The Bonfire Boys

Every bonfire has them. Best referred to as "the Bonfire Boys," these smoky-scented dudes are a group of guys that sit around the bonfire and satisfy each of the stereotypes that make up a gathering of dudes around a bonfire. Even though we all know them, it's good to have a quick reference. Here's a rundown of those stereotypes...


1. The Guy who Constantly Stirs the Fire with a Stick
You could be having the most urban of bonfires, and somehow this guy still finds a 4 to 6 foot long stick. He's constantly probing the fire with this stick as if he doesn't know what else to do with his hands or as if he is genuinely concerned about the welfare of the fire and thinks that the best way to keep the fire afloat is to constantly stir the ashes beneath the flames.


2. The Funny Guy
This guy is the catalyst to bonfire conversation. He tells great stories, absorbs what could've been quiet conversation space, and makes it fun to drink around the bonfire. So what if he talks a little too much, you're drinking bud heavies and he's right there with you in booze and all the while getting more entertaining.


3. The Veteran of Bonfires
Apparently this guy has never missed a bonfire. Through verbal cues, you can approximate his bonfire tenure to the nearest 5 occurrences. He's visibly jealous of the funny guy, and can't really tell a story like he can.


4. The Dipshit
Over the course of the bonfire, it is a guarantee that he will do at least one of these 4 things: 1. Bring a conversation to a halt with something stupid that he has to say. 2. Somehow nearly extinguish a previously thriving fire. 3. Somehow nearly fall into the fire. 4. Fall into the fire.


5. The Quiet Guy that Acknowledges Everything
This guy is kind of like the stick guy from above, except he isn't really annoying at all. He hardly says anything, and just listens to everyone else talk while nodding his head and slow-roasting marshmallows.


6. The Guy that Emerges from the Darkness
Is that Val Kilmer?  Damn... nope, it isn't.  This is the guy that arrives two hours after the bonfire has started. He is one of the more well-liked guys in the group. How do we know this? We know this based on the reception he gets from everyone else and the fact that he emerged from the darkness instead of creepily basking in it.


7. The Guy that Stays in the Darkness
Always at the periphery of the bonfire glow, this fella never seems to ever breach the social circle of the bonfire. He just could never say the right thing, the witty thing, or anything with the right timing that would have granted him something better than outer-circle awkwardness.


8. Too Hot/Too Cold Guy
This guy is constantly shuffling his seat closer to the bonfire to only bring his seat farther away only moments later. He can never seem to find the right depth at which to spectate a bonfire. He's too hot/too cold guy!

The Establishments of Man

Every now and again a man just needs a getaway. This necessity has spawned things such as "the two-car garage that never has a car in it" and "hunting camp." It has evolved into the Den and the Mancave. But could it go farther? Has it already gone farther and we just haven't concisely defined it yet? (All homoerotic overtones will try to be avoided, but at times may appear inevitable).



Here is a rough hierarchy starting from the most primitive and least involved to the least primitive and most involved.





The Hunting Blind

Whether it be six feet in height on the ground, or 6 inches in height and on a tree, very few things in life connect man with nature better than the Hunting Blind. Invented by Fred Bear sometime in the 1930s, the hunting blind was one of modern man's first retreat destinations. The ground mounted hunting blind was simply constructed, yet detailed acoustic consideration was taken into account (i.e. the rectangular slot machined for accommodating a gun barrel).

The predominant color of these blinds was black, with a few avid hunters opting for green (possibly an instinctual gravitation toward deep woods covert-ness). During harsh winter months, the Hunting Blind sometimes doubled as an Ice Shanty (which ranked slightly behind the Hunting Blind in our Establishment Survey results due to a smaller amount of mantime usually spent in it).


Hundreds of years from now, Archaeologists (and surviving hippies) will venture into the woodlands that were once fauna-filled and find these dry-rotted plywood artifacts. Amazingly enough though, with the last name and address of the owner of the blind still in tact, they will find out more about the Cabela's bargain hunting generation than they ever thought possible.





The Fishing Hole

Ahhhhh... The Fishing Hole. The most likely place to find a man looking to escape his problems during the summer months. A place where you can silence your Mariner outboard motor and let your troubles whisk away... until you snag your line on a hidden underwater sea log. A place where you can wear your fishing lures on your hat and nobody will judge you. A place where a babbling brook is much better than a nagging significant other.  Okay... you get the point.





The 50 year old Sports Bar

Keno. Cheap beer. Worn out barstools.  Has beens.  Never was's.  This place has it all. Probably the last place in your area to comply with anti-smoking legislation. You have your regulars: Dale, Tim, Jeff, Mike who just got laid off, and of course Alfred, who hasn't had a job in 23 years but somehow can support a pretty steady diet of booze and Marlboro Golds.

This place has been a retreat for men in nearly all relationship situations (divorced, about to be divorced, contemplating divorce, calculating the cost of an attorney, and Alfred). The bartender knows everyone on a firstname basis over the age of 26 and is either drying off glasses or asking "what'll it be?"  The combination of the bartender also being the owner, and the friendly atmosphere amongst life's losers is kind of like a smalltown version of 'Cheers,' minus the fact that midlife crises are actually not that entertaining... at all...


The Man Cave

Kegerator... Check. Dartboard... Check. Scattered collection of un-redeemed beer tabs for a 1996 softball fundraiser... Check. Welcome to "The Man Cave." Ranging from the size of a two-car garage to a 49 foot high tin pole barn, the Man Cave has recently gained steam and become one of the biggest and best hangouts for men in their early 30s to mid 50s. Decorated with italicized NASCAR numbers and mid-80s pin-up models, the Man Cave has become a glorified 'Little Rascals' clubhouse for middle-aged men of the current generation. Baby boomers be damned.


The Mantropolis

All of your superheroes live here. Superman, Spiderman, Aquaman, and the like... What do all of these superheroes have in common? The word MAN. Welcome to Mantropolis. Opinions are necessary but open-mindness is not. After intense litigation to smuggle the rights to this name from what could have been a very successful gay bar, Mantropolis now defines the sprawling area needed to finally create the Man Kingdom. Steve Garvey lives here. There is not one DSW shoe store within 85 miles of Mantropolis. Arguments are resolved via fistfights, and all of the members of Man Parliament have thick beards and wear flannel. The one problem with Mantropolis? The population only grows smaller due to the absence of women.



The Manpire

No, this is not a Man Vampire. That would be a Vampire. This is a Man Empire (think back to ancient Greece and Rome). This however, is a modern Man Empire. The roads are paved with aftershave, and there is such a thing as PBR beer plants. Unfortunately the only anti-perspirant available is Old Spice due to their unbelievable 97 percent market share in Man Scent. But that's okay, because nothing can overwhelm the scent of motor oil and over-worn brake pads that dominate this Man Land. This is a place where every Sunday morning before football and/or "the race" you can find a man beneath his truck with a crescent wrench. This is a place where 3 ounces of Whopper mustard on your shirt pocket is held in the same regard as a merit badge. The infrastructure is 100 percent steel, the bar is always open, and the game is always on. By Law... Or shall we say, Mandate.

P&A

Presentation and appearance.  Those are the two most important implicit and at the same time, explicit factors when it comes to marketability.  Without presentation and appearance, you're going to have a tough time selling your product; let alone even getting the chance to deliver it to the consumer.  If this weren't the case, we'd all buy generic food at the supermarket.  If the display environment didn't matter, then we'd all go to Best Buy and purchase the "discount mp3 player" and not really pay much mind to the latest iPod model.  You can argue the function of the devices and taste of the food, but you probably wouldn't even realize any of these benefits if you hadn't noticed the products in the first place.  Once again, Presentation and Appearance.  P&A. 

Beyond price markups and economic strategy, P&A is also vital when making other possibly crucial decisions.  Whether you acknowledge it or not, presentation and appearance are the two biggest things when it comes to winning the approval of other people.  We would all like to think we're not that vain, but truth is, we really are.  Those two things matter.  A lot.  From wearing nice clothes, to keeping our car clean, we do care what other people think, and regardless of what we think, we intuitively know that P&A goes a long way, and the perception of it by others really is a reality.



P&A is used mainly in gaining approval, or attempting to sell a product, as shown by example above.  A stage performer is an example of an entity which tries to accomplish both, and they use massive amounts of P&A.  We all know the production and promotion that goes into concerts, live shows, and other forms of entertainment.  But have you ever realized the power of the greatest ingredient to a performer's P&A?  The power of their name?

Real, fake, or obviously staged, the name a performer chooses to go by makes all the difference.  This is where a believable, yet barely researched phenomenon comes into play.  And this is where this article gets a lot less serious.



Put on your analytical hats (even though hat wearing is a dying practice) and ask yourself... what's in a name?



Is "Bill Currington" just as good at drinking beer?  Or would we rather look to "Billy Currington" for good directions?


Why is "Kesha" spelled with a dollar sign?



How many albums/iTunes downloads would "Bob Zombie" sell?



Three examples of P&A as directly applied to stage names.  Although this seems admittedly ridiculous, the subtleties are probably very important.  Their name is probably not what got them bolstered into stardom, but their name is definitely what carried them over the top.




Would the professional wrestling career of Randall the "Macho Man" Savage even have materialized?


What if you found out that the tremendously popular CBS program "How I Met Your Mother" was narrated by Robert Saget?



Not only the P&A of the name itself, but the selection of the proper name variation has proven to be pivotal.  Just mere name equivalent substitution can make all of the difference.


Would you listen to what Ronnie sang if "Take me Home Tonight" was performed by Edward Money?


Would "Vinny Diesel" even get casted for anything outside of the "Jersey Shore?"


Do these notable pop-culture figures even take time and effort to consider this?  Probably, and most likely due to both P&A and the precedent put on vanity in Hollywood.  But it could also easily be a Darwinian thing, in which we have to go to another part of the circle in this logic, and view this more as a causal phenomenon than an effectual one. In other words, once they found the right name, and given they had the other set of attributes necessary (mainly talent), all of the other pieces started to fall into place. 

This phenomenon (if you will), can also be explored when you consider past leaders of our country.  Let's take a glance at a select few U.S. Presidents.


Millard Fillmore went by Millard, without any extreme repercussions.


FDR more than got by on an acronym, but he was equally as memorable with Franklin Delano Roosevelt.


"I like Ike" vaulted Dwight Eisenhower into the oval office. 


William Jefferson Clinton made headlines, and in the headlines he was referred to as Bill, or "Slick Willy."


Many people did not approve of George Dubya.  But this could have been in reaction to policy.


Of course, many of these monikers were not chosen by our past leaders.  But they did run with these nicknames, and rode them to success... or failure...




Moving on...



Although this might have not affected his talent, what if Lawrence Bird led the Celtics to 3 NBA Championships... Lawrence Legend???



How unbelievably Irish sounding is William O'Reilly?



Can you teach me how to Douglas?



As discussed with the presidents above, we have had many people who were a success with interchangeable monikers.  Jonathan Taylor Thomas made schoolgirls swoon in the mid-90s with as many as three names, and as few as three letters 'JTT.' 



Name interchangers like William Jefferson 'Bill' Clinton, Dwight 'Ike' Eisenhower, and JTT above only serve to be the exception that proves the rule, and it is always more amusing to find notable figures with “Poor Namesmanship.”


The more you think about this, the more you realize how easily the fate of the popular world could have been altered.  The way we have been influenced has been influenced by simple P&A.  What you go by can easily determine what you sell, where you place, and how you're remembered. 

Perhaps it is Darwinian, and perhaps there is something to be said about Nomenclature Selection.



Thomas and Gerald?

Natural Dudesaster 001

The Dudebacle


After hours of getting ready for a night out, which in many a dude's case consists of drinking a high volume of cheap beer, watching your choice of televised sport (except lacrosse)1, and playing something that probably resembles a card game; a certain intoxicated dude can no longer feign the signs of inebriation and becomes an extreme liability to the rest of his mates.

These signs of inebriation are in no way subtle.  This guy has developed a lazy eye, he's now unable to suppress commonly suppressible bodily functions, and the volume of his voice has increased nearly two-fold.

You should have seen all of this coming from the very beginning of the night.

While you were playing "Drink at your Own Pace," this dude was pounding beers like Wade Boggs.

By the time you were on beer five, he was on case two.

While you and your buds were figuring out what bar to hit up, this guy was contemplating getting a full-body tattoo.

The consequences for his actions have slowly started to come together, and his night has quickly started to fall apart...


By the time your party leaves for the bar, this dude has at least 100 liquid ounces of draft in his gullet, and may be quite unpredictable once he hits the streets. He's already made mortal enemies with the cabby, and was nearly drilled by an oncoming car as he left the taxi without paying.


Following your exit from the cab, you and your crew head to the street and on to the bar, but this drunken dude stumbles toward the sewer.  As he leans over in heaving position, you think to yourself, 'why in the hell didn't we stop this?'

All of these precursory events lead to the inevitable dudebacle, which appears swift and sudden to the untrained eye.  All you can do is one of two things at this point.  You can sit back and observe, or you can attempt to be there for your buddy, who has now become the most elusive and out-of-control person you have ever encountered.


At this point, he probably reeks of beer vomit and partially digested nachos, and is not afraid of the opposite sex in the slightest.  This walking disaster zone goes for any opportunity, regardless of whether or not it is an opportunity.  He says and does things that are well beyond the line of social decency, and the ramification of his behavior will indirectly affect you and the rest of your group (permitting he remembers that he came to the bar with you and your party).  You may meet new people on this night, and your unintended icebreaker becomes "Do you know this dude?"


You enter the bar, and somehow the bouncer has let him slide by.  As soon as he reaches an opening, he's gone.  He has disappeared among the abyss of collared shirts and cocktail dresses.  After a thorough scan of the bar, he appears to be unable to find.  You see women scattered all over the bar and dance floor, but while 'girls just wanna have fun,' you know that this dude just wants to get drunk.  His sidewalk sewer heave wasn't enough to slow him down in the slightest, and when you finally figure out just where he is, he's at the bar ordering shots for what is either a mildly attractive older woman, or a desperate transvestite.


Eventually, the dudebacle hits your buddy hard, and the following day hangover is usually a brutal experience for this dude who dared to put his body through such acute chemical punishment.


Luckily enough, the dudebacle is only a category 2 dudesaster, and during the next day reflection, you find that the faux pas from the night before need only require about two weeks worth of redemption for your currently crestfallen friend. The most important concept is to raise awareness of the early signs of the dudebacle: the voice volume demodulation, the belching, the slurring rants about politics and what seems to sound like baseball.  For at least these reasons, it remains paramount to record the humiliating feats accomplished by your completely wasted crony on the night before, in order to help him relive it the day after.


Shame however, is not a powerful enough learning experience for your nocturnally embarrassing friend. Make sure that he doesn't live this experience down in an effort to hope that it doesn't happen again.  If it does somehow happen again, your residence should be dudebacle-proofed for retaliatory purposes with an emergency drawer containing assorted permanent markers, a pantry stocked with chocolate syrup, and a fire extinguisher.


The next time this happens, let it happen... and as soon as this dude passes out... let him have it!







1.  No disrespect intended to Virginians, wealthy New Yorkers, or douche bags.

Slade: Time Traveler

So far into the future, that he’s from the past.  1230 Read introduces: Slade, Time Traveler.

Born roughly 10,000 years into the future, and having suffered through one 28 year coma, and a millennia-length cryopreservation, Slade has come back in time to tell his story. But due to time-traveler fatigue, 1230 Read will do their best to pen it.

Each and every time paradox be damned, Slade has just re-emerged from the year 3011. Still smelling of hyper-nitrogenized ectoplasm, Slade is here in 2011, to relay a general message encrypted with highly sensitive data. And to future the future of time paradoxes.

Slade does not own one v-necked article of clothing. He is like nothing that has ever travelled back in time from the futurity. He knows nothing of flying cars, hovercraft, pill-sized meal portions, or galactic conquest. Slade however, has survived both of Earth’s apocalypses, and has learned to weather the rigors of the predictable and subsequent tribal cannibalism that typically follow.

During one of his travels, sometime in the year 3011, Slade was downloaded. At that time, as surprising at is sounds, a technology once thought to be obsolete was revived. The floppy disk had not only made an unbelievably ridiculous recovery, but had also realized its full potential. For three months in the summer of Thirty-Eleven, Slade was in fact, a floppy disk. He was green, and read-only.

Later on that year, on June 27th to be exact, Slade was finally himself again... for the most part. It’s not that he wasn’t himself in appearance or personality, it was that by this time, he was property of The Republic. The Republic took the liberty of uploading Slade back into the animate entity he was previously accustomed to. The Republic was a country of fiercely like-minded individuals who seceded from The Society shortly after the great debate of 2945. Sometime shortly after Mother Earth’s second apocalypse, it became common convention to settle disputes via debate. With most of the ingredients for explosive weaponry thoroughly stripped down to the Earth’s mantle, war just wasn’t economical at all anymore.

The next task thrust upon Slade was the first ever time travel experiment done under government supervision. Slade was still contractually obligated as a servant to the government through write protection from when he was a 3.5 inch floppy. His contract was to be up the very next day, but just like many schemes executed by The Republic, this one was quite dastardly. Why not send him back in time 1000 years so that he is effectively under edit-proof contractual control for another 1000 years and a day? What a dastardly scheme it was indeed.

That is what brings Slade here, to present day Asia, high up into the Ural mountains. Please take note that in a thousand years time, the surface of the Earth goes through many topographical and locational changes. Luckily enough for Slade, Time Traveler, he is biologically well equipped for cold temperatures. When you’ve been frozen for an entire millennium, a few degrees below zero is not the least bit distressing.

So how is Slade from the past? The answer to that is actually pretty simple. While fleeing from Julius Caesar over a dispute of domestic animal malnourishment, Slade found his escape in a time rift that was created by The Republic in their first ever time travel experiment over three thousand years later. You’re probably thinking: wait, wouldn’t this be the second time travel experiment conducted by The Republic? No. It was the first, since that is how Slade arrived in The Republic’s custody in the first place.

Now, you’re probably thinking: but wait, wouldn’t that prove it’s the second, and the earlier experiment described was the first? Wrong again. Slade travelled into the future through an alternate dimension via a circuitous path along a time rift and came to a stop in the year 3095 and on Republic soil. This probably leads you to surmise that this is just one big contradiction.

That is incorrect as well. Recall earlier in this article, but later in time, when Slade was downloaded onto a floppy disk? Well, in the future, you can download software from the future. Therefore, at the effective time, this was The Republic’s first time travel experiment. Not until Slade was downloaded from the future and then uploaded into the past did the earlier experiment take place after the first experiment. Let the Eureka effect settle in.

Thankful to have escaped from the clutches of Caesar, Slade did not quite understand how this miraculous event would quickly turn into misfortune.

Slade would travel 3000 years in the future to only leap back 1000 years into the past and arrive sometime around 2000 years ahead of what he once called the present.

Slade grew up in the ancient Roman empire, but was born in the year 12000, just prior to the Earth’s third and final apocalypse. Knowing of this impending apocalypse, Slade’s mother and father had a decision to make. Do they take Slade with them to Venus, and see if the newborn can survive extended space travel and the extreme volcanic climate of Venus? Or do they send him so far back into the past that it is nearly impossible for him to experience even one apocalypse of Earth and possibly hear the music of Justin Bieber? Slade’s parents chose the latter.

While the pod carrying Slade’s mother and father went on to Venus, a separate pod carrying Slade and copious freeze-dried breast milk reserves travelled opposite the Earth’s rotation and orbited her at great speed in order to reach his historic destination.

The pod of Slade came to a fiery landing on the coastline of the ancient Persian Gulf. The year was 93 B.C. and the climate was arid and wholly brutal. The pod finally came to rest in its newly formed crater, two telescoping hydraulic poles extended to open the hatch in a hissing canopy-like fashion...

TO BE  CONTINUED...

The North American Meathead

Treat this introductory passage as if you’re viewing the back of a sports card:

North American Meathead

IQ: 94

Body Fat %: 3.2

Average Pick-up Line:

“Are you listening to Coldplay too? Haha, just kidding, I was listening to Seether!”

Typical Gym Wardrobe: Wife Beater and Wind Pants

Juicebox, Juicehead, Gorilla, Ox, Roidhead, Beefcake, although many a moniker, none is more specifically accurate nor geographically precise than the title of “North American Meathead.”

They slam barbells to the ground nearly as loud as they grunt when lifting them. They keep a four month supply of whey protein in their gym locker. They have the personality of a dust mop. They have perfect teeth, and to top it all off, they “suds up” with Axe body wash and deodorize with body spray.

Now don’t fret if you do one of the above things, the rule of bicep here is one of totality. If you do all of those above things, or display at least 90 percent of the aforementioned characteristics (and you live in North America), you might have cause for concern. You might just be a North American Meathead.

Is it time for a protein shake? Or are you just happy to see me? Anyone who has ever purchased a gym membership knows the type. There’s Vinnie the Vasodilator, Jake the Juicer, and of course, Brock the Block. Yeah, each gym has one.

Highly vascular and half masculine, the North American Meathead has a surplus of distinguishing characteristics. A deep dark tan, tattoos, and hair gel layer the landscape of these barbell behemoths. They are as noticeable as their stereotype is perpetuating.

A perplexing characteristic however, is the incredible ability of the North American Meathead to imbibe incredible amounts of alcohol, yet still maintain such a “cut” physique. In the lexicon of a meathead, you’ll notice re-occurring terms such as: cut, ripped, pumps, nitro, and even the occasional HUURRRGH as they exaggerate a shrugging of their shoulders in one of the many mirrors lining your typical fitness center walls.

Pride and vanity flow from the exterior just as readily as FDA non-approved supplements flow through the interior when regarding the North American Meathead. But let’s get back to the alcohol, for this is what cements the North American Meathead into the driveway of Dude. Just like you and me, the NAMH likes to let loose from time to time with a few brews, wells, rails, and gin tonics. Sometimes just as aggressively, and most of the time, twice as belligerently.

Perhaps it’s the powdered diet that counterbalances the negative aesthetic body shaping consequences of alcohol. When taking lean muscle mass blasters and fat shredders, how can alcohol possibly have a chance to become fattening?  At this point, alcohol is probably the only natural chemical flowing through their body.  But still, the curious observation remains... just how do they keep that skinny-legged, triangle-torsoed figure AND still drunkenly own the dance floor each and every Friday night.  Maybe they burn these excess calories doing fist pumps...

Either way, let's just keep in mind that attending the gym 6 days a week and twice a day is not easy. So before you think that Meatheads are not hardworking individuals, just realize that that is not true. It’s just that they are more narcissistic than you ever will be. They’ll show more results than a mid 90s Bowflex model, and their graphic tees will appear to be vacuum sealed about their chest. But keep this in mind at all times that this is a lifestyle decision. You have your rights and they have theirs, and if you feel like they infringe upon yours, then feel free to let them know.

As the age old adage goes: you should never judge a book by its cover, your local NAMH could even be a nice guy, even if he is constantly bulging, and even if he reeks of cocoa scented tanning butter.

NARS

New Essay.  New format.  Passage-by-passage, line-by-line, and name-by-name, this Essay will introduce and discuss the Name/Age Range System, or NARS.

A son is born, his parents name him William.  Many people will eventually call him Bill.  There is only one problem...  "Baby Bill" does not exactly have a ring to it.  Neither does an infant named William.  Of course, when William gets older, he will more than likely 'grow into' his name.  In his 30s, some people may even call him Bill in casual conversation. 

That's the weird thing about names.  They don't always fit.  Some names are great for the first few years of life.  Jacob, Joshua, Jayden, and Dakota are great names for those that are still wet behind the ears.  But as they get older, their identity, as well as the aesthetic representation of their name tend to go in different directions.


When you think about this way more than you should, you lend yourself to the question:  what is an optimal age range for a name?  If this doesn't pop-out to you as self-explanatory, the mission of this article is to examine the range of age in which a name appears most appropriate for a person.  Whether it is when we address them, think about them, or speak of them to others.

For instance, consider the name Michael.  A 'Michael' can also go by 'Mike.'  But how comfortable do you feel calling a 4 year old boy "Mike?"  I personally would rather call him Michael. 

Taking this simple thought into further progression, I have devised a Name/Age Range System (NARS).  Although concerning a topic subjective in nature, NARS will hopefully serve to help some of us who want to feel more comfortable in casually addressing someone who has a multi-monikered name.  All we need to know is what age range they fall into, and we can apply NARS for ourselves.  NARS also may help those of us who are curious as to what version of our name we should go by according to the NARS database.  The headlining benefits of this system being that NARS will help us determine when a name is most vogue, marketable, profitable, and/or just plainly appropriate.




Here we go... line-by-line:

Let's start with the name Jerry.  Jerry is a weird name for an elderly person as well as a young boy.  However, the name Jerry really hits its stride for males aged 33-49.  In this age range, the name Jerry seems very appropriate.  Belonging to a person outside of that age range, the name "Jerry" just doesn't quite seem to fit.   

I will now introduce the parentheses that will help denote age ranges, and will aid in brevity.

Here is the example from above in NARS notation:  Jerry (33-49).

With this newfound notation, we will breakdown names by their variations followed by their appropriate ranges.

Other names in the NARS database just flat out exude youth.  For example:  Chris (13-34).

Chris is also an easily manipulated name.  Let's look at 4 variations. 

Chris, Christopher, Christian, and Topher. 

Let's say someone born with the name Christopher would like to optimize the age appropriateness of their name throughout their lifespan.

NARS recommends this:  Christopher (0-3; 52-demise)  Topher (4-12),  Chris (13-34),  Christian (35-51).

Note that the name 'Christopher' had a dual range set.  This means that between the ages of 0-3, and the ages of 52 until death, it is best to go by "Christopher."  All of this according to NARS.


A few more NARS analyses:

David (0-14; 54-demise), Dave (15-53)

Jacob (0-11; 29-33), Jake (12-28, 34-demise)

Jeff (18-demise), Jefferey (3-17),  Jeffie (0-2), Geoff (never)

John (0-3; 17-22; 47-demise), Johnny (4-16; 23-46), Johnny-boy  (11)

Now you may have noticed some overlap.  In this case, we could call John either "Johnny-boy" or "Johnny" at age 11, and it would be equally acceptable to NARS.

Also you may be asking, why was it better for "Johnny" to be a "John" from the ages of 17-22?  The answer to this can actually be fetched from the first few lines of the NARS algorithm.  John will most likely be applying for colleges, jobs, and sending out career resumes during that period in his life.  Therefore between the ages of 17 and 22, it's best to go by "John."

Some of us may not have a NARS name.  For those of you named Paul, Luke (not Lucas), and Craig, you're gonna have to sit this one out.

However, if your name is any variation of "Robert," you run a 1 in 3 chance of crashing the NARS mainframe.

In lack of a segue, here comes the most difficult and bandwidth absorbing analysis of them all: 

"The Bob-Bobby-Robby-Rob-Robert-Bert Superfecta"


After 30 seconds of data-crunching, here are the NARS results:


Bob (39-61), Bobby (8-13; 22-26), Robby (0-7; 13-19; 25-32), Rob (19-33), Robert (6-10; 55-demise), Bert (9-13, 88-92).  

If your computer just when through a period of sloth-like response time, you can blame it on another Robert retrieving truckloads of data from NARS.



Although the NARS algorithm may not be the final opinion on name usage and timing, it may still be a voice worthy of hearing when one considers how their name affects their environment.  Some people don't put any thought into their name and how they're perceived.  Many people just left that up to their parents.  But if you are one of the others, or if you are just plain curious about this concept, then when you consider a name.... Nominate NARS.



Hope you enjoyed the article, and if you have any names you'd like to submit to the NARS motherboard, please comment, or send an email to 1230read@gmail.com.





Okay, okay, I'm not that sexist.


NARS analyzes girl's names too!

Michelle (7-9; 14-demise), Shelly (0-6; 11-13)

Roberta (0-12; 60-demise), Berta (13-16), Bobbie (17-59)

Catherine (0-2; 51-demise), Cathy (24-50), Catie (3-23)

Elizabeth (0-16; 43-demise), Lisa (35-42), Lizzy (17-19), Eliza (20-23) Beth (24-34).

He's a Mustache Machine!

*This is an Essay from “This Week in Dude” which is an online dudesletter located at http://www.thisweekindude.com/

He’s a Mustache Machine!

He shaves it off. It reappears above his lips two days later. Some call this a blessing. He regards it as a curse.

This upper lip follicle factory has been in constant “eager beaver” production mode since shortly after his 13th birthday. Since this time, he has been irresistible to both women and pedophilic freight handlers alike.

“At first [when growing mustaches] I thoroughly enjoyed the attention... but now, it’s out of hand... how in the hell can I get out of the limelight, especially when one half of my mustache and glasses disguise is easily recognizable?”

That is just a microcosm of the hell that Luke Langley has to deal with on a daily basis.

When TWID first found out about this man and his mustache growing ability, one word came to the minds of our staff almost unanimously... “Awesome.” It wasn’t until we talked to Luke Langley, that we truly learned that heavy is the face that wears the mustache.

“Honestly, it just sucks. I go to a professional sporting event, and within minutes of sitting down, I’m noticed on ‘fan cam’... My ‘stache gets blown up on the jumbotron, and people graciously applaud... Truth be told... I hate the attention and I hate the scrutiny.”

Well Luke, why don’t you just shave it off? “Because in 48 hours, it has completely grown back.”

What an unbelievable life Luke leads.


Luke reported to us that he has spent an estimated $26,000 on razor blades over the course of the last 3 years. “That’s nearly one-third of my taxable income,” he says.

But what about all the attention he gets from women? “It’s great at first, but within weeks I realize that they were only dating me to get to my mustache... have you ever delivered flowers to the doorstep of a woman whom you thought loved you, but she ended up slamming the door in your face because you were clean shaven? It’s happened to me... It has happened to me.”

Those words resonated deeply with us. However, we too were hypnotized by this man’s brilliant mustache, and could not gather much more substance from the interview. A lot was said when we sat down with Luke, but little was actually recorded.

After the conclusion of the interview, we were left with a mixed bag of emotions. A part of TWID really wanted to reach out and just give Luke a hug. The remaining majority of us though, had a strong inkling to exploit this mustachioed maverick into the cash cow that he truly is.  We began to think... If we could truly harness that mustache, the cashflow would be immense. Within weeks we could make Luke an icon. We could envision him becoming a Playgirl centerfold. We could foresee him being the new Hormel Chili spokesperson. His potential, in our minds at least, appeared limitless, and we were ready to take full advantage of Luke and his natural talent, regardless of how the mustachioed Mr. Langley truly felt.



All of this brings us back to a common theme prevalent in Society today. Do we merely use talented people for their talents? Do we truly appreciate them for who they are, or do we whore them out for the service they provide? We’re not really sure there is a good answer to any of these questions. Then again, we really haven’t been able to think too clearly ever since we saw that dazzling ‘stache.

Deep Space Case

You are hurtling through space at speeds of about 650,000 MPH*.

*Let’s assume that this is not only not impossible, but also safely attainable.

You have been selected as part of a government program dedicated to ‘deep space exploration.’  The way you were selected was as ironic as it was random.  For the purposes of constructing this wildly sci-fi hypothetical, let’s say that you actually volunteered to do this.  However, you weren’t 100 percent aware of the decision you made at the moment you made it.  And let's also throw the subject of astrophysics off to the side completely.

The last time you changed your address, you applied for a new driver’s license.  It was pretty simple, just filling out a few forms, proving your residency, nothing special.  Except when you attempted to fill out the section to elect whether or not you wished to donate your organs and tissues, there was another inquiry option available which was titled “participate in government exploration initiative.”  You read up on this in the brief summary that followed the inquiry box.  The summary basically said that if deep space travel were ever to be viable, and deemed safe by the appropriate agencies within the government of the United States, that you would be willing to donate your “time” to Science.

Of course, you thought this was absurd, but you also thought it would be really funny to show your friends your new ID with a funny looking “Deep Space Donor” logo right beneath your picture.

Well, what you did not know, is that rocket science had progressed faster than you ever thought it would, and it was also much more advanced than you thought it was to begin with.

A couple years after you made this decision in jest, you are approached at your doorstep by federal agents.  Believe it or not, you’re going into space, buddy!*


*Let’s further assume that you of course go through the following emotional progression:  disbelief, shock, denial, stupor, skepticism, and then grief.  For sake of brevity, let’s cut to the part where you finally are being sent into space.

The agents tell you that you have 6 weeks until you are required to start your 8 week training course prior to your departure from Earth.  They also lay out rule number 1.

Rule Number 1.  You may choose up to 6 people to accompany you for the rest of your/their lives.

Who do you choose?  What is your ‘pitch’ going to be when you are trying to convince up to 6 people to spend the rest of their lives with you in a pod travelling at 650,000 MPH into the vastness of outer space?  Do you rely on a PowerPoint slide presentation?  What ratio of women to men do you choose?  How desperate will you get if nearly everyone says no? Knowing that you are not allowed to bring pets for some strange reason, does that exacerbate your anxiety?  Answering all of these questions in just six weeks time will be an extremely tough task.  How much of this time will you devote to pondering?  This will be the most important decision in your life.  It will also be one of the few decisions in which your decision is ultimately final.  After you make this decision there is NO going back.  In space and in time, you will only be able to go forward.

When pitching to your ‘select six,’ do you tell them about Rule #2?  OR… do you do all of this… alone?

Rule Number 2.  During your 8 week training course, you are joined by a NASA design team.  Within safety constraints, you can make your space pod as big and as luxurious as you want it.  You are allowed as many design collaborators as you want, and as aforementioned, you have 8 weeks to come up with the design.  The only drawbacks are that your living quarters must be able to achieve the speeds needed to travel deep into space, and that it must be safe.  However, you are allowed as many iterations of your design as feasible in that 8 week period.

A lot of hypothetical conclusions will need to be pole-vaulted to here.  Basically, you’re probably going to have a space pod similar in size to a nice upper-middle class family’s home.  Except you are also probably going to have beyond state-of-the-art technology available to you.  Keep in mind that you’ll probably want to make sure the amenities you choose are durable and useful.  Remember, you and your entourage will probably be living in space for about 65 years, and there is not really any repairs or upgrades that can be made to your equipment.  With that said, do you think you could design your space-travelling dream home in a matter of 8 weeks?

Rule Number 3.  Streaming TV.

You are allowed to watch streaming television from the comfort of your space pod.  But again, there is a catch.  Due to the high amount of bandwidth required to stream television into deep space, you will only be allowed to have access to three channels.

Which three channels do you choose?  Do you consult your entourage?  Do you have enough of a movie library to last you for 65 years of 3 channel entertainment?

Also keep in mind that the farther you are from Earth, the longer it will take to get the streaming media to you.  Say you launch in 2016, you pick CBS as one of your channels, and in 2035 you are watching the 2025 NCAA Mens Basketball Final Four (also take the leap of assuming that Court Tv has not somehow completely captured the rights to the Final Four).

Let’s not get into food, fuel, or oxygen supply and just assume that NASA got all of that figured out for you.   Let’s take a look at the last rule.  Rule #4.

Rule Number 4.  After 10 years, there is no law precluding you from exiling 1 of your 6 pod mates.

As part of the contract that you really had no choice in signing, you are pointed to an "exile clause."  The exile clause states that after 10 years, you may do away with one of your podmates and release them into deep space.  This obviously is incredibly morbid and absurd, but it is nonetheless in the contract. 

You begin to think to yourself, even if someone got so under your skin due to 10 years of living together in such close quarters, could you ever do this?  Would you ever think of doing this?  Would the situation you are in drive you so crazy that you would begin to think “well, it’s not against the law.”  Also, with nobody else (i.e. law enforcement) able to step in since you are so far far away, who is to say you wouldn’t think of this before the 10 year mark and maybe begin to plot who you would kick out into the vacuum of space?  Would it be plausible to think that everyone would be nice to you since they know you have this power?  Even though some clerk at NASA could be watching you through a camera feed, they would only be seeing what happened a long time before that by the time the video transmission had reached them.  And at best, they could only scold you.

Just thinking about this may be enough to drive you crazy.  Knowing that you would even think these thoughts probably worries you.  Which leads to one last hypothetical inquiry:  does thinking about a situation that may drive you crazy… begin to drive you… crazy?

Action Movies that Will Sell

Up-tempo Rock Music.  Blood.  Guts.  Fire!  Those are the four key ingredients to any good action movie.  But what if we adjust the proportions of each of those ingredients?  For example:  HEAVY METAL.  Blood.  GUTS.  FIRE!!!  Too much adrenaline?  Or is this what a “full throttle” niche in America has been craving all along?  Non-stop action, nitro-fueled steel shredding guitar riffs, babes getting rescued, a hero who can kick just about anyone’s ass, and FIRE!

This is what brings us to the next generation of Action Movies, and the subsequent multi-sequels.  As Rambo, Predator, and Terminator defined a generation of dudes before, comes the Action Movie series of our generation:  EXPLOSION!

EXPLOSION I:  Die Until You’re Dead

What makes an Action Movie great, has a lot to do with how it looks even before it comes out.  The tagline is essential.  The poster design and marketing campaign are neck-and-neck in secondary importance.  If you don’t have an equally bad-ass and dutifully cheesy tagline, you might as well forget going to theaters in the first place.

EXPLOSION II:  The Beast Returns

It is also highly crucial that your sequels are enumerated with Roman Numerals.  The 80’s are over, and the likes of Lethal Weapon and Beverly Hills Cop are behind us.  If you want your box office numbers to swell, then stick with numbers that have stood the test of time.  Also, to further insure the production of more movies, you need to satisfy another key element, in that something needs to come back.  In this case, the tagline to Explosion II reveals that “The Beast” does in fact return.

EXPLOSION III:  Blood Faucet

EXPLOSION IV:  Dead-O-Nation

EXPLOSION V:  Undercover Kill Zone

EXPLOSION VI:  Blood Faucet 2

Once you have established your sequel, it is time to get back to the studio and kick production into high gear.  All great action movie franchises have made too many movies.  Remember, it is all about excess.

EXPLOSION VII:  Rattlesnake Diaries

After you have made too many movies, it is time to make one more.  The notable concept here is that the tagline should get a little softer, and makes a little less sense than its predecessors.  You are now raking in the dough, which is probably a guaranteed 20 million after production costs (which are even more streamlined since you’re still earning off of the first installments of the franchise).  

EXPLOSION VIII:  20 Years Later

EXPLOSION IX:  Sinister Allies

EXPLOSION X:  Blood Wreath:  The Final Showdown

You have now sold the rights to your action movie franchise.  Many years after the last movie you produced, the subject matter and trademarked titles will be reintroduced to a new generation of action movie goers.  The newly assigned producers will usually follow the blueprint laid out by your first 7 action movies, and will definitely do their best to not forget what made your action movies so action-packed.  They will also remember to include “Blood” in the final tagline.

Ned the Narrative

NED

the Narrative

            I fondly remember the first time I took a ride in Ned’s 1989 Buick LeSabre. The car offered a comfortable allotment of legroom, the seats were electronically adjustable, and the interior smelled of cashews. Waking up that morning, I never would have dreamed that I would be joining Ned on this memorable car ride. Upon arriving home from work, I checked my mail, and whilst checking my mailbox I couldn’t help but notice from the corner of my eye, Ned creeping up my block in his geriatric hot rod. We briefly exchanged pleasantries, and I just hopped in. I didn’t know where we were going, and as it turned out, I certainly didn’t know where Ned was capable of taking me.

Ned casually adjusted his rearview mirror, put on his right turn indicator, and we turned right. As soon as the speedometer hit 26 mph, Ned initiated cruise control. He had told me once that his Buick was able to achieve 40 miles to the gallon at this low cruising velocity. I took Ned’s word for it, and embraced my surroundings as they passed by me. It was Autumn.

Ned reached out with an outstretched finger and depressed the ‘on’ button which protruded from the LeSabre’s wood-grain accented stereo console. Public radio commentary spewed from the speakers. With great ease, Ned rotated the treble knob, and reduced the volume to a barely perceptible whisper. I watched Ned in awe as he manned his componentry. Ned looked over to me for a moment, possibly seeking approval. I graciously nodded, and he took my nonverbal compliment in stride.

As we prowled through various local neighborhoods, I noticed Ned’s constant adherence to the “10 and 2” rule. Outside of toggling between several preset AM radio stations, Ned’s hand positioning never wavered. Each impending turn was executed with flawless precision. I peered down upon the matching midnight blue floorboards and noticed several books on tape. Ned noticed that I had noticed his smattering of audio books on cassette, and he slightly crinkled his upper lip. I immediately understood that I had discovered one of Ned’s guilty pleasures.

I saw the wanton look in Ned’s eyes, and purely by deductive assumption, I asked if we may venture a listen to one of these books on tape. Ned earnestly replied, “of course.” To my astonishment, I learned that the first (and later subsequent) audio books were voiced by Ned himself. It was on this day that I learned that my long time LeSabre driving neighbor was also a professional Narrator. I had previously thought he was a man of few words, but after hearing his succulent voice glide through world renown Children’s books, I knew I was in the presence of a true genius.

He made me truly believe that Dumbo could fly, he made me want Pinocchio to become a real boy. He captured all of these things without the previously necessary aid of color illustration. His casual, yet passionate delivery was of a quality I never knew could be achieved. Ned was a talent from a genre I never thought existed.

Sadly, and true to all great experiences, this one also came to an end. Ned eventually dropped me off at my place of residence, and coasted away to his two bedroom apartment in which I now knew reeked of adroit brilliance. That was the last time I saw Ned. He apparently made his millions on audio adaptations of Little Golden Books, and left this 2 LeSabre town behind, but not before leaving me with an invaluable experience in culture and an indelible lesson in life.