This essay was originally written and performed for Write Club Atlanta, a monthly competitive writing event.

With the possible exception of demolition experts, terrorists and rock stars sitting around in their hotel rooms, no one ever says, “I wish I were more destructive.” But why not? Why has “destruction” become such a dirty word?

I understand that nobody likes to see trees cut down to make room for a retail center in their neighborhood. But many of us, even if we’re too ashamed to admit it, have a little man living inside our head who can’t wait to use his 20 percent off coupons from Bed Bath & Beyond without having to travel far from home.

Now, before you start thinking that I’m a right-wing, destroy-the-environment kind of guy, I should mention that I’m so liberal that when someone asks “how’s it hanging?” I always tell them “to the left,” EVEN if it’s hanging to the right. Of course, it usually isn’t hanging at all. It just kind of cowers away like a scared little turtle. Which, I suppose, is probably more indicative of the Democratic party than anything else.

I’m not trying to be political. I’m just saying that we need to stop ignoring or denying the good things that can come from destruction. Or even worse, denying that sometimes destruction is necessary.

Whenever I see news reports about an old Las Vegas casino being imploded, they always include interviews with people who are sad about its demise and proclaim that no one cares about the past anymore. But what those people never seem to mention is how outdated the rooms were or how the stale smell of broken dreams and cigarette smoke permeated the place. Or how the buffet really sucked.

That’s what my first marriage felt like.

Sure, there were good times in the beginning, and there were even moments when I felt like I was continually hitting blackjack, while the sounds of bells went off all around me. (By the way, I’m just continuing the casino metaphor here. I’m not saying sex with me is so great that you’ll hear bells.)

But, after coming down from the high of the grand opening festivities, I started seeing imperfections in my domestic casino. And at first I tried to cover them up. New carpet here, new perks there. Double player points all weekend!! But I knew in my heart that time was up. What used to be the hot spot in town had become a dark, sad shell of itself and the only clientele was little old ladies, chain smoking at the nickel slots.

It’s times like this when you gotta have a cutthroat, bottom-line executive. Someone who has the guts to say, “This place just isn’t profitable anymore. Let’s blow the fucker up and start over.”

Luckily, my ex-wife was that kind of executive.

And yes, at first I was distraught over the destruction of my casino, but out of all the rubble I was able to build a brand new, much nicer complex. And I have to say that, so far, the buffet is top notch.

So, you see, good things can come from destruction, and when that happens, we need to embrace those things. But we also have to realize that sometimes WE need to be the ones causing the destruction. And I’m not just talking about the kind of destruction you see proposed via bumper stickers. You know, shit like “Destroy Your Television!” (Whenever I see that sentiment on someone’s car I always think, “They obviously haven’t seen The Wire.”)

Not that I always disagree with bumper sticker messages. We SHOULD “Question Authority,” and as strange as it may sound I do care to know that you “Brake For Yard Sales,” since that’s a good warning not to be texting while driving behind you. I love myself a little too much to die just because you have a weakness for old clothes and Beanie Babies.

But slapping bumper stickers on your car is a lazy response to real issues. It’s like sitting in your house, listening to NPR and cataloging your Food & Wine recipes, while a War is Not the Answer sign sits on your perfectly-manicured lawn, advertising your pacifism to the world. Besides, sometimes war IS the answer! For instance, if someone rearranges my recipes and files the goat cheese parfait with the entrees instead of the deserts, there is going to be war. And it will be justified.

Okay, so maybe that would be an exaggerated reaction. Although, World War II was started after Hitler stole Churchill’s recipe for eggplant risotto. Either way, we do need to wage war on the things that are holding us back and revel in their destruction, whether it’s bad marriages, the two-party system or our tendency to be blinded by nostalgia. Sorry, but “Footloose” was a shitty movie to begin with, so Hollywood remaking it is not a travesty. It’s just a good reminder that you’re getting old.

But, the good news is that you’re never too old to be destructive. So get off your ass and destroy something. Destroy your nostalgia. Destroy your bad relationship. Destroy your porn. Hell, you can even destroy your television if you really want to.

Just don’t destroy your Bed Bath & Beyond coupons. I know a little guy who would love to have them.

Since they say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, I recently admitted I was a flake. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, but I was sick and tired of faking being sick and tired just so I could get out of doing something.

You know how an alcoholic never intends to get shitfaced and piss on your kitchen floor after making a pass at your wife? Well, I never intend to be a flake, although that doesn’t mean there’s not a stale smell of excuses wafting through the air whenever I back out of plans with someone.

When a friend asks me to do something and I say yes, I usually say it because I sincerely want to do whatever is being proposed: get dinner, have drinks, or go over to their house for a Dabney Coleman movie marathon. But while I may be really excited about something early in the morning — or in the afternoon, or a week before — when the time comes to do it, well… there’s a good chance I will flake.

Admitting my problem was cathartic, and I feel like I’m on the road to recovery. I’m not sure if there are 12 steps involved, but I’ve taken at least one step: learning to say no when asked to do things I know I’ll flake on.

Like exercising. Recently a friend asked me to go with her to boot camp. This is one of those group exercise programs where middle-aged women meet in the park and daydream about fucking the muscular instructor, even though they think he’s a complete tool.

When she asked me to go, my friend subtly looked at my belly. It’s a classic move amongst the “wanna exercise with me?” contingent, and she’s mastered it. The old me would have fallen prey to the unspoken pressure and said, “Let’s do this!” However, the class she wanted me to attend is at 6:30PM. So, if I said yes, my day would likely go something like this:

Morning – “I love the morning! I’m ready for another great day! I am so focused! Creative! Energized!”

Afternoon – “This day is okay, I guess. Did I really use that many exclamation points this morning?”

6PM – “Fuck. I can’t wait to get home. All I want to do right now is put on my pajamas, light my Anthropologie volcano candle and open a bottle of wine.”

6:01PM – “Do I tell her I’m sick? No. I should just go. What about telling her I have to stay late at work? No, no. I’ll feel good if I go. Do I tell her I pulled my groin muscle in an extraordinarily active brainstorm?”

6:10PM – I decide on the most believable excuse, then flake via text or email. Then I feel guilty. At least until I’ve had my first glass of wine.

The new me, the recovering flake, told my friend, “No thanks. As much as I’d love to go, I know that when six-o-clock comes around I’ll probably flake out. Now stop looking at my belly.”

Saying no felt much better than I expected and it made me realize something. One of the reasons I flake is guilt, or perceived guilt. When my flakery was at its peak, I would say yes to things I didn’t really want to do as a way to defer the guilt I THOUGHT I would feel if I said no. Learning this didn’t surprise me, though, since inner guilt is something that has always plagued me. So much so that I once spent $19.95 on ancestry.com to confirm I wasn’t Jewish or Catholic.

Throughout my struggles with flakerism, a lot of my friends have given up on me and I can’t say I blame them. I can’t imagine it would be easy to remain friends with that drunk dude who pissed on your kitchen floor. But those friends who have stuck with me and continued to ask me to do things are the reason I will continue the struggle to be a better person. Of course, I should admit I’m writing this in the morning, while feeling focused! Creative! Energized! So, who knows? By the end of the day I could be at home drinking wine in my pajamas while my friends are out having a good time and having a conversation something like this:

“Where is Tony? I thought he was coming tonight.”

“He texted me a few minutes ago. He can’t come.”

“Really? Why not?”

“He pulled a groin muscle at work.”

In my closet I have a box of old journals and once in a while I like to grab one and thumb though it. One thing I’ve noticed while doing this, other than I have the handwriting (and possibly the thoughts) of a schizophrenic, is that I really love making to-do lists.

No matter what notebook I open up, every few pages I’ll find another to-do list. What’s discouraging is finding lists where almost none of the items have been marked off. Whenever I find these, which is more often than not, I wake up the optimist in my head, which comes to my rescue by saying, “It’s an old notebook. You’ve probably done all those things but were too busy being productive to go back and mark them off.” Then I’ll go down the list and confirm what I’ve always suspected. My optimist is a compulsive liar.

Here is the most recent to-do list I found (For the record, none of these items have been completed.)

- Come up w/ wine/alcohol budget
- Clean out office closet
- Learn Pina Colada Song on guitar

For all the music snobs out there, yes, I do know it’s actually called ‘Escape (The Piña Colada Song)’, so go fuck yourself with a seven inch. (Import only, of course.) For those of you who think I included the song as a cheap joke you’d normally be correct, but not this time. It’s really there and I really do want to learn how to play it. That’s the frustrating part: I put off stuff I actually want to do.

I can totally understand putting off creating a budget, but learning the Piña Colada Song?!? As helpful as having a budget would be, it’s never going to help get me laid in a beach-side bar.

In between all the random to-do lists, I’ll also find journal entries in which I’m berating myself for not being more productive. “What the fuck motherfucker?!? Stop fucking around and write! Don’t be such a lazy, unfocused fuckface.” I guess that means I can mark, “Look into becoming a motivational speaker” off all to-do lists.

I suppose I like making lists so much because it’s a way to procrastinate while still feeling like I’m accomplishing something. Sometimes, however, it’s a way of keeping up with my ADD-addled brain, which is no easy task.

A couple of times a month I’ll read a new self-help article about how to be better organized, or how to stay focused. These articles always get me excited. I think, “Finally, I’m going to get my shit together. Productivity, I’m about to make you my bitch!”

But before I can get to making productivity my bitch, I spend a good ten to fifteen minutes thinking about the statement, “make you my bitch.” I get caught up in an internal debate about whether I should say such a thing. First I wonder if it’s sexist and misogynistic. But then I decide that the saying isn’t meant to reference the act of making a woman do something against her will, but about being a good dog owner. Boundaries are important, you understand.

Then the dog lover in me feels horrible for having said something so harsh. So, I stop what I was doing and go hug my dogs. I don’t walk them, though, because I have to get back to my notebook and write “walk dogs more” on my to-do list.

By this time I’ve usually forgotten how I was going to make productivity my bitch. By the way, even if I had made that statement as a derogatory reference to women, you can rest peacefully knowing that even if I had “stalk women” on my to-do list I’d never get around to it.

I’ll give you another example of my list-making, easily distracted tendencies. As I’m writing this I have a notebook open, in which I’ve created yet another to-do list, to which I just added, “Come up with a good ending for Chap post about list making.” Sadly, I’m probably going to find this list one day and think, “Oh, damn, I really should have done that.”

I woke up singing REO Speedwagon’s ‘Take it on the Run’ this morning and it reminded my of something that happened to me when I was nine years old.

It was a Saturday afternoon and I was walking to the Kwickie to buy a pack of candy cigarettes. The Kwickie was the convenience store at the end of my block, which I guess was owned by a disgruntled former spelling bee champion with a penchant for sexual innuendo.

As I got closer to the Kwickie I could see that Doug Dixon, a high school kid and local badass, was hanging out beside the store, smoking cigarettes with his henchman, whose name I never knew. I contemplated turning around and going home, but I knew that if I didn’t get my candy cigarettes I would regret it later that day when I was working on my one-man show; a ‘Grease’ spinoff I called ‘Kenickie goes to the Kwickie’.

So, I kept walking.

“Hey, you!” said the henchman. “Come over here!”

Fuck. Why couldn’t I have just stayed home and drank apple juice out of a beer mug while telling an imaginary bartender my troubles? Sure, candy cigarettes don’t cause cancer, but it appeared they were about to cause me to get my ass kicked.

“Me?” I said, hoping he was talking to himself.

“Who the fuck do you think I’m talking to, myself? Come over here.”

As I approached the two hoods, I couldn’t stop wondering what was about to happen. Were they going to beat me up? Get me high? Cut holes in my jeans and make me start skipping school? The possibilities were as endless as their future prospects were limited.

“Do you know who I am?” the henchman asked, as Doug Dixon just giggled and kept smoking.

“I’ve seen you around,” I said, hoping to stroke his ego as some kind of local legend.

“No, you don’t know me. And you don’t want to fuck with me.”

Fuck. This was turning out to be a shitty day.

“You want to know why you don’t want to fuck with me?”

I stood there silent. I had only said five words so far and things were not working out so well, so I wanted to hold off as long as possible before uttering my sixth word.

“Do you know who this is?” he asked, while pointing to his T-shirt — a white rock jersey with black sleeves that clearly said REO Speedwagon.

Finally, I thought. A question I can answer intelligently.

“Yeah, it’s a band.”

“No, it’s not a band. It’s a fucking gang. You understand that? I’m in a fucking gang.”

While I stood there confused, waiting for him to punch me because I didn’t realize REO Speedwagon was “a fucking gang,” the henchman turned around and started talking to Doug Dixon. It was like I ceased to exist. This was fine by me, so I slowly walked away.

I finally got my candy cigarettes and when I left the store, I took the much longer way home so I could avoid being told how Styx was the fucking mafia.

Almost thirty years later, I still have no idea what the hell that guy was talking about. It’s not like he was wearing a Motorhead T-shirt. At least then I could get behind the idea that he was in a gang of pissed off and mean Motorhead fans. But REO Speedwagon? As much as I enjoy their cheese-encrusted arena rock ballads, I can’t imagine a group of teenagers sitting around getting pumped up while listening to ‘Keep on Loving You.’ Who could take their taunts seriously? “I’m gonna kick your ass foreverrrrrrrrrr.”

I don’t know what ever happened to the henchman, but I like to imagine he became a roadie for REO Speedwagon and is traveling the country, still insisting that they are a fucking gang.

As for Doug Dixon, he ended up dropping out of high school, knocking up the town slut and getting a job at the Kwickie. At least that’s what I heard from a friend who, heard it from a friend who, heard it from another…

I went to a Duran Duran concert earlier this year, and when they started playing ‘Girls on Film’ I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia. The throbbing beat, heavily-chorused staccato guitar and sounds of clicking cameras brought back memories of my childhood.

As I watched Simon LeBon trying to recreate his 80′s groove, I thought about the 80′s me trying to find one. I thought about my Duran Duran scrapbook and how I wished wearing lipstick would make me look as cool as Nick Rhodes. I also thought about how I used to think I was so clever when I would write the band’s name on my notebook by holding two pencils together, which meant I only had to write “Duran” once. Then I thought about masturbation.

What made me think of masturbation was the uncensored version of the ‘Girls on Film’ video. I first saw it in 1983, after my grandmother rented it for me at the local Curtis Mathes, along with a top-loading VCR that had to be at least fifty pounds. I’m not sure what’s more shocking; that my grandmother rented a video for me that was clearly marked “Uncensored,” or that a Curtis Mathes in a small, Southern town was renting it in the first place.

If you’ve never seen it, the video is filled with sexy scenes of women in various stages of undress. At least it is once you suffer through more than a minute of watching the set being built and the guys in Duran Duran doing their hair and makeup. At 11-years-old, the video was as good as gold to me. My favorite band AND nudity? At the same time?!? What more could a kid ask for?

My favorite part of the video was a close up of a woman rubbing an ice cube over her nipple. For some reason I thought this was incredibly sexy. It took quite a few years and a few wasted ice trays before I finally realized that rubbing ice cubes on their nipples wasn’t common practice among women. I’ve been met with few bigger disappointments in life.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, masturbation.

As Duran Duran continued to play, I thought about how much masturbation has changed. Or at least how the materials used for masturbation have changed. For instance, these days I can see nipples whenever I want. Hell, I can even see full breasts on my phone if I so desire. Breasts! On my phone! Can you imagine what the eleven-year-old me would be doing had he had access to this kind of technology? OK, I guess you can…

But back then my choices were limited to, “Do I pause on the iced nipple, or do I pause on the scantily-clad girls sliding on the whip-cream-covered candy cane pole as they prepare to have a pillow fight?” Proper pausing was crucial, since both scenes were way too short to be of any use in real time. Before I could even get my pants down, I’d be looking at Simon LeBon doing his sexy pout again and I just didn’t think of Simon in those terms.

There was something great about not having a plethora of pornographic possibilities, though, because once you did find something you liked, you did your business and moved on. Hell, sometimes you even used nothing but your imagination, a concept that feels as dated as the bag phone.

These days the choices are endless, which is bad for a guy like me. I’ll walk into a book store or a record store knowing exactly what I want but become so overwhelmed by all the choices that I forget what I’m there for. With Internet porn it becomes a long-and-winding road of vagina and corrupted morals and before I know it I’ve wasted an hour of my life. Whereas, say, the 13-year-old me – by then a certified master of the pause button – would have been satisfied looking at Paula Abdul’s underwear as she slid across the floor in the ‘Cold-Hearted’ video.

You know, if “choice” were a man, he would be a cold-hearted snake not unlike the one Paula was singing about. Once you took the time to look into his eyes you’d say, “Uh-ohhh, he’s been telling lies!” The biggest lie being that choice is always good. Yes, choice is nice to have, but so is food, yet that doesn’t mean all-you-can eat buffets are ever a good idea. Although, a buffet is likely to have an ice machine, which means there would be an unlimited supply of ice cubes to rub on your nipples in between gluttonous helpings of fried chicken and mac ‘n’ cheese. Hmmm. Now I may have to rethink my position on choice. I’ll be sure to do that as soon as I’m finished looking at all these breasts, on my phone!

Facebook and Twitter are going to be blowing up tonight with everyone giving their opinions on the Super Bowl Commercials. Since I don’t like the idea of my opinions being missed amid all the hubbub, I decided I would offer my takes now. Then I can free up my time for other things, like paying attention to the game when it’s on or researching if anyone actually still uses the word “hubbub.”

• Great. Another shitty movie based on a toy from my childhood. But, hey, it’s in 3D!

• OK, I have to admit that Volkswagen commercial with the Darth Vader kid was really cute. At least it was the first 30 times I saw it this week.

• Now THAT’S what I’m talking about. A sexist commercial that sets us back another 10 years. Brilliant!

• I wonder how many people just watched that commercial hoping Ozzy Osbourne would bite Justin Bieber’s head off.

• Mmmm. All that sexual innuendo just got me so hot that I want to move all my web hosting to godaddy.com.

• Cute commercial, but the only way I’m eating Doritos these days is if I’m really high. (“Damn baby, I asked for Cool Ranch, not Nacho Cheesier!”)

• Wait. What was that a commercial for?

• Awww! It’s a remake of an old commercial. All this nostalgia is making me want to buy something. It’s also making me nostalgic for a time when we all had money to buy something.

• Now THAT’S what I’m talking about. A homophobic commercial that sets us back another 10 years. Brilliant!

• You know what would make me like talking baby commercials? If the Budweiser Clydesdales busted through the room and trampled the little bastards. Now, now. Don’t get all fucking upset with me! I know baby trampling is not funny. But neither are talking babies.

Some people like to judge others based on things such as whether they prefer the Beatles or the Stones, love cats more than dogs or like The Godfather more than Goodfellas. Me? I think that’s shallow and ridiculous. There is only one question I use to make my irrational judgment of you. Do you walk when you’re on an escalator or do you just stand there?

If you just stand there, then you get six bonus questions, so please take a moment to answer the following:

1) Are you physically unable to walk?
2) Are you elderly?
3) Are you an infant?
4) Are you carrying a large item?
5) Do you stand to one side, giving ample room for a person to pass you?
6) Are you at the airport, returning from a trip and depressed about having to get back to your unfulfilled life?

If you did not answer yes to one or more of these questions, then I count you among my nemeses.

Of all the things that irritate me, being stuck on an escalator behind lazy fucks who just stand there, two abreast, without a care in the world, may top the list. They are followed closely by the single standers. The ones who look at me like they just caught me finger-banging their wives whenever I say, “Excuse me” and want to pass. (Even if I had done that to their wives, you would think they would at least appreciate my courteous “excuse me,” and move to the side.)

It’s not always the laziness of these people that bothers me as much as their disregard for my time as they drag me into their laziness.  Wouldn’t you be pissed off if I decided I was going to spend my entire Saturday lying on the couch and that meant you had to do it too?  It’s like the assholes who drive 55-miles-per-hour in the left lane, ignoring the long line of cars behind them. It’s fine with me if you want to be the anti-Sammy Hagar; just do that shit in the far right lane, would ya?!

I’ve always thought that escalators are similar to the welfare system. Both are were created to help you reach your destination faster and more efficiently, but each work best if you do your part.

Let’s take welfare, for instance. Just because you’re getting a government check doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be trying to better yourself. Ideally you would be using those checks to help keep your head above water as you continue to search for dry land.

The same holds true for escalators. Just because you CAN stand there and do nothing doesn’t mean you should. With just a little effort you’ll not only get where you’re going quicker, you’ll get a little exercise too. It’s a classic win-win situation. And we all want to win, right? So, I say fuck the Gipper. Next time you’re on an escalator how about you move your lazy ass and win one for The Chap?

I’ve never been what you would call a man’s man. Yes, I know there’s no official definition for “man’s man,” but if there was one I’m positive it wouldn’t include examples such as, “Enjoys manicures, pedicures, long bubble baths and cries like a baby while watching YouTube videos of lions returning to their original owners.” If that were the case I’d be the manliest bastard you ever had the pleasure of sharing Sunday mimosas with.

My coworker Jenna and I often discuss my manly qualities, or lack thereof. Since she’s an old-school Jersey girl, she just shakes her head and gives me a look of disapproval when she hears me talk about amuse-bouches, my love of knee-high socks and how my wife is the griller in the family. This usually leads to me pointing out that there are many things I do which are traditionally attributed to being a man. Here is just a short list:

• I watch football. I also drink beer and yell obscenities like “sack that motherfucker!” while doing so.

• I drive during long trips and am severely directionally challenged.

• I think about sex 90% of the time.

• I take out the trash. (I forgot to do it last night, but I’m usually good about it.)

• I carry my wife’s luggage through the airport. I also open doors for women and let them enter elevators before me. (I don’t let them have my seat on the train unless they’re old, though. I gotta be hard on the hoes once in a while, right?)

• I get out of bed and investigate any suspicious noises during the night. (Does it really matter that my first reaction to my wife telling me she just heard something is to pretend I’m still asleep? I think not. )

• I get overly upset when someone cuts me off in traffic and threaten to “kick their fucking ass!”

• I kill insects that happen to make their way into our house. (OK, I usually just shoo them out the door, but still…)

Impressive list, huh? Regardless, I’ve never subscribed to all the antiquated ideas about what is manly. That John Wayne shit is for uncivilized bores. By eschewing all the stereotypes I’m able to be better than a “man’s man.” I can, and am, versatile!

For instance, I can spend Friday afternoon watching violent action movies, and then go see a chick flick with you that night and actually enjoy it. Saturday morning I can go with you to the spa for a 90-minute couple’s massage, and then have the guys over for poker night, during which I’ll drink straight scotch while discussing my sexual attraction to Lady Gaga. Sunday I can go have a testosterone freak-out at the football game, and then come home and thoughtfully look through your sewing patterns and help you pick out the one that best fits your personality.

All these things more than make up for the fact that I’m not necessarily good at fixing things, that I don’t like “roughing it” and that I use a wide assortment of Kiehl’s products. If not, what else would you have me do? Am I expected to start the fireplace by rubbing two sticks together while yelling “Fire! Fire!?” That sounds like a terrible waste of time. Besides, my wife makes a much better fire than I do.

Ah, the time of year to reflect, refresh, and resolve to be better. I love this time. It’s like Sunday nights when I’m deep into a bottle of red and feeling ambitious and hopeful about the week ahead. Except now we’re talking an entire year which means that instead of that ambition and hope fading by Wednesday, it just may last through February. And while I may not always accomplish the goals I set on Sundays, I never let cynicism keep me from setting them, so I’m not going to let it keep me from setting them for the new year either. So, without further ado, here are my Four New Year’s Resolutions for 2011.

GET MY GROOVE ON
No one took the time to teach me how to Dougie this year and unfortunately my bald spot prevented me from whipping my hair back and forth. But, there is always a new dance craze and in 2011 I’m going to learn at least one of them. Who cares if I’m old, overweight and not a particularly good dancer? There are YouTube tutorials for everything.

Once I learn the hot new dance I’ll try to get invited to as many parties as possible. Then I’ll do my perfected wallflower routine and wait patiently for my song to come on so I can casually move to the center of the room and commence to throw down. Hell, I may even learn a couple of older dances this year, just so I’m not seen as a one-trick throwdowner. As they say, it’s never too late to Superman dat hoe after doing the Stanky Legg.

NOT BE SO LAME
I will do my best not to participate in cliché humor in 2011. I know this resolution will be hard to keep since there are times when I’ll have to make small talk with coworkers, family or strangers who are conservative and/or lack a broad sense of humor. But, there are certain things I can do this year to be less of a dipshit, such as never again telling my server “It was horrible” while pointing to my empty plate and rubbing my full belly. Whenever I’m introduced to someone in 2011 and they say “I’ve heard so much about you,” I can and will respond without saying “I hope you only heard the good things!” Also, I will resist all opportunities to point out that “That’s what she said.”

Maybe the best way to keep this resolution is to abandon all use of humor when making small talk. Instead I can rely on my amateur meteorologist skills and stick to discussing the weather. THEM: “This rain is crazy.” ME: “Yeah, but we sure do need it.”

CLASS IT UP
In hopes of becoming a classier chap in 2011, I hereby resolve not to drink wine unless it’s served in proper stemware. I should clarify that this only applies to restaurants. I’m not going to refuse Pinot Noir at a friend’s house just because they poured it in a Cabernet glass. I’m not that much of a pretentious asshole. Yet.

At 38, I’m not drinking wine to get “fucked up.” I’m drinking it because I love the ritual. I love the way it looks in the glass, I love swirling it around, I love smelling it and, of course, I love tasting it. Whether it’s psychological or not, wine tastes better to me when it’s served in a proper glass. And if a restaurant is going to mark up a bottle of wine 100% + then they should serve it to me correctly.  Similarly, when I order by the glass I’d love it if they would learn not to over-pour. That’s just so gauche.

An addendum to this resolution is that I’m also not going to eat fast food this year unless it’s properly plated. A man must have his standards!

SPEAK UP
Itendtomumblesomtimes. Especially in public. I do it because my hearing is not that great, so I’m always worried I’m talking too loudly. I don’t want to sound like one of those loud douche bags who want everyone around them to hear how they are wintering in the Caymans, so I overcompensate by speaking softly and often mumbling. It annoys my wife enough that she has bestowed upon me a pretty cool Mafia name. But, while I kind of enjoy being called “Mumbles,” I am going to do my best this year to speak clearly, with confidence, and at an appropriate volume. I’m no longer going to care if people can hear what I’m saying. I can’t worry about making others depressed about their unfulfilled lives when I talk about how I spent my entire Saturday in bed watching a ‘To Catch a Predator’ marathon. They should be smart enough to know that my life is not always THAT glamorous. Hell, sometimes it’s really hard. At least that’s what she said.

Resolutions that JUST missed the cut
-    Buy a top hat
-    Stay up until later than 10PM at least once a week
-    Not get a computer virus via internet porn
-    Answer the phone when my friends call
-    Not tweet pictures of myself taking bubble baths
-    Not assume that most people are idiots