a hottie to rub some more sunscreen on you. This ain't a L'Oreal commercial but you are worth it. Act accordingly.

3. Deny everything
I probably picked this up from years of watching Star Jones on The View but I now add "allegedly" to damn near every sentence that comes out of my mouth. When I'm drunk I like to tell my friends that "one of us may possibly be drunk but I'm not at liberty to name names." (Read that last sentence in a very slurred voice.) Admit to nothing. This comes in especially handy when your friends call you out on the secrets you spilled. I didn't spill anything. I said allegedly.

4. Bring your own camera
You can't exactly deny everything if you've got pictures of you snorting coke floating on the Internet, just ask Kate Moss. Bring your own camera. Take a few pics and then pass it on to a friend. This way all the incriminating pictures of you will be on your own camera and you decide what exactly gets posted to Facebook. You definitely don't want your shenanigans tagged so that your family in Mexico sees what you're really like. There is no need for your 80 year old aunts to see pics of you wearing bunny ears and singing karaoke.

Adventures in Vacationing Part 3 - Feel the Beat Within Your Heart

2010-03-30T20:49:00.000-07:00

This is the third entry in the ongoing series to piece back the memories of one of the greatest vacations I have ever taken. As the Dixie Chicks sang back in 2001 "Some Days You Gotta Dance". A good one-man dance party in your living room after a bottle or two of the finest Target wines can do wonders for the soul. One-man dance parties have been keeping me sane for years.

At the party I attended on this last vacation, while the majority of the attendees were playing Rock Band and singing a collection of white folk songs I was only vaguely familiar with, I played for my friend V. the song that has taken up permanent residence in my heart for the past month. Young Money's "Bed Rock". There's just something about hearing the line "Call me Mr. Flintstone, I can make yo' bed rock" that brings an unbridled joy to my heart that rivals that of a child's when let loose at Toys 'R' Us. Every single time that song plays I can't help but sing along with the chorus. Whether I'm at home, in my car or at CVS Pharmacy picking up some Drano for the sink, any time that song is playing I am throwing my hands up and singing along.

My friend V.'s music choices differ from mine, so I took this opportunity to give her a taste of some of my own musical preferences. I am good at many things and have many accomplishments under my belt in my 29 years of age. Having good taste in music is not one of them. I have come to terms with this in the past few years and the Good Lord has taken my shame from me. I still have *Nsync on my iPod and know the dance moves to the Spice Girls' songs like we were back in 1995. I am ok with this.

I played for V. the Paradiso Girl's "Patron, Tequila" off my iPhone while we sat in the living room, each of us sharing an iPod earpiece. As we were both tipsy from our own tequila shots (Not Patron. We drank the good stuff from south of the border.) we started swaying to the music and throwing our hands up while still sitting down. By the time we got to the new Trina mixtape "Million Dollar Girl" we were not only standing but shaking our money makers harder than any video ho in one of Ludacris' latest hits. We'd time our 'drop it like it's hot's perfectly to make sure the shared earbuds did not fall out of each other's ears. We were the 2-Man Dance Party that all other 2-Man Dance Parties aspire to be.

Our friends pointed at us and I assume questioned what the devil we were doing as they couldn't hear what we were dancing to. I'm not exactly sure what they said as V. and I were too into the groove and I only vaguely noticed people were pointing and staring. Blame it on the alcohol or the beat within my heart but at that point I did not care what others thought.

That is the sign of a truly epic dance party.

Adventures in Vacationing Part 2 - The Fine Art of Lounging

2010-03-28T20:10:00.001-07:00

This is the second in my multi-part series about how hard I can vacation. The memories have gotten less hazy now and as each day passes I'm slowly piecing together the events that happened. There are still some unexplained bruises that I may never fully figure out how I got, but that just comes with the package of an awesome vacation.

Growing up in a single-parent, Mexican household I never took vacations like the ones I saw on TV shows. All of our family vacations were to visit family in Mexico or Arizona so staying at a hotel was reserved for that one time my mom got completely lost on the way and refused to drive the Arizonian desert at night any more. My mom always liked when a relative moved because it gave us a chance to visit someplace new. The idea of visiting a town where we did not have a relative whose house we could stay at was unheard of.

Just before my first trip to Las Vegas I had several relatives ask me who I was going to visit. "Vegas. I'm going to visit Vegas," I responded and received more than a few side-eye glances. "But do you know anyone there?" and "You're going alone?" were favorite follow-up questions. I did go alone, stayed at the New York, New York Hotel & Casino and ordered room service the first night I was there. I was an adult and I'd do as I damn well pleased with my hard-earned money. It was on this trip that I would meet the woman who would one day teach me the fine art of "lounging."

On my most recent vacation to San Diego I'd made plans to go around San Diego and see the sights with friends and family. All I managed to take in was the beautiful view from the side of the pool with my friend B. Saturday morning my plan was to see my friends B. and her husband A. and then head out for some sight-seeing. I should have known I wouldn't make it that far when I was greeted with champagne at 10:30 in the morning. Instead of going out to a brewery tour with A. and our other friends, B. and I decided we'd hang by the pool for a while and relax.

This turned into 8 hours of relaxing and were the absolute best hours I've spent that still involved me wearing some sort of clothes. Who knew that being able to pick up the phone to call Kurt at the front desk to have Frank bring us another bucket of Coronas and limes would be so goddamn amazing?

I really need to start investing in the lottery. After years of searching for the perfect career path I finally found it -- Professional Lounger. Granted this career doesn't pay much but the benefits are astounding! I could intertwine this with another similar career path, Professional Bruncher. I challenge you to find a crew that brunches harder than me and my Brooklyn Boos. Go ahead, I dare ya. You can look high and low but you won't find one.

As a way to subsidize the money I'd need for All-You-Can-Drink mimosas and an endless supply of suntan lotion I could tour the country giving lectures on how to properly lounge. I can set up shop at a learning annex and give panel discussions on how to conduct the perfect brunch. I'll write a series of books on lounging, brunching, and shenanigating. My book tour would be the perfect way to gain more experience and write the sequels: vacationing, dining and perfecting the art of the catwalk strut on the streets of your city.

Why don't guidance counselors let their students know about these types of careers? Lord knows they beat silly things like doctor and lawyer any day.

Adventures in Vacationing Part 1 - I'ma Do Me

2010-03-23T20:31:00.000-07:00

This is the first in a multi-part series about how hard I can vacation. I call it a multi-part series since I don't yet know how many parts there will be. That all depends on how many memories I can piece back together from my Facebook status updates, Tweets, outgoing text messages and calls I receive from friends recapping the drunk messages I left them.

That's right. I'm 29 and still leaving drunk messages. In my defense, I didn't start drinking until about 26 or 27. If you think about it, my drinking age would put me somewhere between 18-22, the perfect drunk dialing age. Stop judging.

Other than church wine like the good Catholic altar boy that I was raised as, I never drank alcohol until about 3 weeks after my 21st birthday. I just wasn't that interested in it. At 29 things are very different. I have recently discovered that just like grief, my drunkenness has different stages.

Stage 1: Giggly Aldo
A couple of drinks in I start giggling for no apparent reason. This is the stage most of my friends are familiar since it's so easy to tell. I sound like an 8 year old girl. Not the best look on a 29 year old man but it's out of my control.

Stage 2: Sassy Aldo
A few more drinks in I develop an accent that is a mixture of Brooklyn and Madea. I start sassing people in louder tones, being more aggressive and telling it how it is. The misspelled text messages filled with poor grammar start pouring out of my fingertips at this point. The iPhone is a wonderful invention but spellcheck can only do so much. Once you start putting X's in the middle of champagne, iPhone can't keep up and just let's you do you.

Stage 3: Alejaandro
Alejaandro was recently named after the Lady Gaga song "Alejandro" but being the Latino that I am I really wanted to make sure white folks stretched out that middle A sound. Hence, the extra A. At this stage I am known to break into a fierce catwalk strut that contestants on America's Next Top Model wish they had. This is especially amazing to watch on the streets of Manhattan. At this point I have no problem in telling people all about themselves whether in person, via text message or drunk dial.

Stage 4: Jack Grey, the assistant
This weekend, after 2 bottles of cahnpahne, some tequila and two buckets of Coronas with lime by the pool I reached a new level of drunkenness that I did not know I had. Jack Grey was an alter-ego that I invented years ago that I was going to use after I faked my own death, had massive amounts of plastic surgery to change my appearance and became an international jewel thief. I was going to be a manly Catwoman, complete with sexy black leather outfit and a motorcycle on top of which I would do Justin Timberlake after having saved his life. I'd be a good-hearted international jewel thief after all.

Saturday afternoon after spending 6 glorious hours lounging by the pool and drinking with my friend like it was our job, my assistant Jack Grey started calling people in my contact list and letting them know that Aldo would not be calling them and leaving drunk messages anymore because Aldo was now 'grown'. My assistant Jack then proceeded to tell people all the shenanigans I had gotten into during my 8 hours of drinking. (We started hours before we got to the pool.)

Where Alejaandro's speech pattern can sometimes be hard to understand with all of his slurring, Jack Grey remained absolutely professional during each and every call. I was told Jack didn't even sound drunk. The scary part is that I have almost no recollection of Jack picking up my phone and dialing people. The only part I remember is taking Jack's drunk ass to the shower, the only place he wouldn't take the iPhone into, sitting on the floor of the tub while water ran down him. It was the only thing that made Jack sit down and behave himself.

If you were one of the lucky ones to receive a drunk call or text message from any of the four individuals mentioned above consider yourself lucky. They are good for hours of entertainment and if the whole Tiger Woods debacle has taught us anything it's that those messages can someday be worth something. At the very least they might get you on the cover of People.

We Are All Precious, but Some More Than Others

2010-03-14T21:05:00.000-07:00

Last week was the 82nd Oscar Awards. Millions of Americans tuned in to watch but I was not among them. They're really long and I prefer catching all the highlights and fashion on endless E! coverage the next day. Anything that happened that was worth watching will be plastered all over the Internet the next day anyway. Case in point, on the red carpet Gabourey Sidibe made this fabulous comment about her blue, diamond encrusted Marchesa gown.

"If fashion was porn, this dress is the money shot."

I need that on a t-shirt yesterday!

Gaby Sidibe seems like just the type of person you want to hang out with. She's full of energy, she's loud, she speaks her mind and just seems like an overall fun person. Her recent appearance on Chelsea Lately solidified my desire to hang out with her. She loves Justin Timberlake apparently as much as I do. She's afraid of little people, where I have a love/hate relationship with them. I love them in theory and would like one of my own but if I ever encountered one alone in a dark alley I'd quickly run in the opposite direction. And she threatened to wear a tiara to the Oscars for no reason other than why not? Chelsea Handler even expressed her desire to roll up in bed with her to eat and watch Lifetime movies.

I would so love to have brunch with her one day. The brunches I attend are epic. I was taught how to brunch proper by the best and I just know Gaby would fit in perfectly at our brunches.

Gaby, please consider this blog post an open letter to you. I would love to have brunch with you. I just know once you have brunch with me we'll become BFFs.

I Can't Has Cheezburger

2010-02-07T21:52:00.000-08:00

It's been 46 days since my last slice of pizza. To say I want it so bad I can taste it would be an understatement.

I long to smell it's tasty aroma, to run my fingers along it's crisp, hard crust. I want to bring it to my lips and lick the drops of grease that fall from the tip of the slice as I pull it free from the cramped box that has been keeping it hot and ready for me. I don't even need to swallow. I just want to lick it and feel the heat in my mouth, no matter how bad the roof of my mouth will be burnt afterwards. I want it in me... if only for a moment.

After 30 days of the P90X exercise plan and I lost 7.6 lbs. Apparently the weight loss came from the part of the brain that controls common sense. I'd made a deal with myself. If I lost 10 lbs. after the first month I was allowed a cheeseburger. Close but no cheeseburger. I blame The Biggest Loser for my unrealistic weight loss expectations. If Two-Ton Tony can drop 13 lbs. in a week, surely I could drop 10 in a month. No such luck. However, I do have the luxury of being able to look down and still see my toes, something Two-Ton Tony doesn't.

I have now taken to asking my friends about the cheeseburger they had for lunch and wanting descriptive details about the garnishing on said cheeseburger. I dream about cheeseburgers while my steamed chicken, veggies and rice heat up in the community kitchenette at work. My new fantasies include me, Channing Tatum and a large cheese pizza with a side order of Little Caesar's cheese bread that I eat off his naked torso. Yup, I've lost it. My brain is going through High-Fructose Corn Syrup withdrawal symptoms.

As much as I want a cheeseburger, a slice of pizza or a frappuccino I know that anyone one of those items is enough to cancel out an entire workout session. I am not sweating through an entire hour of that sadistic fitness "expert" just to throw it away, no matter how delicious that melty cheese would feel in my mouth. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some cheesebread to go think about...

The Kids Are Not Alright

2010-01-17T21:48:00.000-08:00

I recently watched Boogie Nights for the first time in about 10 years. I remember the first time I saw the true star of the movie, the enormous fake peen. My jaw dropped. I was both astounded and horrified all at once because there was no way I would be able to compete with size like that and I feared for the safety of my internal organs if I ever met a man who did. Seeing it now, 10 years later, my reaction was "meh". I wasn't that impressed. I had a vague memory of Marky Mark's love muscle but seeing again after all these years it just didn't live up to the memory I had. What had happa to change the memory of the biggest penis I'd ever seen into "it doesn't have that much girth"?

Internet porn is what had happa.

When I was a teenager seeing strangers' penises wasn't as easy as going to Craigslist, GuysWithiPhones.com or conducting a quick Google search. We had to fight and work hard to find the secret stashes of Playboy magazine's in our friend's garages. Nowadays teenagers simply have to type in a few keystrokes and have access to hundreds of professional porn stars, thousands of amateur videos and more of Paris, Lindsay and Britney's bits than you can shake your stick to. Does this mean that the youth of today will be even more jaded and nonchalant when it comes to sex than I was when I saw Marky Mark Jr? YES.

Let's face it, folks. The children are broken. All you need to do is look at Hannah Montana's cellphone pics, High School Musical's not-so-good girl Vanessa Hudgens' leaked nude photos or The Tyra Banks Show's "Sexting" episode to realize that the kids are not alright. The Jonas Brothers can talk all they want about their purity rings and the fact that they're saving themselves for marriage but when you've got 15-year-old Justin Bieber squeaking about his "First Dance" and promising the girl that he'll be gentle but they've gotta do it slowly, you know some shit is up.

For Christmas, my 8-year-old niece got a singing cheerleader doll. Upon pressing the doll's hand she sung different cheers, one of which being "I wanna see you wiggle it, just a little bit." Being a child of the '80s I remember that verse in a very different context. One that I had no business listening to, much less having it in one of my toys.

If we think teens are oversexed now wait until the cast of Jersey Shore starts procreating. Now those kids will be some hot messes from toddler age. Today's children will be tomorrow's newly developed strains of incurable STD's. If that's who's taking over when I'm gone then I hope the world really does end in 2012 because society would be much better off.

Let's Talk About Salt 'N' Pep

2010-01-10T22:31:00.000-08:00

I don't exactly know when my love of Salt 'N' Pepa began. Probably when I first heard "Push It". My best friend, Angelica, and I used to dance to it by pumping our hips forward like we'd seen her older siblings do. I had no clue what exactly Salt 'N' Pepa were pushing, but I knew it was dirty and we were getting away with something. We'd dance around to "Twist and Shout" like only children could: like no one was watching. Dancing and shaking our hips, planning how we would go to one of Salt 'N' Pepa's concerts and be asked to come onstage because of our outstanding dancing skills.

By the time I was in Jr. High and figuring out that my liking of boys was more than just a phase, no song better explained my feelings than "None of Your Business". Living in a tiny town where to this day, if I have a guy over at my house the news will reach my mom's nursing home by the end of the week, there was something empowering about knowing that when I grew up I could do whatever I wanted. Damned be what other people think of me because if I do wanna take a guy home with me tonight, it really is none of anyone's business.

When a pre-Dirrty Christina Aguilera was just starting her stint on the Mickey Mouse Club, Salt 'N' Pepa were already in bikinis rolling around in mud and had hot, less-than-half-dressed men dancing in a boxing ring. That video was among the first I ever saw when we started getting MTV. I remember bringing it up to my classmates and hearing how they thought it was the nastiest thing they'd ever seen and hated it. The first clues to myself that I was not meant for this little town but a larger city where dancing around with half-naked men was just a regular Tuesday.

When VH1 debuted "The Salt 'N' Pepa Show" I was ecstatic. I prayed that this show would relaunch their careers to a whole other generation and bring about the reunion and subsequent reunion tour. Hell, if the Spice Girls and the New Kids on the Block could do it, why couldn't the greatest female rap group of all time? If I can see Salt 'N' Pepa perform live before I die then my life will truly be complete. I can go to my grave with Salt 'N' Pepa's Greatest Hits playing at my funeral with the knowledge that I truly lived. I was saddened when it wasn't brought back for a second season but I now have new found hope with tomorrow's debut of "Let's Talk About Pep".

I've done my best to try and pass on my love of Salt 'N' Pepa to the next generation, namely my three nieces. The 13-year-old recognizes Salt 'N' Pepa songs and knows them as songs her mom and I used to dance to growing up. I'm working on teaching the 3-year-old the chorus to "Shoop" and the 8-year-old is a child after my own heart. On our last family camping trip I taught her the Running Man, the Cabbage Patch and the Roger Rabbit. She danced to the songs of my childhood like a true child of the '80s and at that moment I was the proudest uncle who ever lived.

Like everyone else, so many of my childhood memories revolve around the songs I'd listen to growing up. Salt 'N' Pepa probably have the biggest part in the soundtrack of my life. I think my love of Salt 'N' Pepa can best be described the way my mom described God to me when I was a kid.

There was no beginning. There is no end. It just always is.

29

2010-01-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

After much thought, consideration, prayer, near emotional breakdowns and alcohol I have decided to embrace the fact that today I am 29. I considered staying at 28 for a while like I did with 22. I turned 22 for three years in a row. No, this doesn't mean I'm actually 31, I truly am 29 today. It says born in 1981 right there on my birth certificate.

Growing up I had all these goals and aspirations I wanted to accomplish before I turned 30 and had planned on settling down, becoming an adult and having children. I wanted to become Robin (of Batman & Robin). I wanted to be married to my first true love, Jonathan Knight of the New Kids on the Block. I wanted to travel to Greece and ride around on vespa. I wanted to tour the world as one of Britney Spears' backup dancers. I wanted to live in a Manhattan loft with a bunch of crazy roommates a la Friends-style. I wanted to be the youngest Latino to own his own Details-eque magazine called Caballero.

While I am nowhere near ready to fly to some second or third-world country and come back with a brown baby of my very own there are several things I would like to accomplish before I turn 30. I'm not calling them my New Year's resolutions because that's just setting them up for failure. They're more of a bucket list for turning 30. They're my 2010 goals.

1. Lose 60 lbs.
Yes, it's a very high number but the one time I was on a diet I managed to lose 35 lbs. in about 6 months so I think 60 lbs. in 12 months is doable. As I stated before, 2010 is my Madonna year, The Reinvention Year. You can't reinvent something without a massive body overhaul.

To my IRL* folks, feel free to call me out on my frappuccino intake. There is no need for me to be drinking that many and truth be told I'm sure they're what started my 50 lb. weight gain from high school through college. I will no longer be a slave to their deliciousness. If you see me eating a slice of pizza just knock it out of my hands. Unless of course I've been doing really good on my diet, am having a bad day and give you the "bitch, I'm grown" look. In that case, I'll most likely punch you in the mouth because you just wasted some damn good pizza.

2. Move out of Soledad.
29 years is 11 too many. Brooklyn 2010 is happening. There is no doubt. Can you feel the excitement?

3. Sing karaoke.
While my at-home Wii karaoke skills can't be touched by my friends I feel it's time to branch out and let the world at large be exposed to my tone-deafness. It's not fair that only a select few have heard Katy Perry's "I Kissed A Girl" sung in my drunken splendor.

4. Travel outside of the country (preferably other than Mexico).
I have a brand new shiny passport just waiting for the day I meet Jonathan Knight in person and he flies me off to Greece for a romantic week-long getaway of vespa riding and shenanigating. If that doesn't come through then I have friends in Canada I'd like to go visit.

5. Go on a date.
Apparently there is this thing that some people in society do where you don't just pick someone up, take them home or to the nearest empty parking lot and kick them out when you're done. I plan on researching this so-called "dating" and reporting my findings on this blog.

Hooking up with exes will no longer be allowed in 2010 either. Well I mean except that one and he doesn't really count as an "ex".

6. Write more.
Book deals are being given out to just anyone nowadays. I need to step up my game and have a book written in 2010 before all the good book deals run out. My goal is to write one blog post a week and by the end of the year have enough good ones to have a book put together. I'll be the gay Brooklyn version of Carrie Bradshaw.

7. Learn to sew/play the guitar/skateboard/skate/ice skate.
I have the sewing machine that my mom made the majority of my baby clothes on that needs fixing. I have a free guitar I received that needs new strings. I've always wanted to learn to at least keep my balance on a skateboard. I need to be ready for next winter when I go ice skating in Rockefeller Center on a date. I may not get all of these complete this year but I need to at least give it an honest effort and learn one of them.

8. Master one move on a pole.
Yes, I know. An overweight gay man probably has no business learning pole dancing moves but a friend of mine has one in her living room and when she was teaching me I was never able to spin all the way around. I'm determined to go back and learn to do it right. Plus, refer back up to Goal #1 and this goal should be less awkward.

Also, in the event that Obama doesn't fully fix this recession we're in, having extra skills on your resume is always a plus. You gotta make that extra money wherever you can. In the words of the great poet Trina, the Diamond Princess, "STACK THAT PAPER!"

9. Become a blonde.
At the end of each summer I always wish I'd remembered that the last summer I wanted to see what it would be like to become a blonde. This year I'd like to test out the theory that blondes have more fun.

10. Do something new.
Granted this one is pretty ambiguous and the majority of the goals on this list fit into this category but I still want to do something I've never done before that isn't in the above 9. I'm not sure what it is and probably won't until I'm in the middle of doing it but when I do it it will be spectacular.

So Happy 29th Birthday to me and let's get ready to end my 20's with a bang because as of today, Dirty 30 is right around the corner.

*In Real Life - for the Interwebz-speak deficient.

If you enjoy this blog, please comment and tell your friends about it. If you don't enjoy this blog, please comment and tell your friends about it so they can come get a good laugh. Either way, I get the traffic and get one step closer to that sweet book deal I want.

Better Than Your Boyfriend Ever Could

2010-01-01T23:47:00.000-08:00

So it's been decided that 2010 will be my Madonna Year: The Reinvention Year. In an effort to increase my already mad sexiness or lack thereof I've been thinking about what exactly makes good swagger and who has it? Hell, even the 300 lb boy on TLC's One Big Happy Family claims to have good swagger, but that's not exactly the type of swagger I'm looking for. What exactly qualifies as good swagger and how does one acquire it?

I've been listening to the new Robin Thicke album, Sex Therapy, lately and it is filled with prime grade-A examples of mad sexiness and good swagger. This blue-eyed soul boy's album is dripping with sex appeal and I wouldn't be at all surprised if he ended up on Dr. Drew's Sex Rehab season 12. His music makes grown women who were raised properly want to act like they didn't have a father and shake their asses on a pole.

I want to have that power.

On the track "Make U Love Me", Robin threatens to show us how it feels when it's good and do it "better than your boyfriend ever could". There's even a track called "Shakin' It 4 Daddy" that clearly needs no further explanation.

Justin Timberlake is another good example of a man having good swagger. Once he moved past the cornrows and full denim suits from his *Nsync days he grew up to be quite the sexy man. His swagger is so great that it actually has the power to make bitches go crazy. Look at Britney Spears, she went full on nuts when she no longer had access to Justin's Trousersnake. And what about Cameron Diaz? Where's she been? It took almost 2 years after her breakup with Mr. SexyBack to start showing up in movies again. I don't know that anyone watched them but it's nice that she's trying.

On Timbaland's "Carry Out" Justin asks if it's "full of myself to want you full of me" and then later asks if we like it well-done cause he does it well.

So what exactly is it about these men makes thousands of women and men want to throw themselves at them? And why hasn't it been bottled and mass-produced so that I can buy it?

You Need Jesus

2009-12-09T10:27:00.000-08:00

So an Eastern Orthodox, an agnostic and a recovering Catholic are sitting in Union Square drinking coffee. No this isn't the beginning of an old joke, this is what happened the last time I was in New York City. One of my favorite things to do in concrete jungle where dreams are made of is just sit around and people watch. Coming from a small, rural town in central California made up of 87% Mexicans, you just don't see the diversity you get on a single city block of New York.

My friends and I were sitting on the steps of Union Square talking and watching New York City's finest in action and I'm not talking about police officers. There was a man in an all red pimp outfit wearing a Flavor Flav-style clock around his neck complete with a young lady in an outfit so scandalous it rivaled those of the Flavor of Love contestants, a handful of college kids with computer touch screens on their stomachs offering free demos of some game, several hot skaters practicing their ollies and kick-flips mere inches from my fingers and toes and the required break dancing battlers showing off their latest moves.

The king of New York City's finest though was an older gentleman in an outfit so ridiculous that words cannot begin to describe it but I'll try. His skirt consisted of what looked like dozens of multi-colored scarves all sewn together, that flowed like it should have been on the body of a model walking down a runway at Bryant Park instead of a homeless man in Union Square and his vest looked like he'd skinned a muppet back in the '70s and had been wearing the matted fur everyday since.

The best thing about this man wasn't even his couture outfit, it was what he was saying. "I'm gonna wear this in heaven. Why not wear it now?" Apparently the Lord is a Lady Gaga fan and there will be a dress code in heaven I was unaware of. He made his way back and forth from person to person spouting off his rantings about what he would do in heaven, arguing with the break dancers, collecting change from those so inclined and finally receiving a miniature Bible from some people handing out Bible tracts in the park. This is when the gentleman's attitude towards heaven seemed to turn.

"I'll cuss out Jesus Christ himself. Motherfucker! Let him come down. I'll cuss him out right in his face," he said while pointing his head towards the heavens. "If he's so tough let him strike me down with lightning right now." This is where I debated moving my friends back a step or two just in case the Lord almighty was paying attention and felt like having some fun. "Motherfucker, I'll cuss him out!" he continued rambling. Here's when we decided to leave the park and go have dinner. Before we even got up he proceeded to crumple up the Bible tract and throw it at my friend's feet.

Apparently he decided we needed Jesus more than he did. Well God bless. You don't see that in Soledad.

Dear Heifer An Open Letter to the Big-Boned and Lazy

2009-12-04T20:43:00.000-08:00

As a native Californian who has been driving since the age of 15 I often use the drive-thrus whenever possible, drive-up ATMs being a regular stop of mine. It is here where I have, on several occasions, seen someone wait in line, park right in front of it and then proceed to get out of their vehicle to use the ATM. Case in point, the woman in the picture below.

Isn't the point of drive-thrus not to have to get out of your car in the first place? If you're going to exit your vehicle in order to use said "drive-thru" then you're not doing it right. In an effort to prevent such obscene abuses of drive-thrus from continuing I have drafted an open letter to the culprits.

Dear Heifer,
I write this open letter to you with love and respect. Stop being a lazy ass and walk once in a while.

First of all you may be asking, who am I to criticize you? I'll be the first to admit that I could absolutely stand to lose some 50+ lbs, I will never be the poster child for Skinny Bitches, Inc and that my love of fried foods and cheese has guaranteed that I will never be accused of looking anorexic. But while I am fat, I am still not as fat and lazy as you.

I come to you because it's acts like this that give the rest of society reason to believe that me and all of my large and in charge brethren are as lazy as you. I may get winded while climbing a flight or two of stairs but I do not take the elevator. I may find it more difficult than it should be to bend over and tie my shoes but I will never buy the kind with velcro straps. I may have trouble finding things that fit in American Eagle because their clothes are cut small but I will never leave the house in sweats. By your actions and the actions of those like you you have made most of society think that all overweight people are lazy and completely sedentary.

Now obviously I don't get up and move as much as I should otherwise I wouldn't be overweight in the first place. But you best believe that if my fat rolls ever prohibited me from reaching my arm out of the window to push the ATM buttons I would not only not use the drive-up ATM, I'd have walked to the bank in the first place.

When I dance I can shake a tail feather, drop it like it's hot and sweep the floor with it like nobody's business. If you ask a certain Canadian friend of mine, she'll tell you that with a little bit of alcohol in me I can give a lap dance so good that my bumps and grinds, shimmies and shakes, hip thrusts and head rolls would give any Pussycat Doll a run for her money. My point is, I may be fat but I can and do still move, which apparently is more than I can say for your kind.

I'm not writing this solely to judge you. I'm writing this as a plea to you. Stop making society think we are all Gilbert Grape's mom! If Dance Your Ass Off and the plethora of Beyoncé-inspired YouTube videos have taught us anything it's that we large people can bust a move. Now before you fully break into the Single Ladies dance, start off slow by parking your car and walking inside the bank. I may be drinking a frapuccino as I write this letter to you but I did not use the drive-thru. I parked my car 3 rows away from the door and walked in with my head and double chins held high.

If you are going to use the drive-thru ATM then use it properly. Drive up to it, reach your hand out like you do when you're reaching for your #3 super-sized extra value meal with diet Coke and stay inside the vehicle at all times.

Sincerely,
Your brother in borderline high blood pressure,
Aldo

Sex Toys R Us

2009-11-24T22:12:00.000-08:00

So I'm eating with my new lunch time homies and as most topics of conversation in a proper work environment go, we were talking about sex. More specifically about sex toys. In between sandwich bites we started coming up with ideas for new sex toys. Although in reality I'm sure they've already been invented by somebody and are in the goody drawers of dozens if not hundreds of Americans all throughout the country.

That combined with a conversation I once overheard in a West Hollywood sex shop where two sales associates were rating how hard different vibrators got them off as casually as two housewives comparing cleaning products got me thinking. Whose job is it to come up with new sex toys anyway? Is there a design firm down in the San Fernando Valley, the porn capital of the US, whose sole purpose it is to create and test the titillating new designs?

What are their board meetings like? Is it a room full of grey-haired old white men sitting around a conference room table debating things like the pros and cons of jelly vs. glass, what the newest invention to hit those hard to reach places should be, or how they can keep costs down by sending the rabbits overseas to have the vibrating pearl beads attached by the minuscule hands of Asian day laborers?

Is the testing warehouse full of tired workers who have punched their time cards in and out of this place for the past 2 decades? Is the manager an old broad with a name tag that reads "Marge, 25,000 orgasms of service"? Are the workers even still interested in the products they create and test? I know after 3-4 years at my job I no longer cared as much about the little things that got through. Is that how it is at the Sex Toys R Us factory? Do Martha and Beverly swap stories on their way home about how they just faked the last 3 hours of work because let's face it, it's a short week and no one's really working anyway?

What are the benefit packages at this place like, besides the obvious, of course. Do they get paid vacations where the last thing on their mind is sex and really just want some time to let their vital organs recover? What kind of medical benefits do they get? I'd imagine several trips to the doctor would be required, if only for regular treatments of rashes, tears and the occasional electrocution.

I wonder what the recession has done to places like the Sex Toys R Us factory. Have they been subject to the same workforce reductions that the rest of the country is facing? When a normal workgroup consisted of 25 staff members are they now down to 10 and expected to produce the same amount of work? Do the remaining 10 now have to conduct multiple reviews at a time, possibly in groups of 3 with the odd man out taking notes?

So many unanswered questions came to me all because of this mindless lunchtime chat. Where are sex toys manufactured? And most importantly, are they hiring?

Don't Shit Where You Eat

2009-10-29T21:00:00.000-07:00

So I'm in the bathroom minding my own business as all males from the age of 4 and on are trained to do. Girls go to the bathroom to socialize, guys go in for one of two reasons: mind your business, do your business, wash your hands and get out. On the floor of the next stall was a pair of black dress shoes with a plate of half-eaten pizza slices accompanying them.

Yes, somebody felt the need to take a plate of pizza with them into the bathroom stall. So I’m trying to mind my business while they’re doing their business and they pick up the plate take some bites and put the plate back down on the floor. Then I hear the noise of them doing their business some more.

First of all, how bad are your stomach problems that you have to eat while sitting on the john? Granted, after three days of doing the Master Cleanse diet I was able to time my bowel movements to within 60 minutes of food intake but 60 seconds just seems a bit ridiculous.

Second, we’re adults. This is no longer Jr. High where not getting an invitation to sit at anyone’s lunch table means your have to go find a payphone booth or bathroom stall to eat in like you’re DJ Tanner. If you’re that much of a loser that you don’t have friends to eat with then eating alone at your cubicle is perfectly acceptable. Why of all places would you choose the stall of a public bathroom where anyone can just walk in, judge you silently and go home to write a blog post about it?

I get that having a high-pressure job means sometimes having to skip lunch in order to attend pointless meetings where we all talk about what a great team we have and manage not to accomplish a single thing. Sometimes it means staying late one evening to finish the work you should have been doing while on Facebook all afternoon or coming in on a weekend because you work with people who take 8 full hours to complete the simplest of tasks and don’t get you your work until the end of the day on a Friday. But how fucking busy are you that you have to eat while on the shitter?

There is no job that is so important that you have to combine your meal breaks with your bathroom breaks. Just ask President Obama, even he gets a break to eat in an actual dining room.

Oh the Shame

2009-10-13T14:31:00.000-07:00

So I'm reading Twilight as part of a book club and just to see what all the fuss was about. Never in my days have I ever read a book with such shame. Hiding it under my arm as I go to lunch, putting my water bottle in front of it while I'm reading at the table, the lengths I've gone to in order to hide what I'm reading are astounding. I even considered paper-bag covering it a la 5th grade but no one really gives paper bags anymore since we've all gone "green" and take in our reusable bags.

What's worse is that I know they won't be having "the sex" in this book. Apparently if they do, Bella will die or become a vampire or realize she's with a moody douche, leave him and go get a spray tan or something. Halfway into it I remembered that it was written by a Mormon woman and aimed at 13 year old girls. This explained the plot and led me to the realization that when I finish this book I'll be left with literary blue balls. You teased me enough to keep me interested for nearly 500 pages but aren't going to give me the big finish.

When You're There, You're Family

2009-10-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

So the last time I was at Olive Garden I got drunk. Not your typical It's Wednesday evening let's have a couple of drinks after work so you get a nice buzz drunk. I'm talking ridiculous Let me tip the waiter boy $20 just because he's cute and it sounds nice drunk. I managed not to make a complete ass of myself except for the dozen or so times I called the waiter "baby" and woke up the next morning feeling shameful. That was until I was reminded by my friend that when you're at Olive Garden, you're family. And my family is a bunch of drunks.

Squirrel Hari-Kari

2009-09-29T15:55:00.000-07:00

So I'm speeding down the back roads singing along to Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me" when two squirrels jump in front of my car and I have no room to swerve and avoid them. I guess they felt so strongly that Beyoncé deserved the award that they were willing to die for their cause.

Now if only Kanye had had the balls to do the same thing.

Some People Just Aren't That Bright

2009-09-27T12:27:00.000-07:00

So I'm at the Starbucks drive-thru after having ordered and paid for my drink when the barista asks me, "Do you like coffee?"

Bitch, I'm here ain't I?

What had happa?

2009-09-24T20:13:00.000-07:00

Shortly, I will tell you what had happa.