Ethan Fixell

Relationships, Rock, and Russian Spies

actualconversation — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 10:34:00 -0400

This week was crazy! Time for a round-up of links to some of the cool stuff that went down:

-We’ve got a brand new Dave and Ethan video, in which we list the Top 10 Worst Text Messages to Send After a First Date.

-My rock band, World Blanket, is headlining Mercury Lounge on July 23rd at 7PM! Get more information and tickets HERE!

-Periods Films has a brand new short film out in which I play a homicidal Russian spy with a 4-inch cocaine pinky-nail. So basically, I play myself.

-AND, I recently hosted a show on BBox Radio with my buddy The Daily Guru, during which we attempted to cram as many songs from as many genres as we could into 2 hours! You can now listen to the archived recording HERE.

Loving you oodles,

Ethan

P.S. Subscribe to the mailing list HERE!

DAVE AND ETHAN - LIVE @ 92YTRIBECA, 5/23/13

actualconversation — Wed, 15 May 2013 09:00:38 -0400

We’ve got a brand new Dave and Ethan show coming to 92YTribeca in New York City!

Join us for brand new music, improv, skits and “lessons” on Thursday, 5/23/13 at 8PM. Click our love-ravaged bodies below for more info!

Hope to see you there!

Playing Bass in Rock Band World Blanket

actualconversation — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 09:00:39 -0400

GUESS WHAT?? I’m the new bassist for World Blanket!

What’s World Blanket, you may be asking? We’re an indie rock band which you can listen to by clicking HERE.

And we’ve got a show with Wild Leaves and The Inner Banks at Union Hall in Brooklyn on Thurs, 4/11/13 at 8PM. Purchase tickets for the show (only $8!) by clicking HERE.

Hope to see you there!

Running the NYC Half Marathon for Autism Speaks

actualconversation — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 10:13:50 -0500

On March 17th, 2013, I’ll be running (and hopefully not dying in) the NYC Half Marathon! I’m participating to raise money for Autism Speaks, the world’s leading autism science and advocacy organization.

Autism Speaks is dedicated to:
-funding research for the causes, prevention, and treatment of autism
-increasing awareness of autism spectrum disorders
-and advocating for the needs of individuals with autism and their families

Please visit my fundraising page by clicking HERE and donate whatever you can to support the cause. Even $1 helps!

Thanks so much for your contribution.

SeriousEats.com: "On the Beer Trail"

actualconversation — Mon, 07 Jan 2013 09:00:00 -0500

I’m the newest beer correspondent for Serious Eats! While on tour for our Dave and Ethan shows, I’ll be tasting a beer in every US state and writing about each one. Check out the first post below and share with all your alcoholic friends!

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“I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been one to turn down a free drink. Fortunately (or if you ask my liver, unfortunately), my gig as a touring comedian means that I’ve managed to score one in almost every US state. Admittedly, I’ve occasionally sipped some not-so-tasty suds, such as the Ybor Gold Light I had in Melbourne, Florida, which tasted more like wet cornflake runoff than beer, or the thin, pale yellow liquid in Minot, North Dakota that may or may not have been squirrel urine. But of all the breweries, bars, pubs, and basements of creepy old men I’ve frequented for a pint of the good stuff, I found one of my all-time favorites in Grand Rapids, Michigan…”

Read more “On the Beer Trail” HERE at SeriousEats.com, with a new post each week!

Dave and Ethan LIVE @ 92YTribeca on 12/20/12

actualconversation — Thu, 06 Dec 2012 09:30:19 -0500

Shortly after my band Pirates takes over the People’s Improv Theater on 12/15 at 8PM…

Dave and Ethan (that’s me…same Ethan) will be debuting at 92YTribeca in New York City on Thursday, 12/20/12 at 8PM! Click Dave’s banana hammock below for more information:

Hope to see you there!!

Pirates: Improvisational Hardcore

actualconversation — Thu, 25 Oct 2012 09:00:00 -0400

Pirates is my improvisational hardcore band — the only one of its kind. We are also the only band ever to have been indicted for auditory homicide.

Every riff, drum fill, and lyric on our 14-song debut album was written, recorded, and mixed on the spot. Join us on Facebook, and come to our LIVE SHOW at the People’s Improv Theater in NYC on December 15th:

PIRATES @ The PIT, 12/15/12

In the meantime, watch our music videos — filmed LIVE at the recording studio — in the windows below:

Click HERE for more videos!

Pants Day

actualconversation — Thu, 27 Sep 2012 08:54:27 -0400

(Originally appeared on YourTango.com as “Why Moving In With My Girlfriend Scares The Pants Off Of Me,” Sep 2012)

My girlfriend and I are moving in together, and I think I might throw up. Not because I don’t want to live with her, or because I was bullied, tricked, or pressured into signing a lease (my deepest sympathies to the guy on Maury who was threatened at gunpoint by his future mother-in-law). But let’s just say that sometimes I can be a bit…“skittish” when facing transitions.

Take the first wintery day of 2^nd grade, for example, on which I refused to surrender my shorts.

“But it’s cold outside, Ethan,” my mother tried to reason. “Today is a Pants Day.”

Defying her logic, I attended school in a pair of beloved cut-offs, and would regret it by 1PM. Not solely out of embarrassment, mind you, for being the only kid in class to bear my bottom half to the elements — but also because I nearly froze my ass off at recess.

This wasn’t the only time I would stubbornly refuse an abrupt wardrobe change. The next year, I insisted on wearing a specific colorful safari cap to school every day. My mom had to literally pry it off my head once it became too filthy and tattered to wear, just in time to stave off Child Services from taking me on an involuntary vacation.

To uninformed outsiders, this behavior might be interpreted as the symptom of a highly limited fashion sense. Such was the popular, though misinformed assesment of my 7^th grade classmates over the orange sweatpants I would famously wear three times a week. The truth is, a pre-approved outfit on the odd days we’d have gym class would resolve the dread I felt over changing clothes. No, I was not the 13-year old male Gaga — deep down my “eccentric” sartorial choices were a product of my inability to relinquish control.

Debbie and I have been dating for over two years now, and we both want to spend even more of each day together – clearly, our decision to share an apartment was both logically and emotionally sound. But give me a few hours to mull it over and pick at the holes in our plan, and suddenly I’m transported to second grade, frozen with rigidity.

Apparenty I still suffer from anxiety over changing on command.

Of course, historically, whenever I’ve had trepidation over a change, I’ve adjusted within days, if not minutes. We humans are adaptive creatures, and I am no exception. But even the seemingly reassuring fact that I voluntarily chose to move in with Deb is of no consolation, as it’s the transition which paralyzes me most. The simple thought of the impending disruption to my normal daily order looms over me like creeping death.

Furthermore, what makes these stakes so much higher than those of a seasonal wardrobe shift is that this time it’s not just the change itself that I’m fearing – it’s the fact that by sharing my living space with another person, I’m forfeiting some of my everyday control permanently. A stream of selfish questions steadily surface: When will I have alone time? How will our sleeping patterns mesh? Can she keep the bathroom clean enough? Will I have to give up porn?

I know that in order to experience the many exciting and wonderful benefits of cohabitation, I will need to make some sacrifices. Living with my girlfriend means that I won’t be able to blast Cannibal Corpse or Pig Destroyer at any hour of the day. Midnight Frosted Mini Wheat dinners and 11AM breakfasts of leftover Linguini ai Frutti de Mare will be replaced by time-appropriate meals shared at more reasonable hours. I will no longer be able to poop with the door open.

On top of all the freedoms I’ll concede, there are the adjustments I’ll need to make to her living style. The bed might not got made right away; the sink might get dirty. I’ll likely lose autonomy over temperature control, and I’ll definitely lose closet space. My living room might fill with lady-friends, cheap wine, and snuggies on a Friday night, while the DVR fills with all things Bachelorette (the episodes, the recaps, the reunions, and the fantasy league).

Thankfully, my girlfriend is a reasonable woman. More than reasonable, even. So for all the sacrifices I’ll be making, I know I can keep the habits and rituals that matter: She’s okay with my midnight vacuuming sessions. She’ll turn a blind eye to at-home happy hours set to episodes of Intervention. She thinks its funny when I talk to myself in different voices, and can tolerate the occasional fart (key word: occasional).Without judgment, she allows me to be me.

Of course, there are also the awesome things I’ll gain from a live-in girlfriend. While the financial boons are great (half-priced cable!), I’m mostly excited about the potential experiences. I’ll have a guinea pig for some of my more daring culinary experiments, and the joy of playing one for her on nights when I’m irresponsibly working through dinner. Massages and compliments will become commodities more regularly traded. Trivial fun facts and deeper idiosyncrasies of both parties will be uncovered. And potentially best of all, I’ll get the benefit of waking up next to the most attractive woman I know.

Life will be different when we move in together next month. But I know that ultimately, I’ll benefit from being forced to finally leave some rigidity behind. Sharing a living space with a partner can evolve one’s very core, helping to form a more selfless attitude. I want to learn how to be a better compromiser. Fortunately, Debbie is patient enough to know that when it comes to compromise, I can be a slow learner. I want to be more spontaneous, more accomodating. And with my love for her already making that possible in our relationship, I know sharing a home is just the next step.

In a recent moment of panic after being selected for jury duty (more specifically, a grand jury requiring a total of 30 days of service), I turned to a classic tome a friend of mine once recommended in times of distress: the Tao Te Ching, the text fundamental to Taoism. Huffing and puffing in frustration, I opened to a random passage and read the first line of translated Chinese:

“The flexible are preserved unbroken.”

Typically I dismiss any religious or spiritual writing as mere mumbo jumbo, but these words struck a chord. Perhaps I was simply desperate for some confirmation that serving on a grand jury is not, in fact, a death sentence (I later discovered that it’s not so bad), but I instantly found great solace in the ancient philosophical maxim. Finding flexibility is not always simple task — but doing so makes survival possible, and teaches us something new in the process.

We yearn for control and predictability because it’s so easy to feel helpless in such a mysterious, expanding universe. Helplessness lies at the root anxiety, depression, and obsessive compulsive disorder. But helplessness can also drive us to become artists, thinkers, inventors – it can give us a reason to strive for greatness, to find meaning for our existence. Perhaps most importantly, when harnessed for good, helplessness makes true love all the more beautiful and important. If you can share the struggle with another person, you might just make it out alright.

Hopefully I remember all of this the next time my girlfriend tells me it’s too cold outside for shorts.

Dave and Ethan: Using a Hype Man to Pick Up Ladies

actualconversation — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 13:56:31 -0400

In the latest Dave and Ethan installment, we acted as each other’s “hype men” in order to pick up women. If you haven’t seen the videos yet on our YouTube channel, you can check out parts 1 and 2 right here!

Using A Hype Man to Pick Up Ladies - PART 1:

Using A Hype Man to Pick Up Ladies - PART 2:

Draft Magazine - 2012 Essay Contest Winner

actualconversation — Thu, 26 Jul 2012 15:54:00 -0400

(Originally appeared in Draft Magazine as “Rolling Ahead,” July/Aug 2012)

Back in winter, we asked our readers who most influenced the way they drink, and to write about it for our annual essay contest. Our winner is Ethan Fixell, whose story below tells how a sip of his grandpa’s Rolling Rock set him on the road to beer consciousness.

Grandpa Lee was the first person I had ever seen drink beer. To watch him swig from a bottle of Rolling Rock while grilling outside on a hot summer day was a tradition I not only took comfort in witnessing, but soon longed to participate in as well. His theatrical “ahhh” punctuating each gulp only reinforced the refreshing qualities of the forbidden beverage.

“Why can’t I try?” I would ask, once too old to continue believing that the liquid in question was “just soda.”

“Because he’s too young,” my mother would always interject before Grandpa could respond.

That is, until one day, at the age of 13, I was finally, secretly offered a sip. “Don’t get too used to this,” Grandpa said with a playful poke.

Suppressing a wince, I would unknowingly announce my first official review of hundreds to come: “Tastes like bread-flavored seltzer.” But there was something indescribably romantic about the experience, too – just as I knew I would one day grow chest hair, I also somehow knew I would grow to appreciate beer.

When I asked my grandpa why he drank Rolling Rock over all the other more well-known brands endorsed by cool canine mascots and sexy beach-party-goers on television, he explained that it was an honest, dependable brew which he had first tried with coworkers in Pennsylvania shortly before I was born. Commuting between Wilkes-Barre, PA, and Rockville Centre, NY, he would bring home a case of the otherwise unavailable lager each month. Thankfully, Rolling Rock had finally gained distribution in New York, saving him a three hour drive each time his supply ran out.

Throughout college and my first years on my own, Rolling Rock was my beer of choice. If it bore the seal of approval from a drinking veteran with over 50 years of experience, I reasoned that it was good enough for me. I also admit that each bottle conjured a good bit of nostalgia – drinking one always made me feel closer to my grandpa while hundreds of miles away.

By the time I was 24, I noticed one evening that the usual stacks of Rolling Rock cases in my grandparents’ basement had been replaced by a few stray six packs of various labels. I asked my Grandpa about the change, and he explained that Rolling Rock – having just been bought by Anheuser-Busch – wasn’t being made in Latrobe, Pennsylvania, anymore. The beer now “lacked consistency,” so he had given it up altogether.

Taking my cues from a man who always had high standards for quality, I, too, felt betrayed by the disappointing news. I suddenly realized that I needed to pay closer attention to that which I imbibe, and resolved that some experimentation was in order. After some cursory internet research, I discovered the existence of some small but mighty players such as Dogfish Head Brewery and Harpoon, and made a pledge to seek out and try as many craft beers as possible.

At first, the onslaught of new, delicious flavors I encountered at beer festivals and in barroom flights was entirely overwhelming. Most of the time I could barely remember what I had tasted; the rest of the time, I could barely make out my illegible notes, written like a sugar-addicted 6-year-old set loose in a candy store (there were plenty of “10!!!”s doled out in those days). But soon I would begin to develop a much more sensitive palate, becoming familiar with an array of styles, and slowly realizing what I actually liked or disliked about each IPA or porter. After years of downing corny, watered-down swill, I finally came to understand how beer was actually supposed to taste.

A few months into my craft beer journey, my grandpa and I went out to our favorite seafood restaurant in my neighborhood to dine on raw clams, our mutual favorite food. While he got ready to settle in with a Pabst (the only beer he recognized there), I quickly scanned the beer list for something new he might appreciate. A smooth and tasty Lighthouse Ale by local brewer Fire Island Beer Company seemed like it could offer the perfect transition into craft beer. It turned out I was right, and he let me guide his mealtime beer choice ever since.

Only a few days after I sat down to begin writing this piece, my grandpa at last succumbed to a long battle with cancer. The illness made it impossible for him to drink almost anything – much less beer – for the last few weeks of his life. But even in his physically depleted state, he would still take pleasure in hearing about my own beer experiences as a touring comedian who now makes a point of visiting at least one brewery in every U.S. state I perform in. Of course, I took immense pride in being able to share my newfound knowledge with the man who taught me to love beer in the first place. My only regret is that I never took the time to tell Grandpa Lee about how each new beer I sample always takes me back to the experience of sharing my very first Rolling Rock with him.

Talking Music With The Daily Guru

actualconversation — Wed, 27 Jun 2012 08:49:51 -0400

The Daily Guru is the only guy I know who knows more about music than I do. Check out my recent appearances on his YouTube channel, in which we play musical word association, and share some of our favorite songs and albums of the month!

Saturday Smorgasbord:

The Playlist:

The Burn

actualconversation — Mon, 28 May 2012 08:44:02 -0400

(Originally appeared on YourTango.com as “The Threat Of Loss Is The Only Thing That Makes Love Worthwhile,” May 2012)

Try this,” I said, passing her a brimming rocks glass.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Maybe the best bourbon you’ll ever taste in your life.” Sometimes I fancy myself the Willy Wonka of adult beverages.

Her nose wrinkled as she raised a hand to stop me. “No thanks, I’m okay.”

“You don’t like whiskey?”

“I don’t like the burn!” she laughed.

Whatever benefits this rare malt had to offer, my date was not alone in being unable to look past the smart of the first sip — “the burn” is what commonly keeps the uninitiated from whiskey. But connoisseurs know that no matter how intoxicating the bouquet or rich the flavor, whiskey’s not worth drinking without the burn.

Are whiskey drinkers just enthusiastic masochists? Perhaps to some extent, all humans are. Consider love, a fundamental force of nature that tricks us into fulfilling our procreative destinies. Love draws us together and gives us meaning, but not without a harrowing price: whether emotionally or physically, we gain someone whom we stand to lose.

Yet we seem to thrive on the drama. All the anxiety and stress we experience from the chase, from the arguments, from the uncertainty of it all, is not only worth it for the payoff, it’s part of what keeps us coming back for more. This addictive paradox invigorates us by reaffirming our mortality just as the sting of alcohol does. As with alcohol, the key is moderation – balancing the painful elements with the finer, more delicate elements of a meaningful relationship. No one wants pure burn, or we’d drink gasoline. Easier said than done, of course, as we all swig too deeply sometimes….

Two months after the whiskey offering, my excitement about Debbie had grown exponentially. I began to fantasize about our future together like a rom-com serial bridesmaid who’s finally met her groom (I’m played by Jennifer Aniston in my film). We spoke more and more frequently, and I pushed for more and more dates. My not-yet-girlfriend enthusiastically complied, and soon we could both read the print on the signs above each fork of the road ahead: “Exclusivetown” and “Dumpsville.”

Historically, I had always categorized women into “lifelong partners” or “doomed incompatibles.” Inevitably every sweetheart – even those running a strong race for six months, or even a year – would eventually land in the latter grouping. I suppose I felt safe and secure in doomed relationships because I could envision their finite boundaries and escape at any time. It’s impossible to know for sure if this pattern perpetually resurfaced because I valued freedom above love or I simply hadn’t yet met anyone worth dating for a lifetime. Nevertheless, this was my M.O.

And so, as we approached our impending crossroad, and I began to sense, from her sudden reticence, that Debbie was starting to get nervous—I remembered to get nervous. Staring down the barrel of what could quickly and easily become my most serious relationship to date, I became petrified by the prospect of supreme commitment, no matter how far away such a fate may have actually been, if at all. Our relationship had legitimate potential, and it was scaring the crap out of both of us. (Sorry, Grandma, but apparently “nice Jewish girls” are as susceptible to anxiety as we nice Jewish boys are.)

The unspoken tensions came to a head when, after sitting silently through an entire movie at her apartment, I asked her what she was thinking about. Following a long, awkward pause, she explained that she needed space. Overwhelmed, she felt we would benefit from spending fewer days together each week. I told her I agreed, but was secretly panicking inside.

The next morning, I saw my therapist. (Hey, I may not have been equipped to fix my own intimacy issues, but at least I had the sense to not push the eject button before consulting a professional first.) I told him about the girl I had come to like so much, and about how invested we had become in one another. I told him about her pulling away, unnerved and frightened, and how it had triggered my own apprehensions. I told him about how uncomfortable it felt to have no roadmap while paradoxically dreading long-term commitment at the same time. And I told him about my plan for swiftly ending the relationship, defusing the ticking timebomb before it could blow up in my face.

“Did you ask her if she wants to break up?” asked the doctor.

“Yes,” I responded.

He sat back in his chaise lounge and placed his hands behind his head, weaving his fingers through wild, white, Einsteinian locks. “And what did she say?”

“No.”

He stared at me and smiled knowingly. “Then listen to what she wants. Don’t be afraid of a little discomfort in the process.”

Of course, he was talking about the burn. Why fear the burn? Because opening yourself up to it — allowing yourself to be vulnerable to pain — is downright frightening. What if it scorches my throat, we think, what if I can’t get the bitter taste out of my mouth? What if I drown?

What I had failed to remember in the midst of panic is that love is only made better by the growing pains. Intimacy without fear of loss is just sex; in those precious early stages of a blossoming relationship, sometimes we need to feel like we could lose control at any moment, punch drunk and coughing ad infinitum. That little taste of trouble makes us feel alive and keeps love vibrant and new. Instead of fighting it, I needed to relinquish control over the outcome of this adventure, and accept the possibility of a beautiful failure. Don’t run from the burn, I intoned to myself, live in it.

Debbie and I didn’t speak at all that day. We didn’t speak the next day either.I gave her the space she needed, realizing she was a step ahead of me this whole time. While I had become too available, too accessible in the delicate opening moments of the romance, she was needing to long for me. She was never scared of the burn – she was yearning for it.

After two days of radio silence, Debbie sent me a text message asking what I was up to. Excited to hear from her, but resolved to embrace the ambiguity of our situation, I reported back positively and self-assuredly, without any subtext. Slowly, over the course of a week, we began communicating naturally once again. It seemed that by welcoming the uncertainty of it all, I had somehow conveyed a mysterious confidence which made me more attractive than ever before. Soon we were spending more time together than we had previously, and were at ease expressing our mutual desire to do so.

While our anticipation continued to melt into a productive fuel that nourished the relationship, we found that there are additional bittersweet checkpoints beyond the three-month mark. When I finally mustered the courage to express greater feelings for her (gulp: love), we endured a similar period of turbulence. Throughout the two weeks it took her to gather the nerve to reciprocate, I felt as if I were skydiving without a parachute, uncertain if my fall would be broken by a fluffy, comfy cloud, or a ditch by the side of the road.

By the time we celebrated our first anniversary – an unspoken point of reflection to consider dating for another year or more – we were both better prepared to take a bit more enjoyment from the terrifying act of freefalling together. And our most recent plunge was the decision to move in together, which brought with it a whole new array of anxieties to keep us up at night (e.g., “What if we get sick of each other?” “Are we compatible roommates?” “Whose blender do we keep???”) The difference now, however, from previous incarnations of the burn, is that we are able to talk openly about wanting to continue cultivating the relationship. Knowing your partner isn’t interested in leaving makes it easier to take joy from the ache of adjusting to each new phase of the relationship.

Not that we’re immune to daily conflict. While accustomed drinkers will find that the burn can become more familiar and easier to tolerate as a whiskey matures, thankfully love has its own way of maintaining a healthy burn volume: An energizing disagreement over plans for the weekend, an insensitive joke, or even control of the TV remote can fire things up and cleanse the buildup of arising tensions.

Nearly a year after turning down her first prospective dive into single barrel whiskey, my girlfriend finally accepted a second offer of the Wild Turkey “Kentucky Spirit” I had once presented to her before. Debbie drinks bourbon now – loves the stuff, in fact. For the sake of full disclosure, she often takes her whiskey in a Manhattan. But I have nothing but love and respect for that noble cocktail – beneath the sweet vermouth and dashes of aromatic bitters, one can always still detect that sharp, delicious burn.

Update on "Ask A Guy" at gURL.com

actualconversation — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 09:01:09 -0400

I’ve been writing the “Ask A Guy” dating advice column for over five months now at gURL.com, and the feedback and support has been really fantastic. Last month I explained how to talk to shy guys and, in what has apparently proven to be my most “controversial” post yet, what guys actually think about padded bras.

If you haven’t stopped by in awhile, here are two of the questions I’ve answered this month!

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(Originally appeared on gURL.com on Apr 3, 2012)

“Dear Ethan: Why are guys so sensitive about stuff?! My boyfriend always jokes around with me about and I’m always a good sport about it… I know he’s just kidding. But if I make one little joke about his appearance, stuff we do in bed or his down there situation, he gets totally upset and miserable. Also, he lets me know when he thinks other girls are cute – but if I say a guy is cute or talk too much about my favorite male celebrity, he gets insulted. Why can guys dish it out but not take it?”

While many of us guys can certainly afford to be more sensitive to the needs and emotions of the fairer sex, I think it’s safe to say that women are just as sensitive about physical shortcomings as we are. Sure, I hate the fact that my arms and pectoral muscles look like those of a six-year-old girl, but I know plenty of ladies who are just as self-conscious about their own bodies. Whether due to weight, height, or a squeaky laugh that sounds like a dolphin mating call, we all have insecurities. Guys and girls may have different ways of expressing such embarrassment, but no one is immune – so try to follow the Golden Rule and not poke fun at that which your boyfriend is touchiest about.

Now, I’m not entirely sure what his “down there situation” is, but hopefully he’s not missing any pieces. Otherwise, I’ll assume you’re referring to his performance in the bedroom, which can certainly be a sore spot (no pun intended) for guys. Our goods “down there” are the source of our masculinity and virility, so a malfunction due to such factors as nerves or alcohol can be a huge blow to our egos – especially for younger men with less sexual experience and, therefore, less confidence. If your relationship is fairly new, you might want to avoid the sex jokes until your guy is comfortable enough to take them (or learns to grow a bigger penis).

Joke! (Wait a few months before using that one.)

However, I do agree with you that the double standard he’s set when it comes to talking about other girls is totally unfair. A guy who comments on other ladies needs to have enough confidence to stomach your assessments of other dudes. Point this hypocritical habit out to him, and let him know he can’t have it both ways. If he can’t handle the discussion or is unable to see the contradiction, then he’ll have to agree to a joint moratorium on pointing out other attractive people altogether. And if there’s simply no way to reason with him, you might need to find a more mature guy who’s capable of dishing it out and taking it – though you might have to crush a few souls to find him!

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(Originally appeared on gURL.com on Apr 10, 2012)

“What do guys think about periods? Do they find them totally gross? Are they a huge turnoff? Will a guy still want to have sex with a girl if she has her period? Or will he not even want to make out with her?”

Sure, immature guys may think periods are gross, but these are usually the same dudes who deny the fact that girls “go Number 2.” The vast majority of men understand that your period is just a natural part of womanhood. Any guy who’s turned off by the fact that you menstruate simply isn’t ready for sex in general.

With that said, there’s no need to flaunt your period and talk too graphically about it with someone you’ve just begun dating (or have dated for a long time, if your boyfriend is the uneasy type who gets queasy on roller coasters and at horror movies). Just as you could probably do without your boyfriend vividly describing the size and smell of his latest bathroom creation, your boyfriend doesn’t necessarily need to hear every detail about your time of the month.

But when it comes to hooking up during your period, male perspectives can be subjective and circumstantial. For example, if you’re comfortable with it, many guys I know have no problem putting their hand “down there” as long as you give them a heads up. On the other hand, though it’s theoretically safe to do so, most guys I know would rather not perform oral sex during menstruation. And vaginal sex seems to split both guys and girls down the middle, as some seem to prefer to wait the period out while others have no problem with it whatsoever. Of course, all of these scenarios also depend on how heavy the flow is.

Speaking of which, I should make a quick public service announcement and mention that regardless of personal preferences, there is a higher risk of STD infection during menstruation. The more blood and bodily fluids (i.e. saliva or natural lubrication) involved, the more easily a virus can be transmitted to either partner. So make sure you’re both protected if you choose to engage in any type of sex — but especially during your period.

Oh, and if a guy refuses to make out with you while you have your period, then he’s either an ultra-Orthodox Jew or an ignorant jerk –- so unless you’re already studying the Torah, he’s definitely not for you!

Ten Hard-Earned Rules for Double Dating

actualconversation — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 10:48:49 -0400

(Originally appeared on Nerve.com, Feb 2012)

I’ve been on my fair share of double dates — certainly more than anyone I know; perhaps more than anyone in this country. Thanks to a video posted on YouTube and some corresponding ads on Craiglist, my friend Dave and I have been on close to 200 of them in the course of just a few years, documenting our romantic/terrifying journey in the process (http://youtube.com/daveandethan). And from these numerous trysts – many of which were utterly disastrous – I’ve come to understand the unspoken “rules” of double dating. The following guidelines will assure the conversion of any double date into a night of true love.

….Or, at least, a night of lovemaking.

1. Don’t choose a wingperson who is better looking than you.

Not long before embarking on my journey with Dave, I winged a double date with an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Despite my charming personality and his struggle with the English language, I failed to garner any attention from the ladies, and he received two lap dances. (And neither of the girls were strippers by trade.)

For best results, partner up with someone in your “league.”

2. Screen your dates thoroughly.

While I find the comfortable informality of double dating generally preferable to the traditional form, I admit that it can promote deception and ulterior motives. During one particular misadventure with Dave, it became clear quite quickly that only one of our dates was interested in only one of us. While the girl flirted openly with me, her unenthused wingwoman – apparently doing her friend a “favor,” as we later learned – stoically texted every contact in her address book as Dave serenaded her with an arsenal of John Legend songs.

On a more disturbing rendezvous, we treated one pair of suspiciously youthful ladies to cocktail after cocktail, only to discover – upon their producing workers permits when finally carded – that they were underage girls merely looking to experience “wastedness” for the first time together.

However, by obtaining multiple photos and engaging in brief, but comprehensive phone conversations, you and your wingperson may avoid disappointment…or a night in jail.

3. Never call dibs.

Dave and I have more than once made the awful mistake of marking territory sight unseen. Not only have there been instances in which we were required to “trade” our original picks midway through the evening, but there were also disputes far less resolvable. A clash over one notably attractive female even resulted in fisticuffs, and nearly in the termination of our entire project.

Rather than laying claim to dates before actually meeting them, I strongly suggest keeping an open mind and allowing the night to take its course. If no clear lines have been drawn by the close of the evening, fight your friend to the death for the hotter one.

4. Pick a venue suitable for a foursome.

In an attempt to impress a semi-pro figure skater, Dave convinced me that an ice skating rink would be the perfect site for a double date. He was proven wrong when my date – who had never skated before – ended up smashing her face into the boards.

Consider the interests of all four daters when planning a group activity. For example, avoid bars that seat linearly, which will exclude those sitting on either end. Tables are a must; round tables, even better; blankets and laps: ideal.

5. Pre-determine plans for payment.

Gentlemen: before the date begins, work out which of you will be paying for each part of the night and how (e.g. cash, credit, etc.). This will prevent a host of potentially awkward moments later. (“I’ll get this one, dude.” “No, it’s fine, I got it.” “Please, allow me.” “Are you sure?” “Why, you want to split it?” “Maybe that’s easier?” “I’m not sure.” “Okay, who had the lychee martini?”)

Ladies: practice your feigned protests long before the date to ensure an air of “authentic” gratitude when the bill comes.

6. Establish a “safeword.”

Should the date head south, it’s important to have an unusual word or phrase which can be uttered at any point, thus triggering your wingperson to come to your rescue. Perhaps best employed to diffuse unwanted sexual tension (as when Dave, upon hearing the code, intercepted an unattractive woman’s third attempt to kiss me with a mood-killing nonsequitur about “the art of the ‘mangina’”), this backpocket ace is one of the greatest benefits of double dating. You can even establish a second word as an emergency ripcord for ending the date entirely (as would have been useful for the girls who panicked upon hearing Dave’s offer to demonstrate said “mangina”).

Make sure the “safeword” is something you wouldn’t normally interject into conversation to avoid false alarms. In the past, Dave and I have used “mani-pedi,” “Beyonce,”and “Dancing With The Stars.”

7. Coordinate, but don’t imitate.

Before Dave and I became full-time comedians, we held day jobs with dress codes. But because Dave’s occupation required him to work weekends, he was once forced to show up to a Saturday night date in a suit and tie, while I donned my casual weekend wear, jeans and a t-shirt. Together, we looked like lawyer and client en route to a parole hearing. Always consult with your wingperson about wardrobe before meeting for the date.

Although you don’t want to resemble Law & Order characters from opposite sides of the track, you also don’t want to look like creepy clones. A pair of twins once showed up to a date in the same exact sundress. It was like Dave and I had walked onto the set of The Shining.

8. Avoid inside jokes.

One especially insufferable duo alienated us with their many inside jokes. They squealed whenever Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” was played, chattered incessantly about their mutual love for the color pink, and repeated the same outdated tween catch phrase (“That’s so Raven!”) at least four hundred times. While it’s great to have a wingperson you’re super close with, remember that a double date is first and foremost about meeting new people, not bonding with your best friend.

9. Promote your wingperson.

Double dating not only offers twice the chances of finding a match – it also provides you with a partner who can offer protection or help build you up. If your wingperson is at a loss for words or, worse, makes a faux pas, lay down some cover! Shamefully, there was an occasion in which I inappropriately verbalized my chronic fear of STDs (“You girls are clean, right?”), but thankfully, Dave was there to smooth things over (“My buddy, Ethan — such a neatfreak!”). Dave has also frequently supported me with highly subtle compliments: “Some say Ethan looks like Maroon 5’s Adam Levine. But his ‘moves like Jagger’ aren’t on the dance floor.”

Work as a team to obtain the best chance that you’ll both score.

10. Loyalty above all!

Although the objective of a double date is to meet new people, always stay faithful to your wingperson. For example, if your wingman excuses himself to the bathroom, don’t propose a threesome. Like Dave did. Instead, remind yourself that he or she was there for you before the date began, and that friendships often last longer than romances ever do.

And if the three-way is a sure thing, and the girls are super hot, and even your friend totally understands that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity — please, don’t start the action while that friend is still in the room. ….You know, like Dave did?

Seven Lessons Learned in Serial (SUPER Serial) Internet Dating

actualconversation — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 09:00:06 -0500

(Originally appeared on AskMen.com as “Blind Date Advice,” Jan 2012)

While working for a cable TV network four years ago, I somehow landed two free tickets to a stand-up show at New York’s Gotham Comedy, and decided to invite my childhood friend and fellow comedian, Dave. At the event, we were rushed to the head of the line and seated in the front row with complimentary cocktails as VIPs. I could sense the audience puzzling over the identity of the young gay power couple that had just entered the room.

Later, over a few more drinks (or six) at his place, Dave revealed what had been stumping him all night: “Dude, thanks for the show – but why would you invite me when you could have impressed the hell out of a chick?”

He was right, but it was too late to take his ticket back. We did conclude, at least, that we should both be better employing our assets to impress girls. In fact, we reasoned, as two funny former improv troupe teammates, we could probably kill it if we joined forces.

So that night, Dave and I uploaded a YouTube video in which we described our interests (e.g. making money, walking) and requirements (e.g. STD-free, legally sane). Twenty minutes and six views later (thank you, “refresh” button), we learned our first of many lessons in internet dating:

1) Market yourself.

Without advertising, how else were women supposed to find our video? I suggested that we post an ad on New York City’s Craigslist highlighting some of the many positive qualities our Grandmothers had always admired us for (e.g. handsomeness, height, the ability to lift extremely heavy things) and some they had not (e.g. modesty).

Within hours of publishing the ad, we had already learned a second lesson:

2) Expect a challenge.

Messages began to pour into our new joint email account – most of which were from seemingly imbalanced women who type in all caps. Plenty weren’t from women at all, such as the gentleman who proposed that we “both bend [him] over and take turns slamming [his] butt.” All of our friends told us we were nuts – some, because they were secretly jealous; most, because they thought we were nuts. For obvious reasons, we refrained from telling our sweet, Jewish mothers about the mayhem overflowing from our inbox.

Merely one week into the project we’d amassed hundreds of potential love matches, but had yet to capitalize on our bounty. So we sat down and wrote back to a cute Brooklyn pair who seemed least likely to murder us. Once they had approved our proposed plan, Dave and I laid out a few ground rules for the evening (i.e. he wouldn’t liken me to a “poor man’s Tom Hanks,” and I wouldn’t talk about him shaving his feet in high school) and met the ladies at a laid back Williamsburg pub.

With introductions barely underway, I noticed the waitress creeping up on our table, gesturing to politely interrupt. “I’m sorry – but are you Dave and Ethan?” she finally interjected between our awkward sips of water. I repressed a spit-take and saved our equally shocked dates from a dousing, water now dribbling unsexily down my chin.

“We are,” Dave responded, barely suppressing his pride for our entirely undeserved celebrity.

The waitress smiled as our dates stared at us, slack-jawed. “I thought so. My friends and I have seen your video.” She walked back into the kitchen.

“Do you get that often?” one of our companions asked.

3) Never take a gift for granted.

“Oh, you know…sometimes,” I lied terribly.

That first date continued to go fairly well until, due to nerves or a lack of interest, we bailed on what was about to become a dual make out session (alright — we totally panicked).

4) Again, never take a gift for granted.

Perhaps out of spite, one of the girls “pranked” Dave the next day by accusing him of impregnating her (our first immaculate conception) as her friend cackled in the background. Did I mention these girls were young?

5) Screen, screen, SCREEN your dates.

Not as young, however, as the girls who posed as 21-year-olds, only to reveal their true age (*cough* 16) when producing workers’ permits as ID at our first bar stop of the night. Nor were either of them as crazy as the meth-addicted ex-soft-core-porn-star who attemped to force her way into my apartment despite repeated denials. Nor as drunk as the vodka-swilling, filthy-mouthed military chick who stole my watch and a bottle of whiskey before running off for a threesome with Dave and her friend, leaving me passed out alone on the couch in my underwear.

6) Pace Yourself.

After dozens of New York engagements, Dave and I decided to expand to other cities. Soon, thousands of emails had arrived from Boston, Philadelphia, Los Angeles…even London and Sydney. We would eventually entertain over 200 dates, and our experiences were translated into a live comedy show at the People’s Improv Theater. The “educational” show became popular with college students and gave way to a national tour, allowing us to perform at hundreds of schools across the country over the last three years.

In our quest for romance, we’ve learned plenty. But perhaps no lesson is as important as this:

7) Look out for your wingman.

Because in the end, friendship almost always outlasts love.*

(*Dave forced me to include this one.)

Suicide Girl

actualconversation — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 09:00:05 -0500

(Originally appeared on YourTango.com, Jan 2012)

On a whim a few years ago, my friend Dave and I posted a YouTube video in which we invited women to double date us. In the months to follow, we would embark on over 200 double dates together, many of which would provide us with horror stories for a live comedy show. However, none were a bigger disappointment than one I experienced on my own.

As usual, it started with an email:

from: tres bien ****@gmail.com
to: daveandethan@gmail.com
date: Sun, Apr 6, 2008 at 8:56 AM
subject: two can have a party

all of my girlfriends are taken.
but ethan, you are adorable.

Finding the email quite sweet (but still scarred by the “naughty 21-year-old college beauty” who turned out to be a 16-year-old high schooler with a worker’s permit for ID), I cautiously wrote back:

why, thank you. feel free to send a photo, and if we find another single “dave fan” we can have ourselves a party. (dave and i promised each other we’re only doing doubles until we both find love.)

-e

She sent a photo within hours: a strangely expressionless but attractive close-up, her face illuminated as clear as day.

Quickly changing policy (but still scarred by the “fiery 22-year-old Latina” who turned out to be a 45-year-old Puerto Rican transvestite), I secured her number and called the next day. Following a long, casual conversation about mutually adored music, books, and movies, I wrote the following playful email:

ok. here’s what needs to happen:

you’re going to move to ny. preferably this week. then i will completely bail on my plan with dave and single date you myself. screw him—honestly, how many friends do i really need? then, after dating for a few weeks (days?), we can elope.

i propose this all based mostly on the fact that you are incredibly cute.

does this all work for you?

-e

Here is where I made my first mistake, and learned an important dating lesson: Never joke too aggressively with a blind date. Little did I know, I was inviting disaster into my home…. But I’ll get to that.

Over the following week, we engaged in written correspondences filled with flirtation and sexual tension. The excitement came to a peak when she revealed her prior “occupation” over the phone one night:

Ethan: Well, a desk job isn’t inherently bad. Why don’t you like it?
Tres Bien: It’s just so boring. Way more boring than my last job.
Ethan: Which was…
Tres Bien: Are you familiar with Suicide Girls?
Ethan: (long, astonished pause) YOU’RE… A SUICI – Yes. Yes, I believe I’m familiar.

For those who aren’t familiar, SuicideGirls.com is a softcore porn website that features goth, punk, and indie-rock women – often heavily tattooed and photographed in the style of 1950s pin-ups. In other words, dating a Suicide Girl is a former Magic-card-playing, Fugazi-loving emo-teen’s dream come true. I needed to meet her.

Which illuminates the lesson learned from my second mistake: Never fixate romantically on one aspect of your date. Becoming infatuated with a person because of one idealized element of their personality will spark nothing more than inevitable disappointment. However, when a man is gifted with sexy nude shots, lapses in judgment are not uncommon.

So I invited her to take the train from Philadelphia to New York City for a date I’d plan. With that established, I learned more about her via Gchat throughout the week:

Tres Bien: I used to do drugs when I was a teenager
me: Drugs? Like crack?
Tres Bien: Haha no
me: Meth?
Tres Bien: Um…let’s talk about this later ok?
me: Ha, OK. But can I call you Methy McGee?
Tres Bien: No. It’s kind of a touchy subject for me
me: Oh. OK. Sorry
Tres Bien: It’s okay… that’s why I wanted to talk about it in person.

And there was yet another interaction I failed to assign a red flag to:

Tres Bien: so.. if i cant find somewhere to sleep .. theres no way i could sleep on your couch or something? if thats totally weird just say so
me: ha, i mean, honestly, if i had ever met you even just once before, i wouldnt feel weird about it at all. but, i feel like its a lot all at onec, you know?
Tres Bien: yeah thats fine. i understand

But like all the others, I swept this warning sign under the rug. And soon I was waiting patiently on the steps of New York’s midtown Post Office for my future-lover to arrive at Penn Station. Amtrak running late as usual, I waited, and waited, until my phone rang at last. She was here!

“I’m here…” she said quietly, apprehensively – almost a question.

I made my way through the winding station, weaving through corridors and commuters to retrieve her, a precious gem to be plucked from a coal mine. Finally, I arrived at the track, but found no sign of my girl. A few random stragglers peppered the platform: a homeless man, a large woman in a giant overcoat, a young child and his mother, an elderly janitor…none of which resembled my amour. I stood there scanning the room again and again for a full minute until I heard a tiny voice:

“Hi.”

I turned to see the large woman in the giant overcoat. I had no recognition of the stranger in front of me, someone who had likely mistaken me for —

Oh my God. It was she.

I couldn’t have taken more than two seconds to reciprocate her greeting, but a lifetime of emotions cycled through my brain in this instant. Confusion quickly gave way to shock, then disappointment, resentment, and finally, self-pity.

This girl looked nothing like her pictures.

That she was 30 pounds overweight wasn’t the issue – it was the fact that she had deceived me with outdated photos which rattled me. I’d been blindsided: hoodwinked into an evening with a different person than expected.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, and I quickly realized that the reason for her closed mouth in every photo had nothing to do with the “gothy” image I had assumed she wished to uphold: from her front gums protruded what can only be described as The Greatest Snaggletooth in the History of the World. My eight-year-old cousin has a straighter smile – and he only has half of his adult teeth. Trust me, it was bad. She made Steve Buscemi’s mouth pretty.

Thus was a third lesson learned: Never. Trust. Photos.

“I…I’m sorry I didn’t see you at first. I was distracted…about…something else,” I stammered as I led her towards the train station exit.

But she had already begun walking ahead of me. Quickly. I called after her to slow down. She paused and slightly turned her head only long enough to coldly state the obvious:

“I walk quickly.”

While awkwardly dispensing directions to this out-of-towner who refused to be lead, I made the decision that I’d overlook this disturbing introduction by making a fresh start at dinner. So what if she looks a little different than expected, I reasoned. We’d already shared some great conversation – why couldn’t we share a great night together?

My question was answered at the restaurant, as inquiry after inquiry received tersely mumbled responses and eye contact was a feat rarely achieved. Despite being able to hold down perfectly normal interactions for weeks online and over the phone, she was now more inaccessible than an unwed Mormon’s privates.

I tried every approach to lighten the mood: cracking jokes, broaching ultra-casual topics, speaking more, speaking less, even impressions. (Yes, impressions. I’m sorry, Jay Leno.) But nothing seemed to dent her icy wall. Eventually, I went for broke:

“So…why so ‘touchy’ about the whole…you know, meth thing?” I asked.

At last she looked up at me, though slightly horrified it seemed – either that I would inquire again, or perhaps because she was now mentally reliving her meth den days.

“It’s none of your business,” she finally hissed.

The evasion was now too much to bear. Could it be that this whole “meth thing” wasn’t a “thing” as much as an “addiction?” And if so, could drugs somehow be responsible for her stark change in appearance and demeanor? Whatever the answers were, I would eventually learn yet another valuable lesson: When your date refuses to answer questions about prolonged use of mind-melting psychostimulants, it’s time to walk away.

After dinner we saw a comedy show at one of my favorite improv theaters, but the entire performance was a blur. I was too preoccupied with my date’s refusal to reveal a single fact about her personal life. Who was sitting next to me? She could have murdered a thousand babies for all I knew. My eyes fixed on the show, I forced myself to laugh (too loudly) while she stared deep into the abyss, her soul seemingly lost to the darkness.

By the end of the performance, all I could think about was how to get her back as quickly as possible to Philadelphia. Panic set in when we discovered that the last train had departed only minutes ago.

“So we’ll head back to your place?” she asked with a confidence that was, at this point, entirely out of character.

“Oh, it’s late, I think I’m ready for bed,” I euphemized.

“That’s fine,” she responded. “But I’ll stay with you.”

I paused, pondering the most delicate way to deliver rejection. “I thought we…kinda…discussed that already?” I smiled lamely and half-shrugged, my inner Woody Allen bubbling to the surface.

“I’m not gonna try to fuck you.”

“Whoa!”

“Well, I’m not. I won’t even come into your room, if you want. I can sleep on your couch.”

Call me paranoid or heartless, but there was no way I was entertaining the possibility of a potentially mentally ill former nude model / drug addict robbing me or, worse, hacking me to pieces while I slept. In a panic, I explained that my roommate was uptight (an exaggeration) and uncomfortable with strange guests staying over (an outright lie) mainly because he was an Orthodox Jew (if there’s a Hell, I’m going). Then I made her call every New York contact she had in her phone. Eventually she reached some male friend, ex-, or pimp, who said it would be cool for her to come by, and I walked her underground to wait for the first uptown C train to arrive.

“So. Second date?” she asked, flashing her snaggletooth.

“We’ll see,” I lied as the C train came to a stop. I gave her a pitiful hug and gently nudged her onto the subway car.

I think she waved as the train left the station, but I’m not sure – I was already running as fast as I could.

A Lease On Love

actualconversation — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 09:00:05 -0500

(Originally appeared on YourTango.com, Nov 2011)

In 2005, I briefly worked as a real estate agent in New York City, renting downtown luxury apartments to European pioneers, entitled college grads from Long Island, and investment bankers with trophy wives. The job – which I took merely as a means to support myself while pursuing more “noble” efforts as a rock musician – was truly fucking miserable. I was charging extra fees for products already available to anyone willing to spend two hours moseying through the Wall Street area on his or her own. My soul atrophying from the lack of creativity, I felt more useless than a condom at a nursing home.

However, I ultimately learned a lot that year — not only about the real estate industry, but about the psychology of investing as well. I discovered what comforts human beings, encouraging them to commit, and what frightens or discourages people, causing them to jump ship.

Six years later, in the midst of my longest romantic relationship to date, flashes of my real estate past began periodically flooding my overwhelmed mind. Familiar emotions such as fear, desire, anxiety, and consolation were reminiscent of those I had read on the faces of so many potential clients years earlier. And that’s when I came to realize that falling in love is, in many ways, just like investing in real estate. In essence, both processes are held together by checkpoints which can be as stressful as they are gratifying:

Pre-Checkpoint: Playing the Field

The first stage of dating is more casually referred to as “hooking up.” (Or, if you’re looser with the goods, “banging.”) If you were shopping for an apartment, this would be akin to couch surfing – staying with various acquaintances as you explore potential future neighborhoods and search for a place of your own. With zero responsibility attached, many find playing Musical Chairs: Sleepover Edition the most fun part of the entire journey, and, perhaps for good reason, never grow out of it. However, the majority of us eventually desire a deeper level of connection, and a more permanent “residence”…

Checkpoint 1: Going Exclusive

Assuming you haven’t yet decided to return to the open market within the first two or three months of dating (though some stunted commitment-phobes may take as long as six months, often to the chagrin of their blue-in-the-face partner), you might decide to go “exclusive.” Just like subletting an apartment, this is commitment in its most riskless form: you’re dipping the tip in the waters of permanent residency just to see what it feels like. With your own books and furniture still in storage, you can walk out any month you feel like it, without worry of losing a security deposit or (if your partner is particularly vengeful) your balls.

Checkpoint 2: Pledging Devotion

Somewhere between four to seven months in, you pledge devotion to your partner by uttering those three most equally feared and revered words in the English language: “I love you.” And with that single declaration, you, my friend, have signed your first short-term lease. Perhaps you’ve signed for six months, maybe for a year — but by expressing your true feelings so honestly you’ve now made it clear that you aren’t going anywhere…not for awhile, at least. One brutal caveat to this seemingly lovely Checkpoint: once you make the decision to bare your soul, anticipating your partner’s response can be as torturous as waiting for a sweaty old Slovakian landlord from Craigslist to approve you for a killer East Village apartment.

Checkpoint 3: Long-Term Commitment

No matter what your relationship is like, everyone experiences the same Checkpoint 3. If you’ve both made it to One Year without shuddering at the thought of continuing to fondle the same genitals in perpetuity, you are now facing the precipice of a long-term relationship. By celebrating your first anniversary, you are, in essence, celebrating the future of your relationship. And while exciting, this can be an especially frightening checkpoint. The decision to renew your annual lease for another year can feel like doubling down simply because, well, it is. And while a lease can always be broken, the undertaking is anything but easy…

Checkpoint 4: The Co-Op

Whether it’s two, three, four, or ten years after you’ve started dating, eventually you will likely get engaged. Hey, you can only rent for so long, and it’s a buyer’s market. Just as the purchasing of shares in a co-op apartment building forges a contractually permanent housing partnership, a marriage engagement promises a contractually permanent cooperative of love. (Try using this phrasing on your fiancée – she’ll want to elope on the spot.) By the time the contract is signed, the accompanying fear and anxiety of each preceding Checkpoint should be missing from this one. That is, of course, unless you’ve purchased the wrong home. In which case, be afraid. Be very afraid.

I should point out that these days, there is also an exciting moment when real estate and romance intersect quite literally: between Checkpoints 3 and 4 often lies a Checkpoint 3.5, in which a pre-engaged couple decides to move in together. The mingling of personal belongings signifies both parties’ willingness to further intertwine their lives, making separation that much more difficult. Yet, although cohabitation creates complication, it also allows for some pretty sweet rent pro-ration. (Is that a Kanye lyric?)

In reality, timing may vary – these checkpoints are purely emotional, and emerge at their own rate according to the pace of each individual relationship. And of course, I recognize that the blueprint I’ve laid out here reflects a fairly primitive “male” perspective, as it implies eventual “ownership” of the other person. But relationship checkpoints exist for both men and women, and it’s important for couples to acknowledge and discuss them as they come up. If there’s one thing real estate taught me, it’s that open communication with your broker is the only way to ensure your needs as a homeowner are met.

Now go out there and find a nice guy who’s down to get deep into your walk-in closet.

"Ask A Guy" at gURL.com

actualconversation — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 09:24:00 -0500

LADIES! If you’ve got a burning dating question that can only be answered by a dude, I’ve just started writing for gURL.com as their resident male dating expert in a column called “Ask A Guy.” I’m like a Dr. Phil for the Millennial Generation. With more hair. And less dickishness.

Check out my first entry, in which I explain how to tell if your male friend likes you:

gURL.com: “Ask A Guy” with Ethan Fixell

For ALL of my gURL advice, click below!

Bananas

actualconversation — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 09:08:00 -0400

In therapy once (you didn’t think I figured all this shit out on my own, did you?), I told my doctor about an incident which brought me great anxiety: I had accidentally left the house that morning without the banana I had intended to eat for breakfast. And although I faced three potentially sluggish hours at work until lunch, I had no plans of purchasing a replacement at the conveniently located fruit stand in front of my office building. Having just invested in a whole bushel of bananas at the grocery store, how could I justify buying yet another when it was my fault for forgetting one of the many I’d already purchased?

My shrink pointed out that I have a tendency to punish myself for even the smallest, most honest mistakes, and need to be less hard on myself. Refusing to buy a new banana doesn’t prove anything; it only hinders your energy level—and therefore, productivity—even further. Spending a quarter on a new banana is actually the most rational course of action one could possibly take.

I thought this analysis was brilliant, and proudly declared that upon leaving the session, I would acquire a new banana. Anxiety, I realized, could be swiftly dispelled simply by defying my obsessive instincts — by forcing myself to do that which makes me so irrationally uncomfortable. I chuckled at how obvious the solution was: “Just buy the banana!” A new man, I practically skipped my way to the fruit stand with a smile from ear to ear. Triumphant movie music played in my head, as if I were the hero of a John Hughes movie, crowned Prom King at last despite a crippling stutter and lack of fashion sense. I had prevailed.

At the fruit stand, I picked up the largest, freshest banana I could find, and raised it like a trophy. “One banana, please,” I proclaimed defiantly to the man at the cart. Here I was, daring to step outside my comfort zone; discovering things about myself which I had previously refused to believe. What progress I had made!

Mechanically, the fruit vendor extended his hand, palm-up. “Fifty cents.”

I stood there, paralyzed. Motionless. Struggling to gather the words that were failing me at the moment, but nothing was coming.

“What?” I eventually managed to stammer.

“Fifty cents,” he repeated emphatically.

I stared at him blankly, silently. At last, I leaked an incredulous laugh.

“You want 50 cents…for one banana?! Fuck that.”

And I hauled my cheap ass up to the office to drink free coffee instead.

Quit Your Day Job

actualconversation — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 11:05:00 -0400

On CBS Sunday Morning a few months ago, financial guru and shoulder pad model Suze Orman gave one of her classic lectures to the desperate American public:

“Many of us are gonna spend more years in retirement than we ever did working. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you’re gonna retire when you are 59, 62…Chances are, you are not. Perfect retirement age is 67. If you can postpone til 70, that’s even better. If you can wait and take social security to those ages as well, that’s great .”

She loaded her pointer fingers and fired with emphatic pauses:

“Don’t. retire. before. your time.”

Sure, her advice was sound. But what I want to know is: who are these people who want to retire at the age of 59? It blows my mind that anyone would stick with a career they dread so much that they actually look forwardto the day they can afford to quit. What’s the point of living to retirement age if you’re absolutely miserable for a third of your waking hours until then?

I’ll be the first to admit I’m supremely lucky. I came from a great family, got a great education, and had enough financial and emotional support in order to follow my dreams. And I recognize that with a widening socioeconomic gap and a rapidly disappearing middle class, the average American can’t focus on becoming the first white reggaeton artist when he’s having a hard enough time just trying to feed himself. But simultaneously, an epidemic of laziness is plaguing a new caste of “discontented non-destitute,” and it needs to be addressed.

Perhaps class priorities were best summarized by comedians Marc Maron and Demetri Martin in a recent episode of Maron’s stellar podcast, WTF (I’m paraphrasing here):

Laborers want their children to be merchants. Merchants want their kids to be professionals. Professionals, academics. Academics, artists. Artists don’t care what their kids become. And rich people just don’t want their kids to kill themselves.

So yes, I’m addressing the rich kids – but more accurately, I’m addressing anyone who has the opportunity to choose his or her own career.

Work is work – it will never be all roses. There will be days when you’d rather curl up in the bathtub with a bottle of merlot and bathe in your own tears than clock in. But work should be fulfilling in its own right, with even the most challenging of days eventually providing a sense of accomplishment, a boost of confidence, or a bit of newfound wisdom. Whether you’re passionate about achieving specific goals, or have no idea what you want to do with your life, anyone with the financial wiggle-room to take risks or experiment has the responsibility to do so. Not only do you owe it to yourself to reach for fulfillment, but to abstain is an insult to those who don’t have the same freedom.

Furthermore, if you are someone still unsure about your intended path in life; if you’ve bounced from career to career but have yet to find that dream job; if you’ve finally settled into a boring, uninspiring position which pays well enough, but elicits a level of enthusiasm ranging from “very little” to “Darfurian” – why wouldn’t you spend every spare moment searching for an alternative to the mind-numbing sadness that is your day job?

And let’s not forget that average lifespan in the U.S. is now 79 years. If you retire at 59, what the hell are you doing for the next twenty? TV, golf, and freestyle farting all get old, my friends. My Dad turned 59 this year, and he wouldn’t dream of retiring from financial consulting yet. I’d probably prefer coal mining over following in his footsteps, but I assure you that he looks forward to returning to work every Sunday night. My Grandfather was also a financial consultant (sorry to break tradition guys, but at least we know low-hanging testicles will be in the family for years to come), and only retired this year at the age of 86. Like my father, he loved his job.

Some say they can’t be defined by work, and that they live for family or leisure. Obviously I can’t contest what makes someone happy, but if a person maintaining that point of view is also employed, they should at least find their work pleasant. Being ready for retirement when the time comes isn’t the same as starting the countdown at age 40 with a gun under the mattress as insurance.

I also realize that I’ve been flippantly generalizing about the lives of millions of unique individuals with complex, exclusive situations. This isn’t a PhD dissertation or a call for revolution: I’m just asking people to give a fuck. If not about the world, then at least about yourself. For those of you stable enough, agile enough, brave enough to push yourselves…do it! Because if you’re not happy at work, I won’t be happy when your miserable, bitter ass cuts me in line at Pinkberry.