Why I Blog

I'm always grateful to get letters from readers.

The idea that people are actually sitting down and taking time out of their day to type out a well though out email is extremely flattering. I'm always shocked when I see a new email pop up in the ol' So@24 mailbox.

Most of the emails I receive are people asking me for advice. 99.9% come from the female community and they will tell me about a current dilemma they are having with a guy and ask me to weigh in with my opinion. I'm always happy to analyze the situation and share my two cents, but I can't help but chuckle to myself that these girls are trusting me with their romance dilemmas.

I'm tempted to respond with, "Have you READ my blog? Am I the person you really want to be going to for relationship advice??

I digress. I actually wanted to talk about an email that arrived in my mailbox yesterday that caused me to do a double take.

I've mentioned this before, but I believe it deserves repeating. When I originally started this blog, I actually intended it to be a tool for men to use that have just recently gotten out of a long term relationship. Not only did I want to keep a personal record of the steps I took and the experiences I went through to go from 6 year relationship to single to a successful relationship; I wanted other guys to see that it was possible too.

I received the following email from a guy named Justin. I wanted to share it with my readers and to say, "thank you".

Thanks for reminding me why I blog.

Best,
So@24

* * *

Hey So@24,

I am sure this isn't the first thank you note you have received, but I just wanted to thank you for sharing your journey in recovering from a long term relationship. I have been reading your "mini stories" for couple hours now (while I should be studying for midterms) and words can't describe how your blog has touched me.


It has been 9 months since my first girlfriend broke up with me, although I am getting stronger everyday, from time to time I will stumble and think about her and all the memories we hold. I know I am not fully moved on but like you have heard many times, time heals all wounds.


In your passages I really felt like I was in your position numerous amounts of time, like I was actually in your shoes. I guess in some ways I am. But your blog has showed me something that none of my friends or family were able to do, which is the light at the end of the tunnel. Its funny how you are just one person in the world with a simple little blog yet you don't know what you have done for many people in this similar situation.


You have sparked my interest to start my own blog, something that will get my emotions out and hopefully help me reach the end of the tunnel.


I want to keep this short, but thanks for sharing this part of your life, you have no idea how much your stories have helped me take another step to healing from my break up and I am sure there are many other individuals that have benefited from your blog as well.


Justin

The Sun'll Come Out...

So@24: I really hope I get to feel a boob again. Think it'll ever happen?
Leo: You will. Just chill and the boob will come to you.
So@24: And when that day happens...

Butterflies & Zombies

Via text messaging, Brandi invited me out to her birthday party on Saturday evening.

"We totally need to do a joint birthday!"

I was, at first, a little hesitant to respond positively. My first meeting with Brandi was an absolute shit show. And by meeting, I mean Brandi. In fact, I bet Brandi doesn't even remember meeting me.

However, I always like to give people second chances.

That and I have been in desperate need of a social life since Leo's departure. Hurry the fuck up, Leo.

I agreed to join Brandi at her favorite haunt; yep, you would have answered correctly if you guessed Hollywood's own Happy Ending.

I whispered a silent prayer to myself as I walked into the bar. "Please don't be blacked out. Please don't be blacked out. Please don't be blacked out."

As I opened the doors, the sweet, sweet melody of Jermaine Stewart's classic "We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off" flooded my ears. "Well," I thought, "a bar that plays my theme song can't be that bad!"

My optimism quickly faded as Brandi bounced over to me, lifted me up and spun me around. She was blacked out.

Brandi grabbed my hand and led me to the bar.

Brandi: We're both turning 21 tonight tonight, So! That means 21 drinks for you and me!
So@24: Dude, I have to drive at some point.
Brandi: Well how about a birthday drink then?

I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, but the bartender happened to be listening to our conversation, e.g. Brandi's slurring, and stopped me.

Bartender: I can't serve her. If you want a drink, that's fine. But she's cut off.

It was 9:30pm.

I don't mind when people over drink while celebrating. Hell, I've been known to do it myself numerous times. The problem is, if the person blacking out is a complete social butterfly in the worst sense possible. I didn't know anyone else at the bar, but Brandi was all over the place. I maybe spoke to her for a combined total of 5 mins the entire evening.

I was awkwardly left alone on the sidelines scratching the back of my head while Brandi hugged and chatted up complete strangers; anybody that walked within her sight. What a fucking night.

The rest of the evening only got worse. I have to admit that plenty of Hollywood eye candy shows up to bars like Happy Ending, but the scenes that play out are depressing as all hell.

The tipping point came when I saw a girl, could have been straight from the pages of a Playboy magazine, "dancing" with two guys at rubbing up on her shit at each side. I put dancing in quotes because it was more like unenthusiastic swaying. While each guy, who definitely were not guys she came in with, were trying their darndest to mark their territory. Each one of their faces were like fucking zombies: dead, starring straight ahead. Like they were just forced to go along with it. Fuck it was sad.

Maybe it was the shittiness of the evening. Maybe it was the single shot of Jack Daniels bubbling in my stomach. But suddenly, I felt this strange philanthropic urge. I was going to approach a girl who didn't fit this Hollywood bill and say something nice. Just to have something to show for this terrible evening.

I left Brandi with her new friends and didn't bother to say "goodbye" or wish her a happy birthday. She wouldn't have remembered anyway.

A girl sat by herself in a corner. I'll be honest, she was quite homely and certainly stuck out like a sore thumb in a place like Happy Ending. She looked like something that Hot Topic digest and puked up. She was clearly bored and kept scanning the room as if to spot a friend bringing her a drink. She wore a ratted hoodie with a patch of GIR on the back, a cartoon character from a cult hit cartoon that most people didn't even know existed.

So@24: Hey there.
Hot Topic Girl: Hi.
So@24: That patch of GIR you have is awesome. Invader Zim was a great show huh?
Hot Topic Girl: Uh. Yeah.
So@24: ...
Hot Topic Girl: ...
So@24: Well then, have a great night?




Swing and a miss.

Starting Over at 26: A Retrospective

I sit here at my computer. 30 mins away from turning 26. The beer cans are piling up as I've been staring at a blinking cursor for the last 45 mins trying to think of a way to write a birthday post.

I pulled up my birthday post from last year and thought I should comment on how things have changed since then.

Let's go through them together (at least the relevant ones)!

It's official. The last time my genitalia has made contact with another genitalia was when I was 23.

Mother fucker. Unfortunately this one is still true. So very, very true.

I really don't want to dwell on this one too much before I have to drag myself into the corner and weep in the fetal position.

And I swear, if one more person says, "But you live in LA!" I may have to punt a kitten.

Never met up with Beth.

Fuckadoodledoo. I haven't thought about my old friend Beth in a very long time. But it was about this time last year when I was to book an impromptu flight up to Portland to figure out what the hell was going on between us.

And then in one enormous, guns-blazin', no-holds-barred evening our friendship was over. One of my closest friends in college, gone in a flash.

Now, it takes something massive like a blog retrospective to think twice about her. Someone I was ridiculously close to dating a year ago is someone who I don't even know anymore.

Lynn emailed me on Sunday wishing me a happy birthday and wanting to meet up. She wants to come visit soon. Are you ready for that situation, Leo ol' buddy ol' pal?

It seems so bizarre to think that this only happened a year ago. In terms of my friendship with my ex girlfriend (the girl who essentially jump started this blog) has progressed so much in a year, for the better I should add.

Hanging out one-on-one for lunches, visiting her during the holidays, being notified that she's dating someone new and dusting it off like this guy.

My how I've grown.

* * *

Maybe it's the booze talking and I'm getting more contemplative than I normally would be, but does the title of my blog even make sense anymore? I mean, besides that I'm obviously not 24 anymore.

But what about starting over? Am I doing that still?

I guess so. There's still so many things I haven't experienced with someone new. Still haven't gone on a serious date yet. The road is long ahead, but there's some sunlight peeking over that hill, I think. Looking back from the events of the last year up until now, events in my life (strictly dating & romantically speaking) have changed dramatically.

And all for the better. Wouldn't you think?

* * *

Next weekend is when I am offically celebrating my escape from the womb. I am flying up to San Francisco to meet up with Leo. I have friends flying in from the East Coast, Portland, OR and Seattle, WA; an assault from all flanks. Who knows? I might even get Bree to join my band of rapscallion and me for drinks.

I expect all good things. And hopefully, some great blogging.

Who says nothing exciting happens in only a year?

Things I Spend Way Too Much Timing Pondering

I never understood how Dagwood scored a hottie like Blondie...









But it gives me hope.

Come on. Really?

Sparta.

Jack: I'm more or less that sidekick in the movie who fights off the bad guys long enough for the hero to storm the castle and then dies in a blaze of glory.
So@24: It feels good to be alive again. Jack: I'm going to ask that you take my cellphone when we get there.
So@24: Done.
Jack: Ahhhhh! -pounds chest- Okay, whew. Gotta calm down a little bit.
So@24: Haha! Why are YOU? I should be the one freaking out here.
Jack: Sure you should, but unlike you, my job is to talk to 8 people, girl people, I've never before without seeming awkward in such a way that casts you in positive light. It's like 300.
So@24: With great power comes great responsibility.
Jack: And arrows.
So@24: Well, yes. And arrows.

* * *

The term "wingman" comes with so many negative connotations. I'll even admit that the first thing that comes into my head is "douchebag". You think of popped collar guys scheming with his buddies, sitting down with a WWII-esque map trying to figure out what the best strategy is to get laid.

But there are instances when a friend takes a bullet for you. Not in the sense that he's going to sleep with the ugly friend a la' a "grenade jump" to help out a buddy (apparently this really happens, kind of sick, if you ask me). But in that he's going to put himself in a "not-so-ideal" situation without thinking twice about it.

This is what Jack did for me in Santa Barbara when I was to meet Bree for the first time.

Allow me to explain the difference between the socially accepted term of "wingman" and what a true friend is.

* * *

Let me bring you back to that evening.

I was asking my friend Jack to drive with me to Santa Barbara to meet up with a girl who I essentially met via the internet and her friends. This would be my first encounter.

I was asking a lot of Jack and he agreed to accompany me without hesitation. That's loyalty, my friends.

But let's fast forward to the latter part of the evening.

Jack had faked a phone call on his cell (it was nearing 3:00am at this point, perhaps Bree and I were both too drunk to call him out on this) and went back out into the shit weather alone.

Jack and I had never been to Santa Barbara before. Our knowledge of the surrounding area was subpar at best. Needless to say, Jack had a hellva time navigating his walking route from Bree's friend's house back to the dingy hotel. A Magellan, he is not.

He was without an umbrella and it was pouring sheets. And he was MC Hammered.

From what we've recollected of his journey, he stopped by a local 7-11 and picked up a microwavable DiGiorno's pizza. He continued his sprint to the hotel, but stopped at another one on the way.

He climbed a fence and stripped down to his jeans. Jack knew that he needed a quick remedy for his extreme drunkenness. The most logical answer at that time was to dive into the pool for a night (very early morning) swim. Jack was already drenched at this point and remembered that I had warned him of the reputation Santa Barbara police have for having low tolerance for this type of boozey shennanigans.

Jack bundled up his sopping wet clothes, tucked his frozen pizza under his arms and continued his jaunt back to the hotel.

Jack soon realized that the hotel I had booked for the evening did not come with a microwave. He ran back to the 7-11 to ask if they had one. They did not.

* * *

I awoke the next morning to a sickening gargling sound coming from the bathroom.

Yep. Jack was in the shower trying to make himself puke. A soggy pizza box sat on the table, ripped open from the middle.

Jack emerged from the bathroom looking like absolute hell. He was in no shape to operate heavy machinery. Jack bundled up his wet clothes into a trash bag and I pulled the car around.

He grabbed an extra bag and held it in his lap the entire ride home. I still had a giant grin plastered on my face as I cranked up the volume to the stereo when Jack released his stomach contents into his sad little trash bag. He barely spoke a word the entire ride back to Los Angeles.

When I dropped him off at his house, Jack took about 10 mins to release himself of the seatbelt and tumbled out of the passenger side.

He dragged himself to the porch and as I pulled away from the driveway, he had his bag full of puke and held a fist in the air as he called out to me,

"Spartaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

* * *

Take note, gentleman. I hate to use the word "wingman", but this is a true blue friend to let himself get absolutely destroyed for purely the sake of his friend meeting a girl. That's how it's supposed to be done.

Thanks, Jack.

The Next Line I'm Going to Use: Vol 2

Part 1...

I go up to a girl sipping on an appletini.

So@24: Do I need to go to the vet?

Appletini Girl: What?

So@24: Do. I. need. to. go. to. the. vet?

Appletini Girl: I--uh...

This is when I roll up my sleeves and flex my arms.

So@24: Because these puppies are SIIIIICK.


So@24 wins over Appletini Girl & her friends.

Held Hostage

The 'rents and Lil' Bro flew down to stay with me for a couple days to help me whip The Sexy Dojo into serious shape.

This mo fo will be the ultimate of bachelor pads, I shit you not.

I spent all Saturday (hung over as hell from the night before) tearing out the disgusting, red-wine 1970s carpeting and hauling it to the dumpster in preparations for the hardwood flooring. It's going to be real cherry. I gotta grow up and live in a big boy house.

The Lil' Bro needed to get away from things back at home. After the infamous lube incident, like most shitty couples, him and his girlfriend got back together. I don't know how many times they've done this tango, I can't keep up. The chalkboard tally of Get Back Togethers VS Break Up Agains is ridiculous. Oh. At this point, they broke up again. Okay, I'm caught up.

Although he voiced to me that he was a little depressed that "this might be it", Lil' Bro didn't really show any signs that he was upset. This isn't surprising, we're known to put up a tough front when we need to. We've been watching Groundhog Day, drinking beers and laughing it up.

Last night, I left to brush my teeth and Lil' Bro went into the bedroom to make a phone call. Mom was downstairs blowing up the air mattress.

Mid-brush, I heard my brother holler from the bedroom. His voice was quivery.

Uh oh.

Lil' Bro: Mom? Can you come up here?
Mama So: What is it?
Lil' Bro: Can you just come up here, please?

Toothbrush still in hand, I peeked out and looked into the bedroom down the hall. My 24 year old little brother was wailing into the shoulder of my mom.

Maybe the beers wasn't such a good idea. They obviously were the keys to opening the floodgates.

Believe it or not, I actually have a history of not being able to express my feelings vocally (typing it out for strangers on the internet? No problem). Although extremely upset during the initial period when my relationship with Lynn was over, I never once shed any tears. And my ex girlfriend can attest to this; I'm not the most comforting person when it comes to crying. I physically stiffen up, grit my teeth, and get weirded out.

But there are few things more upsetting to hear than a grown man bawl. So while my little brother broke down and sputtered out questions like, "How can someone just change their minds after all these years?" and "Why does it hurt so much, Mom?", I put the toilet seat down, sat, and kept brushing.

I couldn't go into the room, I felt too uncomfortable interrupting that scene. Soon there was no toothpaste left on my brush. I had to go into my room at some point, who knew how long this was going to last?

My brother sat on the floor, his eyes red and sniffling. A grown man brought down like that... fuck, that visual is heartbreaking. My mother standing in her pajamas, not sure how to answer his questions, letting him just vent it all out.

My mother, ever the blunt tomboy, turned to me and asked, "So, you went through this when Lynn dumped you, what did you do?"

Lil' Bro turned his eyes to me, looking for some kind of golden ticket out of this hell.

For the first time, I didn't have a response. I pulled my mental pockets inside out and two moths flew out. I clammed up and didn't know what to say.

So@24: You just... get over it. It just happens with time.

I fucking hated it when people said that to me when I was going through it. It's not an acceptable answer to the ears of someone who has just been told by the person they have been dating that "they aren't it" anymore.

But really, it's the truth. There is a reason why that cliche' is a cliche'.

Is there any acceptable response? I doubt it.

"Great shot, kid, that was one in a million!"

The hours fucking CRAWLED by at work on Friday.

I had gotten the green light from my bosses to leave early to meet up with Bree in Santa Barbara. Bags were packed. Until I received an email informing me that a last minute meeting was scheduled for 4:30.

I would have to wait. Some higher power was really making me work on that whole "patience" thing.

As soon as the meeting ended, I got in my car and picked up Jack from his house. Once we got out of the Los Angeles traffic and onto the open road, we cranked up Bad Religion's "Los Angeles is Burning"; a staple song of ours we rock out to when we anticipate good things from the evening.

We pulled into the beautiful, beach side town of Santa Barbara and tried to locate the hotel. Fortunately, Jack and I were arriving in town around the same time as Bree, but we weren't to meet up until 9:30. Jack and I had some time to kill.

We decided to walk to the local 7-11 to pick up a six pack, something to calm the nerves a bit before heading out to dinner.

I sat at the edge of the queen size bed with my feet dangling and Jack sat across from me. We had an hour. At one point, we both started cracking up; the realization just hit us:

It was a Friday night, we were sitting in a dingy hotel, in a town we've never been to, sipping on Coors Light while waiting to meet a girl who I met online through blogging.

My stomach was flip flopping when it was time to walk to the restaurant. Jack and I chugged the last of our six-pack, zipped up our jackets and headed out. The restaurant was on a pier and as we walked, Jack turned to me and asked:

Jack: What are the chances we end up in one of those docked boats by the end of the night?
So@24: I don't even want to think about it.

Meeting Bree for the first time, there was nothing really surprising or shocking. I had already been talking to her for a month and I knew what she looked like. Dinner with her and her friends felt comfortable; like these are the people I would have been friends with in college anyway. She was just as pretty as she was in pictures and funny as she was in our phone conversations.

The rest of the evening coasted smoothly for the most part. Jack and I followed Bree and her friends around to various bars in Santa Barbara. Pints were downed and shots were shot.

We were having a lot of fun, but understandably her attention was divided among many people. And Bree is not a flirty person. As the drinks piled up in my 5'3" frame, Mr. Alcohol was sloppily mashing his hands on the keyboard of my overly-analytical brain.

She never brushed a hand on my shoulder, she didn't stay particularly close to me when we walked from one bar to the next. These observations are poison to a drunk, self-admitted paranoid, bastard like myself.

I began to read into her actions (or inaction, I should say) more than I should have. The idea that perhaps this was the beginning of a friendship and not something else was starting to engulf me.
At a point in the evening, after we had just taken another round of shots, Jack pulled me aside.

Jack: You're shutting down, So. What's going on?

I zipped my jacket up all the way to the top; a bad habit that surfaces when I become extremely insecure.

So@24: I don't think she's into me. I just have that feeling.
Jack: Don't shut down. You hear me? The night is young. Do. Not. Shut. Down. On. Me.
So@24: You're right, I'm not going to let this ruin the night. We're still out having a good time.
Jack: You have a fighting chance, trust me. Come on, I'll get you a beer.

I tried to push my worries aside and enjoy the rest of the evening. Jack, Bree and I got separated from her friends at some point and went to another bar to polish off a round of jager shots (or as I say "YAY!ger"). But it was closing time and we had to head back.

At this point, the weather turned to bullshit. Bree pulled out her umbrella and I held it high as the three of us huddled underneath it, sloshing our way back to her friend's house. It didn't matter, we were soaked to the bone.

Bree changed into sweats and t-shirt while Jack and I peel off our jackets to dry them by the fire. Beers and wine were handed out and we warmed up in Bree's friend's living room sharing a few more laughs. However, the little hand was close to the 3 and the big hand at the 12 and Bree's friends said their "good nights" and retreated upstairs.

My phone vibrated. A text from Leo.

Leo: Status report.
So@24: I don't think anything is going to happen tonight. She's not flirty and when a girl isn't flirty, it means she isn't interested.
Leo: You need to have patience. Unfortunately, this isn't college anymore.

Jack followed me to the kitchen while I grabbed a beer.

Jack: Are you going to kiss her?
So@24: Are you serious? I still don't think I have a chance. Besides what do I say?
Jack: How about, "Can I kiss you?"
So@24: That sounds so fucking lame.
Jack: It works for me. Just do it.

With a quick gulp, Jack finished the last bit of his Stella. He reached into his soaked jeans and grabbed his cellphone.

Jack: Ooooh, I have to take this call. I'll be back in 10.

The twinkle in his eye told me he wasn't coming back. He was Han Solo at the end of of Stars Wars, pulling the Millennium Falcon out of the Death Star trench saying, "You're all clear, kid. Now let's blow this thing so we can all go home!"

"Wahoo!"

Off he went, and with that I turned back to Bree. She held a glass of wine in her hand, her hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail while a few raindrops dripped off the longer strands. She looked radiant.

I threw back my beer and set the bottle on the coffee table. "You better be right about this, Jack," I thought to myself.

"Can I kiss you?"

* * *

And here, dear readers, is where I must bid you farewell on this tale. Perhaps further details will emerge down the road, but again, I'm still trying to do the whole Tao of the Cucumber thing. It's been extremely difficult, trust me.










* title of the post taken from a Star Wars quote. For those readers who don't share the same level of nerd-dom as me.

You said it, Kevin McCallister.

My backpack is loaded with the essentials:

• A clean shirt for Saturday morning
• A 3/4 bottle of Maker's Mark (to calm the nerves)
  
• A stick of deodorant
  
• Two packets of tangerine flavored Emergen-C for the inevitable hangover drive back to Los Angeles (the only working hangover cure in existence besides pho)
• Two bottles of Vitamin Water (again, for the hangover)
  

I pick up Jack in a few hours and we're taking the 101 straight West.


Here we go.

*














*I know I have used this before, but it's too perfect. Besides, it was written in 2007. No one remembers that.

Cucumber.

There are a couple of strict blog rules that I have followed since the very beginning.

One of them being, you never apologize for your own blog. E.g. "Well, this is kind of boring..." or "Sorry I'm going to ramble on for awhile".

That shit is rookie. Don't do it.

However, I feel like I should take a moment to explain the decline of my "regularly scheduled" programming. The few posts I've been able to barely churn out within the last few weeks have lacked their usual luster. I'm a big boy, I can admit that.

Usually when I have a hard time writing a post, I'll chug a couple of beers and stare at my blinking cursor until I can take what normally is a boring subject or train of thought and spin it like Rumpelstiltskin into blogging gold (see: something significantly less valuable than gold, but I had to use gold because that's what Rumpelstiltskin spun out of hay; see how it works?).

As I discussed in a previous post, my blog only runs on two ingredients:

1. cheap beer
2. my personal current events

I've found myself in a situation where my current outlook on the opposite sex, theories, and overall dating experiences have all revolved around a girl who actually reads my blog.

...

You can see why this might be problematic for someone who writes about subjects that I do.

In the two years I've blogged, I've never come across this problem. Where I've had to carefully watch what I say in order to not fuck shit up in my real life. That's what the blue bar is for, people. Can't be having worlds collide.

So, it's been pretty tough in this last month. Having a million thoughts and questions swimming around my brains like family of sea monkeys just waiting anxiously to get my readers' consistent and much-appreciated feedback.

Don't fear, you won't be left out of the loop for long. I have been writing posts, but for now, they sit idle in my queue; chomping at the bit to be released and read.

But for now, I gotta take care of Real Life So@24. I think for the first time in my blogging history, I am going to heed the advice of my friend Leo and keep him from having a coronary. I am going to take the path of the cucumber. Cool, collected and try my best to keep my cards close to my chest on this one.

This Friday, I'm taking off work early, and forcefully shoving Jack into the passenger seat of my sweet, sweet ride. I'm driving to Santa Barbara where I'm going to meet her face to face.

I'll whip up a good post then; regardless of the results.

Honest to blog.