Poor Alfie Patten. He’s the British tabloid sensation, who became a baby-faced baby daddy at the ripe age of 13 after having unprotected sex his girlfriend, Chantelle Steadman. Controversy erupted when two other classmates stepped forward claiming to be the baby’s father. But Chantelle was like, ‘Hell no! Alfie took my virginity and there’s nobody else!’ And then Alfie took a DNA test just to prove those assholes wrong, but then it turned out he wasn’t the father after all. And he was disappointed.

When I was Alfie’s age, I always performed safe sex, alone in my closet. But apparently, masturbation isn’t what it used to be. Now kids skip right to raising families. Babies having babies, yo.

Meanwhile, masturbation is treated like a gateway drug. Not too long ago, we had a Surgeon General who got shit-canned for saying jerking off was a good alternative to risky sexual activity. Conservatives went completely nuts, like she was telling kids to go sniff glue instead of smoke crack.

Jonas Brothers’ purity rings. The Pope condemning condoms. The federal government funding abstinence only education. Can we have some sanity here? Where are the Christians that embrace God’s one true original birth control — anal sex?

But then again, have you seen some of the alternatives that scientists have been coming up with lately? Such as, say, an implanted switch that can turn your balls on and off like a tv remote. That’s right, an on/off switch for your nuts that can be activated and deactivated remotely by a doctor. According to its founder Derek Abbott,

“It will be like turning a TV on and off with a remote control, except that the remote will probably be locked away in your local doctor’s office to safeguard against accidental pregnancy or potential misuse of the device.”

‘Probably’ locked away? ‘Potential misuse’? Dr. Frankenstein, do you not see the problem here? I don’t think I could ever copulate knowing that somewhere somehow someone might have a remote control to my balls. Or that it might have accidently gotten mixed in with the remotes for my doctor’s TV, Wii and garage door. No, if there’s going to be a remote to my balls, I’m going to be wearing it around my neck like one of those LifeCall pendants.

I also ran across this New York Times article about yet another study claiming that circumcision reduces the incidence of certain STDs. In this case, removing part of your penis lowers your risk of herpes by 25% and HPV by 35%. Now, let me just say as a proud member of the circumcision club that while I’m all for lower incidences of STDs, it seems like cutting off a part of your penis, instead of wearing a condom, is a touch on the drastic side. I mean, if you really wanted to reduce your exposure to STDs by 100%, you could have your entire penis removed. And to illustrate my point, I’ve created a graph:

This is definitive proof that the relationship between STD incidence (y axis) and the amount of penis you have removed (x axis) is inversely proportional. I expect to see an article in the Times trumpeting these findings.

I’ve heard people describe the gym as a “meat market.” In my own experience, it’s more like window shopping. Sure, look at the merchandise, but don’t even bother touching cause you couldn’t afford it anyways. Also, it’s wrong to touch strangers. And I’m pretty sure the vast majority of people at the gym aren’t for sale. It’s a bad analogy, but what I’m trying to say is that when you’re grunting and sweating and there are all these pretty people around you sweating and grunting, you might think to yourself,

“Self, now I know what all these people look like when they’re having sex. Also, I really wish I wasn’t wearing my sister’s shorts with these black socks.”

And you’d be right: you look completely ridiculous. The point being, you might look around and see all that toned muscular flesh, pumping and gyrating all willy nilly-like, and you might be tempted to get all up in that. But you can’t. Because on your best day, you’re wheezing on an elliptical machine like a total pussy, while the guy to your right is bench pressing your body weight as a warm up. (FYI: I’m not talking about myself. I have really really big muscles.)

Case and point: last week, after I was done using the elliptical, which is a great machine for those of us who have worn down our knees from years of sitting, I went to stretch. As I was doing the butterfly stretch, I looked over and noticed a lady. She may have been wearing a black tank top and tiny black shorts, but I don’t notice those kind of things because I’m not superficial. We made eye contact and then both looked away. Then began an epic game of eye dodgeball: she looked back at me, I looked away, then I looked back at her, she looked away, I looked back, she was already looking, damn, I quickly looked away, is she still looking, lemme check, damn, busted again. Pretty soon, my thoughts moved from “Hey, I think this girl is checking me out” to “Is she looking at me because I’m looking at her? Or is she looking at me because I’m wearing boxers underneath my sister’s shorts?”

I forgot the point of all this. And I don’t really have any advice as it pertains to scoring at the gym. But I do have one piece of general advice: do not blowdry your junk in the locker room. I don’t want to see your loose scrotum skin flapping like the sails on a double-masted schooner (I had to look that one up). And most of all, I really don’t want to feel the warm air splash in my face as it ricochets off your Chuck Berries.

Any questions?

In this episode of Let’s Party Eeez and Keez and Scraps and Hi-Hat talk about their romantic Valentine’s Day date.

Listen to Let’s Party #7

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* * * BONUS VALENTINE’S DAY CONTENT * * *

This probably should have been posted a couple days ago, but tevs.  This was our Steeez Valentine’s Day video from last year:

Happy Ballantine’s Day from The Steeez on Vimeo.

On the stoop of my apartment building there is currently a Trojan-brand “Magnum”-variety condom – as if to say “abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Regrettably the air-mail size “French letter” doesn’t belong to me (elephantiasis of the Johnson is not one of my fortunate foibles.) But it is a fitting introduction to my bachelor’s digs. For I am nothing if not a consummate bachelor – the biggest regret I have upon the termination of my relationships is that I’ll have to take my shirts to a tailor to have the buttons sewn back on. That’s also proof of how ill-suited I am to be anything but a bachelor. Women, ever courting us poor debutante chaps with their eligibility inquiries, often ask if I can cook. Once I respond with “martinis and sandwiches, mostly,” they know I’m not the marrying type. That being said it doesn’t often stop them from coming over for at least one martini.

So what does a bachelor do on a day like today when the rest of the civilized world (read: not the idiotic thugs of the fundamentalist Hindu Sri Ram Sena group who are protesting Valentine’s day and attacking women in India who drink in pubs with men – read my essay about it here,) is enjoying the company of their lovers? Well, several things. Yesterday I ran into my dear friend R– in a bookstore and bought her a Valentine’s day copy of Code of the Woosters in exchange for a cup of tea, some precious book-talk and a much-appreciated peck on the cheek. It’s a rather life-affirming thing to step back and recognize that on a Friday evening you’re running into pretty female acquaintances by the Hegel, Heidegger, and Hume in the Philosophy section of a bookstore.

What else has me in such a cheery mood on a day when I’m sitting alone at home with naught but a pot of ¾ Assam ¼ Ceylon and a raw silk kurta? Well, several days ago, I set about making hand-made Victorian valentines (per Martha Stewart’s instructions,) from violet and gold brocade-patterned paper which I then sealed with imperial purple wax and a brass cast of the letter “N.” (See above photo.) On the inside of the first unfolding is a poem personally chosen for the recipient, and the second unfolding reveals a card on heavy cotton stationary with a note from me. I made four of these. The first went to my wonderful neighbor H– who has become a dear friend of mine and included this clever and moving poem “Self-Deceit” by Goethe:

My neighbour’s curtain, well I see,

Is moving to and fin.

No doubt she’s list’ning eagerly,

If I’m at home or no.

And if the jealous grudge I bore

And openly confess’d,

Is nourish’d by me as before,

Within my inmost breast.

Alas! no fancies such as these

E’er cross’d the dear child’s thoughts.

I see ’tis but the ev’ning breeze

That with the curtain sports.

The second went to my co-worker E– on whom I have had a crush for a long time. She’s perfectly aware of the fact but manages to gracefully rebuff all of my advances. Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t more fun for me this way and I prefer the pursuit and actually savor unrequited feelings more dearly than those of consummation. It’s a thought. Anyway, E– and I are lunch-buddies at work so I included two food-related poems (one sweet and one carnal,) and brought her pizza and cookies from her favorite restaurant which has sadly moved more than a dozen blocks away. She seemed appreciative. I felt a thrill at making her happy.

The next valentine goes to my old friend L–. She and I dated when we were a young, hormonal, and romantically overwrought eighteen. Since then we’ve remained friends and share a level of closeness which remains almost unparalleled in my other relationships with people. Nobody deserves a valentine more than her and I’m fortunate to be spending my Valentine’s Day evening drinking and eating with her. We’ve recently decided that we need to find a new term for one another because our relationship can’t be accurately described by other terms. Some options: Consort, Ally, Collaborator, Colleage, Comrade, Confederate.

My final valentine goes to A–, a blonde bombshell of an aspiring astrobiologist who I’ve only been out with twice but who’s just moved to New York on her own and therefore deserves a valentine just for that fact.

So there you have it – relationships (speaking of; check out my essay on Relationships,) of different kinds and varying levels of that elusive intangible variable we call love, each deserving of a valentine in their own right. And all that while avoiding red-rose clichés, Hallmark money wasters, and prix-fixe menus. Lonely beds might be difficult sometimes, but loyal hearts can ease the suffering like nothing else.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

–Natty

http://www.nattyadams.com

P.S. DOWNLOAD CHAPTER ONE OF MY NEW ALBUM FOR FREE HERE!!!

Things I like about the above picture:

1. It features “The Accomodator.”

2. The item is listed in “Health and Personal Care.”

3. All the other featured items were various sizes of the shoe inserts shown at right.

4. It includes the words “Show only Swedish Erotica Items.”

5. The Accomodator has been reduced to almost a third of its original price.

6. Next time I log onto my amazon account, it will recommend butt plugs and shoe inserts to me.

Also - I’m putting this in the “Dating” section of Steeez because using the accomodator alone is an act to be pitied:

One should always have a date - to accomodate. (Possible jingle, Swedish Erotica people?)

Before Craigslist, real people would write to magazines and newspapers looking for dates.  While lacking obvious drug references like “skiing” and “420″ they had a charm all their own.  They were called “Classified Ads” and they were kinda creepy because I imagine that the authors imagined themselves like this:

But actually looked like this:

Here are a few great ones from the January 1994 issue of Cincinnati Magazine.

We’ll start with the ladies:

A little too desperate in the title, sure, but the “no buttheads, please” valediction lets potential dates know that she’s in charge.  A PBS-kind-of-guy?  Really?  Like this twerp?

Ok.  Here’s another lady one:

Alright.  This is straight-gross.  I don’t want to think of apple pie with a fish in it.  Fish pie sounds as disgusting as I imagine it smells.  Fish pie isn’t funny.  Fish pie isn’t classy.  This lady is five-foot-seven-inches of nast.  Flush it.

Now let’s see how Cincinnati bros from ‘94 handle reelin’ in a little fish pie:

(Blarff)

So this guy just wants to play tennis with a fat girl.  That’s cool.  And does that “NINE INCHES” part in bold gross anyone else out for some reason?

Here’s the last one from a man:

I have a feeling that our first lady (no buttheads, please) would have a spectacularly awful date with this dude.  Ponderosa Steak House, a failed heavy-petting session during The Santa Clause, then a silent drive home while Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do” pumps from his 1992 Plymouth Sundance on that cold Cincinnatti night.

Then maybe scrambled porn and a six-pack of ice cold Michelob.

A question that I have posed to myself frequently over the last 8 years is “do I have crushes on all of my econ professors because I love econ, or do I love econ because I have crushes on all of my econ professors?”. I’m still not sure what the answer is, but I can tell you this much: economists are fucking SEXY.

I am, of course, talking about heterodox economists–the kind that talk about radical restructuring of the financial systems, using green energy as a way to build jobs, who understand the labor theory of value and know that the market is essentially falliable. I’m getting worked up just talking about it.

I’d like to present to you a “Who’s Who” of economists I’d like to be my boyfriend:

Anwar Shaikh. An economics professor at the New School, and a genius of price theory. Of Pakistani descent, he has the sexiest accent ever, and the most adorable beard in the world. He loves Ricardo with an almost unnatural passion, and is deeply classical (not to be confused with neo-classical). <3 U, Anwar!

Joe Stiglitz. Nobel Prize winning author of the seminal Globalization and Its Discontents, Joe Stiglitz is a goddamn dream boat. He was fired from his position as a World Bank economist when he openly expressed his disagreement with the (illogical, harmful and ridiculous) policies of the Bank, and its sister organization, the IMF. His work on the impossibility of Pareto optimality is brilliant, and insanely sexy. Also, he’s funny.

David Howell. A labor economist at the Milano School, and a research fellow at the the Bernard Schwartz Center for Economic Policy Analysis (CEPA), David was also my Senior Work advisor. Unfortunately he also posesses shocking boyish good looks and farm-boy charm, which made me blush, stutter and giggle every time we met, which I think made him so uncomfortable that he pretty much avoided me the whole time we were working together. Sigh. At least I still got an A!

Well that’s a start at least. More handsome heterodox economists as I think of them.

(FYI: none of the economists I’ve ACTUALLY DATED [there are...4? 5?] will appear on this list. To protect the innoccent[ish], you understand.)

I’d just like to point out to everyone that I briefly (and recently) dated someone who worked on this show.

Do You Trust Your Cat to Win You a Million?

Oh,

Lately, I have been getting asked out, and in the most random of places . . . coffeeshop, elevator, russian/turkish bath house (totally innocent). Meanwhile, no one wants to date-kate!

I think that maybe internet dating is becoming passé. I mean, until you can send pheromones via g-chat, the real thing is so much better. Also, I might have to rethink my screening process (no more traffic from williamboard.com, please).

Is it too much to ask, to find random strangers on the internet and go on bizarre blind dates? That still sounds fun, right?

I am soliciting any ideas … I really want to date-kate, let’s make it work!!!

I lived in a suburb outside of Los Angeles called Agoura Hills from 5th to 8th grades. This suburb has several temples belonging to the LDS, or Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. There were so. many. Mormons. in my middle school. Mormon’s, as you may know, are for whatever reason and incredibly good looking people. In conjunction, these two facts led to basically all of my junior high crushes being Mormon.

There was a group of boys who would sneak out of temple every Sunday and call me from a pay phone on the LDS grounds. Andy, Trevor, Ethan, Casey, and boys of assorted other ridiculously Southern California sounding names. All of these boys made out with girls, occasionally smoked put and (sin of sins!) drank caffienated beverages on a regular basis. All snorted and declared their disdain for the church, while still attending every Sunday as per their parents wishes.

So long story short, Casey (who’s middle name was “Wood”. WOOD.) ended up being my first real boyfriend in eighth grade. We kissed for the first time standing at the goal line (is that what it’s called?) of the high school football field, in the midst of the homecoming game. We then went back to our friend Brian’s house where he awkwardly grabbed my tits while on a bed with three other 13 year old couples. Ah, young love!

After a few months of fumbling and poorly written love notes written in neon green gel-pens we went our seperate ways.

I had the same AIM screenname from the age of 11 until I was nearly 21, and so was not shocked when Casey IMed me after several years of being out of contact when I was 19. It was Valentine’s day of 2003. A re-enactment of this conversation:

CWoodC: hey [carla]!
CM2727: wow, hi casey! what’s up!?
CWoodC: : not much, just thought i’d say hi, it’s been a long time!
CM2727: : yea totally. what have you been up to?
CWoodC: : oh not a lot, what about you?
CM2727: : well, i’m going to school in new york city and it’s awesome! i love it here.
CWoodC: : really? that’s cool! do you do a lot of partying?
CM2727: : …i guess? i mean. i’m a sophmore in college.
CWoodC: : haha, yea. do you have a boyfriend?
CM2727: : um, well, yea.
CWoodC: : are you sexually active?
CM2727: : uhhhhhh…yes?
CWoodC: : oh, i just got back from mission in colombia, by the way.
CM2727: : woah, really? you went back to the church? how was mission?
CWoodC: : yea, it was an amazing spiritual experience. it was really moving and it brought my heart closer to god.
CM2727: : uh, that’s great for you. i guess.
CWoodC: : so look [carla], the reason i got in touch is because i’d like to talk to you about the state of your soul.
CM2727: : HAHAHAHAH I GOTTA GO BYEEEEEEEEEEEEE

And that was the last I heard from Casey.