MEGAN: Oh, hey, so, apparently we all agree that Obama hasn't screwed anything up yet on his trip. And I think Obama knows where to recruit door-knockers for Florida, if only because I think the sight of a bunch of Palestinians knocking on doors saying "Ma'am, believe me, we know, Barack Obama isn't going to change the United States' policies on Israel one iota."
MOE: I DRANK SO MUCH LAST NIGHT actually I didn't I just drank enough. Surprising fact: I did not drink on Saturday or Sunday night at all. Not one drop! When that happens it throws my system out of whack you know.
MEGAN: I know, it's like, the sun is less bright on those days. I started buying beer, actually, because it was so hot and to get into shape for Germany but I can't consume enough of it all in one sitting to get drunk, it's a little sad still.
MOE: Oh look David Brooks is talking about debtor nation again huh cool.
MEGAN: In honor of your hangover, I recommend reading this analysis of how, by not publishing McCain's OpEd on Obama and the surge, the New York Times MOE: Holy itshay is that you Bobo??

And yet Connolly (who doesn't know what a gimlet is, poor thing) heads behind the bar to work with Andrew for one night. He learns earth-shattering stuff, like:

When a guy goes out with a bunch of women, it signals other women that he's not some kind of knucklehead. When a guy goes out with a group of guys, it means he's on the prowl.

Other tips! Men should try the "romantic return," in which they eye a woman, leave, and then come back. "Leaving the scene and then returning because you 'just couldn't let this opportunity go by' takes you out of the Lecherous category and puts you in the Romantic Fool category. It has a Hugh Grant quality that the ladies go for," Andrew explains. (Or makes you look wishy-washy! Or makes it look like asking for my number was something you had to talk yourself into!) Tip #4 is "Don't Dance (unless it's with a woman)", Tip #5 is "Have Good Follow-Up Lines." Andrew says: "Guys get too caught up in opening lines, when it's the next few things you say that make or break you." Actually, pretty much everything you say can make or break you. When you're approaching a woman, you're being judged, period. Act normal and you're gonna get a normal reaction! Act like a cheeseball or a sleaze and you're going to be dismissed. Possibly pointed at, definitely laughed at.

Last, but not least, Tip #6: Beware Of Overfriending." Quote Andrew: "If you pretend you're just a friendly guy, she'll think of you that way. Don't be afraid to get a little sexual when you're talking to women. And don't hide your intentions. It's dishonest, and they can see right through it." Hmm. Maybe. Women are not some exotic and elusive prey that you need to deconstruct the thought patterns of. I've been in plenty of bars and talked to plenty of dudes. The best pick-up line? The one that works every time? When a guy smiles and says, "Hey." But, you know, that's just me.

Find the Right Line [Men's Health]

I'll admit that casual sex for me is a total defense mechanism in order to experience intimacy without risking emotional detriment. I'd so much rather be fucked than fucked with. So when some guy suggested to me last week that we merely make out all night instead of have sex, I was immediately cautious of his intentions. It sounds backwards, I know, but it's, uh, progressive. Right?

I have a really tough exterior when it comes to these things, but that's only because what's within is extra gooey. But I've been a little worried as of late that if I keep building up this shell, it would eventually become calcified, and the real me would be trapped in forever. So for the first time in years, I decided to change it up and not be so cynical. I allowed someone to bypass my vaginal walls and penetrate my emotional one. He laid it on really thick, too. Compliments, face-caressing, never-ending cuddle-fests, and full disclosure on just how much he liked me. (Within a week's time I'd heard: "I could fall in love with you" and "When I'm with you, I'm head-over-heels.") One night when we were laying in bed, I noticed that he was sort of falling off one side, and I asked him if he wanted to scoot toward the middle. He made such a big deal about it, like it meant something. All of his past girlfriends would take up the whole bed, and he would have to sleep toward the edge. Drunk on girlie giddiness, I saw a metaphor in it, too, like, wow, I'm pulling him closer, and we're meeting in the middle. I know, I know.

To be honest, I found all this to be so dramatic and way too precious and told him so. I was also well aware of how emotionally damaged he seemed to be. But I thought that was maybe something that could go on the list of Shit We Have in Common, right under "favorite Dolly Parton song." I was like, well, maybe it is possible that things can happen this fast. Maybe this is how normal people actually start dating. Maybe I've just been this weirdo all along. And even my jaded ass couldn't deny that I was equally attracted to him physically and mentally, as evidenced by the constant butterflies in my stomach, smile on my face, and heavier laundry loads from all the tights and jeans that were getting so wet whenever we hung out.

But I totally should've trusted my instincts, because they've never failed me before. Especially when one night, he actually asked me to enumerate all the things I liked about him. I thought it was weird, but I obliged with utter honesty, "You're funny, you're smart, you're cute, you're charming, blah, blah blah." I ended with, "I like you so much it's scaring me." And it was then that he got what he wanted. About 30 hours later, after spending the entire weekend together—brunching, cuddling, kissing on the street, holding hands, playing Connect Four, while sober, mind you—I received a text that said that he really needed to be alone, and he hoped I would understand.

I wasn't shocked. Just disappointed—majorly. A few hours later I got another text that said he was being stupid, and he'd meet me at our friend's show at this bar. We spent the night with our arms around each other, kissing. On the drive home he was silent. When he got to my place he didn't even pull up to the curb. He just idled in the street. He turned to me and said, "I can't do this. I'm not ready. I don't want to hurt your feelings." Um, too late, pal. God!

I stomped my feet up the stairs in my building and realized that I'd just been used. Now I think that emotional scar tissue I already had is turning into a fucking keloid. I totally just got emotionally played. And even though my glasses are currently blurry from a dried gray mixture of salty tears and black mascara, I see clearly now that I don't blame the player, I blame the game.

I don't think I have to say that I like women, that some of my best friends are female, that my sister rocks in unimaginable ways and that a girls' night out is tons of fun. But. When I was four years old, my best friend was a boy who lived down the street. We jumped on the trampoline, played doctor and watched cartoons together until I moved away. And there have been numerous successors ever since. Some of them were gay, some of them were straight. Some were older, some were younger. But having a guy as a close friend — as a best friend — is a feeling I've always known. There's something about the dynamic between two adults who don't want to sleep together and yet have different gender perspectives on life. Being girly with the girls is one thing; having a burger and a beer with the boys (or dumplings and champagne with the gays) is another. What is it about getting close to a man (in a totally non-sexual way) that's so appealing? (And am I the only one who loves having boys as besties?)

Always a Bridesmaid, Never the . . . Groom [Washington Post]

Maybe they didn't know about the mace, stun gun and EMPTY HAND GRENADE CANISTERS cops reported finding in his room after he tried to enter a female officer's dorm? Anyway, he failed to "grow up" much, spending his residency masturbating six or seven times a day at work and garnering complaints from female patients, one of whom finally pressed sexual assault charges, to which he pled guilty and got out of practicing medicine. So he could work as a "medical investigator" offering a second opinion on... SEXUAL HARRASSMENT SUITS.

UPDATE: The Toronto Sun re-posted the story on its wesbite.

The Toronto Sun

The most promiscuous women, according to Dimitri's website, are saleswomen (especially real estate agents), nannies, schoolteachers (especially elementary and early childhood education), nurses and lawyers (criminal and civil litigation in particular).

Dimitri charges $40 to attend one of his weekday meetings, $269 for an annual membership to his "lair" and as much as $2,997 plus GST for a two-day workshop advertised on his website, dimitrithelover.com, where "Dimitri The Lover creates a powerful identity for you that women will find irresistible."

Also from the website:

"Learn the secret physical, verbal and psychological techniques used by Dimitri the Lover to seduce, pleasure and sexually enslave women," says one of his program outlines.

Or this: "A man's 'basic operating system' is composed of 'rapist' and 'murderer' programs which have been hard-wired into his brain.

And here's a snippet from his marketing materials:

"Dimitri The Lover is the ONLY pickup guru in the world WITH PROFESSIONAL CREDENTIALS TO BACK HIM UP who has conducted IN-FIELD MEDICAL RESEARCH ON SEDUCTION!!!" he proclaims in another.

However, his troubled past and medical credentials are hardly worth bragging about.

Dimitri the Lover's real name is James N. Sears.

…

By 1986, Sears was in the Canadian Armed Forces and while still a third-year medical student was evaluated by a military psychiatrist who suggested there was "something seriously wrong" with Sears.

He was shunned by fellow students because of his behaviour. A female officer complained he repeatedly tried to enter her room, and military police found "a can of Mace, several knives, two empty smoke grenade canisters and an electronic stun gun" in his room following an incident.

As a result of his antics, Sears had to repeat a year of medical school. Despite documented reservations, he graduated from U of T as a doctor in 1988.

During his internship at Doctors Hospital in Toronto, Sears skipped duties, drank while on call, indulged in "inappropriate self-use of prescription drugs," according to the College hearing record.

Sears was judged "immature" in a subsequent psychiatric assessment and it was noted he displayed "inappropriate behaviour towards female staff members," and was viewed by peers as "un -trustworthy, cynical and narcissistic."

He underwent psychotherapy and was admitted to Ottawa's National Defence Medical Centre in 1990 for evaluation and treatment.

There, "record was made of numerous, random and obsessive telephone calls to women during which he would sometimes masturbate," and evidence suggested "prescribable substance abuse," according to the College hearing records.

However, after a conclusion of "no clear evidence of major psychiatric illness," Sears was cleared to return to medical practice.

Disgraced Doctor is T.O.'s Seduction Guru [Toronto Sun]

Portrait Of A Pickup Artist [Eye Weekly]
Whistleblower: Unlicensed Doctor Hangs Out Shingle [CTV]

Tormented? Driven witless? 99 problems but therapy bills ain't one? Welcome to "Save Your Life, Cheap!" in which we write about the dumb things that get America's uninsured through hard times. AA meetings, James Joyce, Ani di Franco, suicide hotlines…anything nonalcoholic can apply, the more embarrassing the better. Which brings me to: self-help. In our first installment, Sephora Spy's Loren Hunt reviews the $1 book that got her through the worst breakup ever.

So, it's probably safe to make the baseline assumption that self-help books are not the kind of thing that anyone reads because they think it's cool. For some reason, self-loathing became more inherently cool than trying to fix problems, which would explain the aura of lameness surrounding self-help books: the corny covers, the corny catchphrases, the corny jacket photos, and the corny titles, which are invariably presented in a corny (and really large, readable) font. There are no cool self-help books. Cool people do not write self-help books. Happy people write them. And they could give a fuck who thinks they're cool. And you know who else doesn't give a fuck who thinks they're cool? A 23-year-old stripper who just used up every last shred of self-regard finally "breaking up" with the three-timing strip club DJ she had been fucking for the past year. And that, friends, is how I came to appreciate It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken, the second offering from Greg Berendt of He's Just Not That Into You fame.

Have you ever played yourself so badly in a relationship that even years after the fact the salient details are still enough to embarrass you? The kind of situation so inherently unfortunate that, upon its demise, you don't even want to tell your friends it has ended because they'll just snort, "good," and assume that it is so obvious that you are better off without it that there is nothing left to say on the topic? I met him because we worked together. At the strip club. He was living with his girlfriend when we first started hooking up, while sorting out the details of a divorce to a third woman. Our "relationship" only ever seemed to happen on the weekends, after work, where sometimes we engaged in what he liked to call "non-sex." Non-sex was when we did it, but then he denied doing it. I felt sleazy and dissolute, which, at the time, was novel and exciting. He was so nice when it was just us. And passionate. And caring. And secretly really awesome! I encouraged him to get secretly awesome all over me on and off and on and off for almost a year before I was ready to cut off my drama supply at the source and move on to something possibly healthier. But by then, I'd become attenuated to the bombast and obvious chord progressions of his Bon Jovi song style of lovin' and everything else just seemed... too quiet. Or subtle. Or something. Which was finally enough to scare me... strip clubs and nocturnal relationships with strip club DJs were supposed to be more of an interesting digression for me than a permanent lifestyle plan, and I felt in danger of falling through one of my own cracks. So I cut him off and stopped going to work lest he use his DJ microphone to manipulate me back into his good graces (this is the beauty of strip club jobs. You can take a week or a month or a year off and no one even notices). It was around then that I found a typo-ridden galley copy of something called It's Called a Breakup Because it's Broken: The Smart Girl's Breakup Buddy. This would have been almost five years ago. It was only a dollar and I thought maybe it would at least entertain me while I prostrated my unwashed body in front of my window unit air conditioner and flipped wildly back and forth between hating him and hating myself, murderous rage and spontaneous crying jags, fantasies in which his head exploded a la Scanners and tender reconciliation scenes that featured me in a trashy white bridal bikini.

It's Called a Breakup Because it's Broken brings the added component of Berendt's wife, Amiira Ruotola-Behrendt, to the wisdom offered up in He's Just Not That Into You, which is the guide to figuring out what's really going on with all that non-sex. (Namely, break up. Or, more commonly, wait for him to break up with you, which leads to that kind of horrible soul-crushing life-wrecking freshly-dumped angst most of us are relatively familiar with.) (I was proud not to have figured out the He's Just Not That Into You part on my own over the course of a year.) Anyway, the basic premise of this book is that the Behrendts were able to fall in love and build a happy relationship purely because both parties lived through a lot of bullshit before they met each other, namely of the breakup variety. Their co-authorship serves as sort of a built-in source of hope to people who are presumably reading the book because they have just had their heart masticated, digested, and flushed down someone else's toilet. They are, thankfully, not particularly obnoxious about this, choosing instead to stick to practical coping methods that you can use to put your breakup in the past and get on with your life.

Part 1: The Breakup

The first thing I couldn't figure out about my breakup was why it hurt so much. I mean, it had been a bad time for which I had for whatever reason repeatedly shown up of my own volition. I should have known better than to get involved in the first place, I knew the whole time nothing good would come of it, and it seemed to me that ending it would be a relief, like walking away from a car crash with only a few scrapes. And sometimes it did feel like that. But more often, it was the usual, "Whyyyy don't youuuu LOVE meee?" shit. Which would in turn make me really angry with myself, like I was so dumb that I had deserved the whole thing. The first section of this book does a good job of talking you down from taking full responsibility for anything other than making sure the broken relationship stays over and consequently taking care of yourself. They're always asking you what you'd want with a broken relationship. Which is the kind of simple logic I needed after spending the past year twisted into a veritable pretzel of denial and convoluted thinking. Then, just to make sure, after asking, the book repeatedly tells you that you don't want a broken relationship so many times that by the second section, it starts to stick.

Part 2: The "Breakover"
Commandment 1 — Don't See Him or Talk to Him for Sixty Days: Actually, it is that simple, it's just not that easy. If you were quitting smoking, you wouldn't buy cigarettes, hang out with people who smoked cigarettes, go to places where people were smoking cigarettes, or get drunk and call cigarettes at 4 A.M. begging them to come over for one last smoke.

I was all set to argue with this like, "this is exactly what I would do if I were quitting smoking!" Then I remembered that I was still a smoker! They, um, refer to this as "he-tox." I picked up a few phone calls I shouldn't have during this period of time, but for the most part, I stayed away. The thing about my ex was that he was super-charming and looked like an underwear model. I did not stand a chance in the same room as him and I knew it; hence the entire non-relationship. I stayed away like my life depended on it, which, looking back, it kind of did. Not that he was ever abusive or dangerous. It had more to do with the kind of life I wanted to live, a life in which my boyfriend would publicly admit he was my boyfriend and hang out with me during daylight hours. Bare minimum.

Commandment 2 — Get Yourself A Breakup Buddy 'But he was my best friend.' So was that girl who smelled like egg salad in the third grade, but you don't still need her around, do you?

The breakup buddy is like the Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor of broken hearts, dedicated to raising your morale and being on call for commiseration, all the while keeping you committed to your sixty day he-tox. Personally, I was so embarrassed by the fact that I'd allowed myself to be in a relationship so royally screwed up that my non-boyfriend habitually disappeared when the sun came up that I didn't really want to talk about it anymore by the time the breakup happened. A big part of making the break, for me, was to finally admit that the relationship had even happened, since he'd been extremely adamant about keeping it hidden at work. I cried on my friend Tiffany, a fellow stripper who knew him, a few times, and that was pretty much that.

Commandment 3 — Get Rid of His Stuff and the Things That Remind You of Him Be strict about it, but reasonable as well. Let's not pack up all the glasses because he loved orange juice, but the framed pictures of the two of you, his toothbrush and toiletries, and his CDs have to go.

The Behrendts also recommend recruiting your breakup buddy to deliver your stuff back to your ex so that you don't have to break your he-tox period and risk backsliding by doing it yourself. This was probably the most effective chapter for me, because it required absolutely no hard labor: I didn't have any of his stuff. Even after a year. This spoke volumes I was finally ready to listen to.

Commandment 4 — Get Your Ass in Motion Every Day Besides, you've got to have a life, because when you do meet the next guy and he asks you what you're into, you don't want to say, 'My ex-boyfriend.'

That is some real talk. The book predictably advocates exercise as a good way to fill your newly empty days, but it takes into account the fact that when you're truly devastated, getting out of bed counts as an achievement. Then it discusses hobbies, as well as making a list of all the things you didn't do because you were with whoever and doing them all by yourself. When I was ready to get off the couch, I walked into another, better strip club and got another job. It was so easy I suddenly understood why he'd been so clingy even while totally unwilling to behave the way a real boyfriend should: he'd known that this day would come. He'd been wondering what was taking me so long. And the bonus of working at a club that he did not also work at was turned out to be that he wasn't there to distract me. I rearranged my whole work strategy and finally started making the kind of money they tell you strippers make.

Commandment 5—Don't Wear Your Breakup Out Into the World Indulging in messy public breakup behavior only makes those around you uncomfortable and makes you seem unstable. So keep it to yourself and your dearest friends after business hours, and make a pact with yourself to try to live the vision of what you want your life to look like. Every time you step outside, you should make an effort to reflect the person you are on your way to becoming, not the shell of the shattered woman he dumped. Turn that husk into a tamale!

Tamale status begins with dressing cute at all times and refraining from crying at work. Earlier in the book, they reference the Lili Taylor character from Say Anything, the one accompanying herself on guitar to a song called "Joe Lies" in the middle of a party. And here is the thing about that character: what is awesome and hilarious at a party in a a romantic comedy is pathetic and uncomfortable at an actual party, for everyone, except at the time perhaps the one too grief-stricken and wounded to care much about superficial shit like "pride" and "dignity" in the moment, but oh my god that will change. The book recommends that you abstain from this kind of behavior, and I was good at this. Few people who knew both of us even really knew we were dating, and would have been surprised at the level of involvement and how hard I was taking it if they did know. I kept doing like I'd been doing and eventually started believing that it hadn't been such a big deal. In a lot of ways, it began to seem mutually convenient that we hadn't had a "real" relationship. I realized this a few months later when I attempted to be a breakup buddy to Moe and had the distinct pleasure of watching her send a text to her ex that read "I want to shit in your eye." I laughed hysterically. I probably wasn't cut out to be a breakup buddy.

Commandment 6 — No Backsliding! Once you give in to it, you find yourself caught in the worst kind of relationship purgatory—the demotion—because you are in effect telling your ex that he can still have access to you WITHOUT the emotional responsibilities. Backsliding doesn't mean you're getting back together, it just means you've lowered your standards and accepted a demotion from ex-girlfriend with self-esteem to ex-girlfriend whom he can still get busy with if he wants to.

Ouch. The fact that my entire non-relationship was a demotion out of the gate was ample reason for me to avoid backsliding. That didn't mean I didn't want to hear his voice or turn the lights on to inspect his perfect hip ridges up close one more time. But I didn't. Okay, I did, but years later, and when I was totally over him. They really are perfect! But by then, I felt like Jennifer Connelly at the end of Labyrinth, surprising herself by realizing that it's actually true when she says to David Bowie, "you have no power over me." This day will come. You know it will come. So think of it this way; the faster you stop having unsatisfying, emotionally fraught post-breakup sex with your ex, the quicker you'll be able to have hot unattached meaningless sex with him!

Commandment 7 — It Won't Work Unless You Are Number One! You are the prize, the sun, the moon, and the stars. Not him or anyone else. You can love your friends, you can love your family, and you can love every stray dog or stray drummer that crosses your path. HOWEVER, you have to learn how to love yourself, like yourself, and put yourself first before you will ever find the healthy, loving, and lasting relationship you're looking for.

Yeah, this is the hard one. Do I love myself yet? I'm getting closer all the time! I haven't begged anyone to use me as a convenient repository for all of their bullshit quite as flagrantly as I did while dating the DJ, and my boyfriends have become increasingly realer and realer as time has passed, with none of them counting as completely brutally gnarly Bad Ideas. I'd call it progress. While I have not yet found the healthy, loving, and lasting relationship I'd like to have yet, it is also true that I've gotten infinitely better at coping with the resultant breakups and in the process, wasted a lot less of my own time. I'm still not sure that rules are necessarily as ruthlessly applicable to the human heart in the way that the Behrendts suggest they might be, but I do have faith that I will now be able to recognize which rules are made to be broken in a way that I didn't before.

It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken [Amazon]

In Cohen's latest recital, he responds to those surly detractors (i.e., me) who have accused him of cutting out heart-shaped valentines to John McCain and pasting them in his locker. Coyly he begins:

In politics, we're having a Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr kind of year. It was Karr, a French writer, who coined the phrase plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose, which means, as Barack Obama has shown, that the more things change, the more they stay the same. N'est-ce pas?

Oui...
My own French is rusty, so I'm not sure what the proper French equivalent for "fucking embarrassing" is, so forgive me, but really—The Washington Post is not only the most powerful paper in the nation's capital but enjoys an international reputation, and here's one of their premiere columnists blithering away like Mayberry's Howard Sprague with a carnation in his lapel. It's amazing he didn't stick an "ooh la la" in there somewhere.

And if that doesn't rekindle your man crush on Wolcott you can go read the whole post and revel in anticipation of his rebuttal to Tony fucking Blair.

McCain's Core Advantage [Washington Post]
Hick Hack Ho [Vanity Fair]

I was naive and I was romantic…and I think those are good things, to be naive and romantic and still believe in…love or something.

Yeah, of course, fuck that. I can't hang out with those people. Amusingly, one apparently will only submit to an interview if he digitally alters her voice, and then it turns out he has impotence problems, etc. etc. Here is the trailer.

A Complete History Of My Sexual Failures [Official Movie Site]
Sundance Review: A Complete History Of My Sexual Failures [Variety]

Men always form crushes on other men who are like, the exact opposite of them. (If they're sufficiently alike and the feelings are mutual, they immediately enter into that sort of buddy matrimony wherein the "old married couple" quality of the union obscures the newness of the bond, since dudes sort of instinctively hate the idea of making new friends.) (Like have you ever noticed that, even if two dude friends met last year, they will talk about high school and old hardcore shows as if they attended them together?) Anyway, whereas girls — is this egotistical of us? — tend for form crushes on girls whose, you know, outfits and pop cultural touchstones and pastimes mirror our own, dudes only seem to form man crushes on the sorts of men — torture victims, ladykillers, capitalists, foreigners — who represent a mysterious Other Path, so any girls present are subjected to first watching a dude totally question every facet of his identity, then possibly undergo a mini existential crisis under the influence of infatuation, then gradually become disenchanted as breaks free of both states until he finally grasps that this whole thing has publicly sunk him to the depths of indignity because it turns out his Crush is actually, like, George W. Bush. And that any man who crushes on George W. Bush must hate himself. Yeah, so I guess it's sort of like what happens to us. Anyway.

Does The Media Have A Man Crush On John McCain [Vanity Fair]

1. Some women like bald dudes. Some women like any imperfections in the dudes they are dating, as imperfections are humanizing, and women like to relate to men as humans, even though men persist in fooling themselves into thinking women are mystical creatures that they have to "seduce" with an arsenal of rhetorical and sensual skills.

2. Bald dudes are worse about this. I don't know why. The comforting thing about a bald dude is that baldness is one of the few biological justifications we have for having to be "the pretty sex." I mean, we're the ones who bleed and bear children and get cellulite, but at least we don't go bald, so baldness at least does its part to counteract the paradoxical injustices of gender roles.

3. According to some study, women perceive balding men to be more mature. And statesmanlike, and less given to typical juvenile male behavior. This is a total load of crap.

4. I once went on a plastic surgery junket and saw video footage of numerous hair transplant surgeries. Oh my god was it gross. And seriously, you get, like, thousands of stitches. And it looks better than plugs…but. It's also thousands of dollars. I'd say it could be a good thing for the dude population to reach plastic surging expenditure parity with women, but…No. It would not.

5. Shaving the head. Worked for Harry Goldblatt, and most black men. I don't endorse, in part because I kind of think any dude who shaves that often would expect me to shave more often, but you can discuss amongst yourselves.

6. Propecia isn't covered by insurance. As Jeff notes. But Proscar is. And it's the same thing! Just manufactured in bigger doses for enlarged prostates. Which you'll have eventually anyway, right?

1. This is a rather productive way to employ one's biological date rapey tendencies. Might evolutionary biologists learn something about the intersection of masculinity and capitalism from the case of Henry T. Nicholas? Oh probably, but more importantly
2. Dude, 1999: so much money, so many drugs, such terrible dressers. Parachute pants and Prada mini backpacks actually put shoulder pads and perms to shame. Does prosperity just naturally beget awful fashion trends?
3. What is it about geeky billionaires? Why is it always the finance billionaires that turn pervs with underage sex dungeons, while the geeks start underground sales dungeons? You would think that the demographics of the tech world vs. the finance world would make the tech guys more desperate and therefore likely to date rape. But the opposite is true! Is this just another chapter in my "New York Is A Warped And Poisonous Place That Kills All Love" manifesto? Probably!

4. Oh, but he had a thing for hookers. Naturally. Well, who doesn't I guess.

New Sales Tactic: Drugging Customers? [WSJ]
Broadcom Exec Accused Of Spiking Tech CEOs' Drinks; Has More Blow Than Scarface [Gizmodo]
Former Chief Of Broadcom Is Indicte
Drugs Grab Spotlight In Broadcom Case [WSJ]
Sex, Drugs and Microchips: Highlights From Broadcom Complaint [WSJ]

But most importantly, how low do housing prices have to sink before these guys start mixing with, god forbid, female lawyers? And who will they hit up if it truly is the next Depression? Teach for America? God I love this country.

Fashion Meets Finance

Freedom makes you long for fried potatoes, some of which he'll bring you from the MP canteen if you let him win a few rhetorical rounds. "Philosophically, I suppose I am also seeking love," you allow. But that soon becomes irksome. You remind him that he would, were his society less inculcated in materialism, probably take eternal life with 69 virgins or whatever the stupid legend has it. No, he knows he knows nothing of the pain suffered by your people at the hands of his, their tragic marginalization and disenfranchisement at the hands of Dudes like himself, just as you know that, in his position, you would probably be a little rougher about flouting those Geneva Conventions. He used to dream of "cracking" a high-level suspect like yourself; but "cracking" is probably apocryphal; no one in this wing of the prison has ever seen it happen and now everyone's curiosity has receded into a quiet unacknowledged acceptance of the fact that everyone there is seeking the same thing: Death.

(With virgins.)

Alleged 9/11 Mastermind Due In Court [Washington Post]

So here is my question: I was a dork in high school. And sure, that probably helped make me a slut, but never the sort of boy crazy sociopath you'd expect, given my degree of social alienation. Why is Being A Nerd In High School so much more damaging to dudes than girls? Is it just that even nerdy girls get hollered at on the street?

Instant Message, Instant Girlfriend [NYT]

Then, they'll meet one of these thirtysomething guys at work — not one of the real good ones, just one of those single thirtysomething guys who "relates" better to younger dudes and enjoys deluding himself into thinking he's somebody's mentor. Well, that guy doesn't have any money either. But he totally has chicks! What's his secret? Chivalry. It's fun, free, it gets you laid and as a bonus, totally makes dudes feel superior to one another. Just ask Tracie! (She's dating a 22-year-old.)

Disrespect Is The New Chivalry [NPR]

Jenna, 29, met Theo, 31, at a convention. They got drunk, and had sex. And he cried — well, sobbed, if you want to get technical. Because it was "so beautiful." Was it possible she'd actually found someone who liked her TOO much? Not wanting to fall prey to the whole "falling for assholes" scam, she dutifully had sex with him again. And again he cried! And in an unusual bid to exert hegemony over her RAM, proceeded to commence a rigorous regimen of contacting her simultaneously via as many distinct modes of communication possible. She knew it was over the day he conveyed his fondness via text message, personal email, work email, instant message, Facebook wall post, Flickr comment and phone call within five short hours. She told him it was over the day he sent more than twenty text messages. And he cried — and began communicating her via mail. He sent a basket of blueberry jams and concert tickets to her work. Then he sent PHOTOS OF HER APARTMENT to her house. As you can imagine, Jenna has quite the crap arsenal, but these two specimens — sent within a day of one another after she did not reply — give you an idea. Is it commentary on my deficient movie knowledge or media misogyny that I can't think of a male pop cultural figure whose image does justice to this guy?

You had me over to your house once. Yes, I remembered your address. I don't see that as unusual. Didn't mean to freak you out. I was just trying to be friendly without being smothering

We may not have known each other over a long time period, but that doesn't mean we didn't get to know each other. I was very open and honest with you and really opened up my soul to you. Every time you reached out to me I thought we were really understanding each other. We have an amazing chemistry and connection and I don't understand why you are willing to just turn your back on this.

I just thought I was keeping the line of communication open in a relatively nice way. I guess sending you the tickets was too much. You know I'm a nice and generous person…but I guess finding that in someone it's odd to you. Sorry for trying to treat you well.

I really like you. I was looking forward to hanging out again some day down the road. I really felt a connection to you as I thought you also felt to me. This is really hurting me.

Best of luck to you. Honestly. I know you're going to do something amazing in this world. I look forward to reading about it.

And then, the post script.

The part that hurts the most is that you are treating me like some guy you don't know. I sent you those tickets as a nice gesture. I bought them because you were excited to see Matt. When I couldn't use them, you were the first person I thought of. I knew if I just offered them to you that you would most likely decline out of some inability to take a gift from me. I figured I would just send them to you, and once you had them, you would be pleasantly surprised and it would be too much of a hassle to give them back to me.

Instead, you take it as some weird stalker thing that I remember your address. "unsolicited mail" Really!!! That's what it is? I understand that I'm going through some emotional turmoil in my life and that I need to work on that stuff. I understand that it might be a little heavy for you to deal with. So I stopped laying that on you. I stopped chatting with you. Then I came across some random links that I thought you would be interested in and I sent them to you. I thought you would find my text messaging story kinda funny. But I thought all this under the idea that you still knew me. I don't understand how you can tell me that I'm a great guy, that you really like me…but then because I sent you some tickets for a show that I knew you were interested in…I become some freak. Some weirdo that is sending you unsolicited mail.

Why couldn't I be that thoughtful guy that wanted you to enjoy the show? Why couldn't I be that great guy you know and you hope he's doing okay?

I just don't get how we could have such great chemistry and have such a connection and then out of the blue, you don't know who I am, and you're freaked out about me.

At what point did you stop knowing who I am? Give me the benefit of the doubt and for one second remember that I was that nice guy that hung around your apartment while your friend was yelling at you. I was that guy that sat in the stairwell and held you and talked to you. I was that guy that you felt a really amazing connection to. I get that our timing was off and that I need to figure out my own shit…but please don't act like you don't know who I am. It just hurts so much.

Sometimes the dream would be of losing her, or of desperate searches unfulfilled. The breakup argument in the spotless white penthouse apartment. Recriminations, tears. Running down rain-slicked city streets, locked doors, impassive doormen, and always that perfect angelic face; leaving with someone else, or seen in a blank stare through a limousine window .Even the specter of losing Natalie Portman was better than that; even the memory of imaginary heartache is preferable to the slow feeling of turning into a vampire. Perhaps it is the curse of all men; the sad final truth that the male half of the human race might only confide in one another over a few too many beers: you only truly love a woman when she walks out the door.

He is back now. He has a wife and dog. But the extremeness of the putridness of his actual reality empowers ever-grander and more glamorous wishful delusions? Sounds about right. At home with his Xbox, he's either happy or miserable in the realization that he will "never dance the lambada with Natalie Portman" although maybe she'll read his column in the Times and forgive him the whole "lambada" thing because at least he's being honest that he'd probably fuck it up with them anyway, even if he can't yet admit exactly why.

May I Have This Dance? [NY Times]
Related: A Quilt Of Lost Memories [Newsweek]

The couple also admit to a hands-on physical relationship that they describe as intense but chaste. Mr. Roach compares it to the relationship his mother had with her doctor when she was dying of breast cancer. "The surgeon lay his hand on her breast, but there wasn't any carnal thought in his mind," he said. "He was doing some life-or-death thing. For us it is the same."

"He is a good guy and learned person, but the Bill Clinton question lingers over him," [prominent American Buddhist Lamya Surta Das] said of Mr. Roach. "He is with a much younger blond bombshell. What is a deep relationship that is not sexual? It is hard to understand."

Buddhist Teachers Make Their Own Limits In A Spiritual Partnership [NY Times]

So. Fresh cut, huh? Heh, heh. Would you believe that compared to the rest, this page is tame?

"Good looks you can't help but notice. Ergonomically designed to make the most of what you've got," reads the copy for these styles. The enhancement bikini is good for "creating a noticeable bulge — even through jeans." Blushing yet? I know, I know. This underwear reveals everything. You can practically see their zodiac signs.

Oh, snap! Snaps are awesome! How come all underwear doesn't come with snaps, huh? Can't think of a snappy retort? Anyway: I dare you to imagine every man you see today is wearing one of these items under his clothes. This includes the dudes you work with and people on TV. (Barack Obama? Larry King?)

The web brief (H)is horrifying. Nightmare-inducing, even. But the ring thong is fun, because it kind of looks like the face of a baboon!

Someone got the memo about looking for a few good men.

What's worse? The padded butt briefs, the scoopneck tee, the blue underwear or that guy's haircut? Seriously. I can't decide.

"Dude, those lace-up briefs are hot, but they could be hotter." "Ya think? "Yeah. You need a puka shell necklace. Here." "Thanks." "Score!"

Eenie meenie miney moe, let's say you go to the beach with someone you know: Which of these swimsuits would you rather he wear? If you had to pick one... and your guy's not allowed to wax "down there."

Earlier: Searching For The Worst Outfit In 'International Male'
8 Products From SkyMall You Can Use To Kill Someone

This was, obviously, a response to his accusation that I seemed "smitten" and wanted a relationship with him, and my assurances that I did not, I just liked making out, and if he didn't believe me he only needed to wait until my workload picked up and I made myself scarce, which is exactly what happened, and, you know, whatever. But I didn't remember how I had become so patient or resigned or how I'd come to enjoy the "Zenlike form of nonattachment" author Marguerite Fields is struggling to perfect because it happened such a goddamn long time ago. And that was depressing; Fuck I am old. (Also depressing: I held my first newspaper job the summer Israel turned fifty.)

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my little sister Christina, who is a year ahead of Marguerite in college, did not find this week's 'Modern Love' as depressing as I did. (Christina is different from me in that she does things like getting her eyebrows waxed and going to therapy.) And she penned some words of advice for people who did find the column depressing — and aren't too old to change their habits — which I will excerpt here.)

I'm Moe's sister who is about to graduate from college. Moe asked me to comment upon this week's Modern Love column, a piece much more enjoyable and insightful to read than I had expected since Moe usually makes such relentless fun of the Modern Love feature I stopped reading it.

Anyway, as someone who has her fair share of one-night stands and fleeting trainstop encounters, yet is decidedly over my relationship angst, if largely due to the absence of any relationships and the discovery of internet porn.... I would like to give some advice to Marguerite Fields and other women like her. Oh hell we're all like her.

1) Trust your instincts. This is the only thing I learned in therapy. Women have great instincts (the women's intuition!) but we never listen to them. Marguerite Fields, at the end of another unceremonious dumping, writes "[I] tried to remind myself that when we first met I thought he was an arrogant, presumptuous little man." She got bad vibes from the start, and yet Marguerite, a talented and sensitive author who should have known better, proceeded to form a relationship with this man. Why? Because of a little thing I like to term "The Mister Darcy Delusion." I am sure some feminist theorist before me has already coined this term, and if so I apologize, but it's ridiculous that this is your job. The Mister Darcy Delusion is the notion, popularized by the early 19th century author Jane Austen, that the smug asshole who calls you fat at the party is really just a misunderstood studmuffin held in by early 19th century social conventions who will turn into Colin Firth if you give him a chance. Well chicas, Jane Austen died a spinster (thank you, Anne Hathaway) and it's the 21st century, and if he looks like a prick and he talks like a prick and he walks like a prick, well, chances are you've had sex with him.

2) Read "The Rules." It's a stupid book, yes, but it's a reminder that you can take control of your relationships at least partially by a) getting a life b) taking a shower and c) not calling back immediately after he calls and going all crazy on his ass.

3) Only go out for guys that you think are hot. Most women tend to chase after guys that they think are physically unattractive under them is guided assumption that said guy will be so grateful to have scored a Hot Chick that he will be true forever. THIS NEVER HAPPENS. Ugly guys always get laid more, and they are often the biggest assholes about it because they are so insecure that girls keep hooking up with them out of pity. This is a time when our human evolution truly runs counter to our own efficient natural instincts. Ladies, right this wronged system and only chase after guys that you think are LEGIT cute so you don't have to lie to your friends and be like "But he has a really great personality," when what you mean is "It's weird how he makes me feel so terrible about myself when he's the ugly one."

It's been reported time and time again that men are less likely to go to the doctor. Unless they're seriously injured and need stitches, lots of men never deal with health issues. Personally, I've known guys who were clearly depressed and did nothing about it. Friends and boyfriends who had all the symptoms but — as is often the case with men — didn't feel as though they "needed" to see a doctor. That somehow they would "snap out of it." Pair this up with the fact that some dudes love using the word "drama" anytime a woman exhibits emotion, and you've got a recipe for an aversion to dealing with feelings. This might be anecdotal, but surely the National Alliance on Mental Illness gets its statistics from people who actually see a mental health professional? If some dude is walking around depressed but undiagnosed, does he count?

Women depressed at twice the rate of men [UPI]
Women and Depression [NAMI]
Earlier: Boys Who Use The Word Drama: An Investigation
In Defense of Depression
In Post-Industrial Society, Women Are Either "Princess Crazy" Or Her Handmaidens
Related: When booking a doctor's visit, gender plays a role [MSNBC]

Chop vegetables like Penelope Cruz in Volver.
Onions, peppers, garlic cloves and olive oil: are there truer friends in times of economic woe? (Besides Top Ramen duh.) Is there any other aspect of women's work so fundamental to the survival of the species? I dunno, I'm just making excuses, I just think it's sexy.

Choose a perfume.
Floral scents, what can I say: I hate them. Yes, toilet water is an overpriced luxury good, but considering all the cash we blow on overpriced luxury goods dedicated to appealing to one's sense of sight and touch, you'd think we wouldn't be so thoughtless when it comes to the ritual of coughing up a hundred bucks to have that whole other sense covered for the next half year. So go: I may never encourage you to spend money again; spend some quality time at Sephora and come out smelling like something more interesting than a boutique hotel.

Tell the truth.
I can't make it tonight. I have a date. I'm interested in your ex-boyfriend. When you cheated on your husband it really disturbed me. You should maybe look into taking responsibility for your actions. "I would like to put a hit out on your therapist." I know, it's not easy. But isn't that kind of sad?

Withhold information.
Gossip is analogous to bacteria; humankind could not survive without it, but it can be deleterious in an unhealthy context. Get into the habit of withholding a certain amount of pointless amusing information just to keep your immune system in shape.

Take nothing personally.
He didn't do it to hurt you, and if he did, that's fucking weird. Humans are self-obsessed, that's the only reason you think this is about you, when it's really about something that has left people much smarter than us befuddled for millennia now, so you might as well focus on what you can control, which leads me to...

Take yourself personally.
Your persistent low self-esteem: how did it get that way? Were you awkward growing up? Not quick or witty enough? Just ugly? Once you gained a shred of confidence, did you blow your wad seeking out companions you knew would make you feel inadequate? Why? Think you're a narcissist? Or just a weak person? Guess what? We're all different. We're all completely individual assemblages of genetic traits and collected experiences. We're all special, which is precisely what makes us so un-special. If you harbor lingering dissatisfaction with yourself, figuring out what it is is a pretty good way to start coming to terms with that.

Apply makeup without a mirror.
You do this every day, right? Have a little faith in your abilities. Be that girl who is capable of leaving the house on three minutes' notice.

Assemble furniture.
Ikea would not sell $20 billion worth of furniture every year if putting it together was really that hard. It's a pain in the ass, sure. Your ancestors got their water from wells.

Get off.
It has never been easier. There are vibrators at CVS. Porn is an ill-advised Google Image Search away. And really, we all need sex. If you masturbate enough, you'll only seek out casual sex for self-affirmation. And knowing you are doing that will make it a lot easier to handle rejection!

Get hit on politely.
Go ahead and smile, make eye contact; he's probably not trying to rape you. The sexual charge will defuse over time and in the interim you can maybe make a friend. Dudes bear an unfair percentage of the responsibility for flirting in this society, just as we bear an unfair percentage of the responsibility for looking pretty. Let's be sympathetic to one another, how about?

Cry.
There's an unlimited number of reasons you should. To do anything about any of that you have to stop crying eventually. You'll know when.

On second thought, laugh!
God, don't we feel lame after all that crying? So lame we actually laughed at that Dane Cook bit on the lameness of crying. Anything will make you laugh when you've finally gotten sick of crying, but hey, that's cool, dudes love it when you laugh at your jokes and that heady mix of "no pride" and "no standards" is the essence of funny jokes and good drunken one-night stands. Try to laugh as much as possible.

Know when you truly cannot do something.
And fuck no I am not talking about living heavy objects or figuring out how to use Excel. I'm talking about making as much money as your sorority friends, or having a child by 35, or marrying your boyfriend, or being anything better than mediocre at something you think is important.

Taxes.
I know, I know; I don't do them either. But someday we should all learn for ourselves how to abuse the loopholes in the tax code, right? It's our patriotic duty.

Talk about astrology.
Geminis and Libras get along; Virgos are neurotic; stay away from Scorpio men. It's what passes for Universal Truths these days, and you know what? It's not starting any wars. Maybe because astrology understands that people are fundamentally different, and in order to coexist with them peacefully you've got to not only try to apply the Golden Rule but try to figure out what motivates them, and how they would like to be treated.

Know why talking about astrology is bullshit.
Duh.

Eat.
Praying and loving are good skills to have, too, but if you can't nourish yourself without experiencing a complex range of guilts and fears and an