The Games of Style

Jack’s Jock Brings the Bling
Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’ve been to the bookstores, coffee bistros, and vintage clothing shops. And my honeys are telling me about the whispers from your cubicles: It’s Style Week for Jack’s Body. You know Jack’s Jock will have to sit this one out. What can he possibly have to say about style?

Oh, my little Jablets. Never fear, for the Jock is here. And he’s been freshly washed and adorned with dee-signer boxer briefs for the occasion. To be sure, athletics have a long-standing tradition of crossing over into the world of fashion. And in some very flawed instances, fashion has reared its coiffed head in the world of athletics.

First, we’re off to The Oval—the most prestigious grounds for the game of cricket in all of the United Kingdom. Players wear traditional whites during most test plays, but they don their national team colors during one-day tests. Cricket is ever so much fun… even if most people who watch it don’t even understand the damn rules. The game was favored by the royalty of the British empire as a leisurely way to pass the time. There are mandatory pauses for both lunch and tea, and the attire allows one to be both ready for play and remain quite en vogue. But as demonstrated here, this can lead to mixed results.

We now move from the quiet of The Oval to the rougher, tougher game of the oval-shaped ball—rugby—also a descendant of the British Isles. Unlike the game played at The Oval, the game with an oval-shaped ball is really quite simple, not to mention violent. One scores by grounding the ball in the goal area or by kicking the ball through the posts, to say nothing of the entire scrum kicking between your legs for the ball. Kinky. One can look quite fashionable in the bold-striped prepster kit that swathe rugby-playing lads and lasses the big bad globe over. But just know, lads, if you play the game, there will be pain. Take it from JJ—the game is often quite brutal on the jock. Use a cup to cover those cash & prizes.

From rubgy we make the smooth slide over to polo. Indeed, polo is not only a sport but a world-famous brand of clothing with a shirt style to match. A type of shirt that goes from work to play. A shirt that one can wear all day. A shirt that one wears to the lake or to take that special girl on a special date. Take it from JJ, you lads should have more than a few of these polo shirts with little horses embroidered on them in your bevy of athletic attire. A classic never goes out of style.

And speaking of classics—here’s one as classic as Yankee pinstripes. Whether you want deflect the sun, warm up your head, or hide your bald spot from that special someone, you’ll be a cool cat in a stylin’ hat. And while it’s certainly a more casual option than some of the other uniforms we’ve discussed, if a baseball cap is good enough for 50 Cent, then it’s good enough for you. JJ-tested, Jables-approved.

And Ladies—JJ could never forget you. Jack’s Jock has scoured the pages of all of your favorite photograph-filled fashion folios and tawdry tinsel town tabloids to find the infiltration of athletics into the fashion of the fairer gender. Who can forget the athletic-themed velour that oft sheathes the mighty J-Lo booty? Though the most athletic duty one of these ever pulled was a jog to get its hair did.

But the ladies really go all out for the sport of kings—the Kentucky Derby. To any fashionable female, this classy event means only one thing, and one thing alone. And the Jock refers not to the jockeys, or to the horses. It’s all about the hats, people. Your hat and my hat. Everyone there knows that! The higher, the brighter, the wider, the wilder. Whether donned with a daisy, a rose, or a tulip. As for the Jock, I’ll slide up next to a good minty mint julip.

But no matter your style, make it your own. Compete to have the best damn style ever shown. Don some phatty phat bling, perhaps a pinky ring. Wear a chapeau, always la mode. You might look like a Mad Hatter, but style’s fun and games—and that’s the crux of the matter.

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The Little, Black Handbook: Business Writing

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a recent graduate from a Master’s program at a very prestigious university, as well as an erstwhile Fulbright Scholar. Capital “S,” since I’m that good. I wrote my Master’s thesis on a relatively obscure German film, using literary theory to interpret the use of objects in the socio-political context of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

As you can see, I am very smart. What might be less obvious is that I am also very desperate.

Don’t be afraid of my prodigious intellect—use it to your advantage! I majored in English, folks. That’s the educational equivalent of an old French whore: I really can and will do anything you want, as long as you pay up front. Update a website? Ooooh, I’m on it! Copyedit a scientific journal? Bring it on. Clear an accounting backlog on a DOS-based system? Oh….kay. Sort, alphabetize, and file pay stubs for all 3 million of Chicago’s small businesses? Fine, let me just get some lube first.

My Master’s degree has been, thus far, as useful as a fart in a mitten. I know of people who’ve lied about having a Master’s (i.e. said they didn’t have one) in order to get jobs. But I’m going to be honest. I need a job. I beg you, please help me. I cannot look at the Chicago Reader’s classifieds anymore. Why is it that all of Chicago’s businesses need telemarketers? Is that really all there is out there in the way of employment? The promise of a daily verbal castigation at the hands of people who don’t even know who Murakami is? As if I were selling herpes rather than, say, symphony tickets? I cannot stress enough the severely detrimental effect that sort of job would have on my self-esteem.

And I am not waitressing. Not because I spit on food or anything, but because I have no balance or grace whatsoever and would be fired within a week for dumping catfish and hot coffee on my customers. And I cannot do hair. At least, not anyone else’s, and really, were someone to look at my head right this minute, they’d think I couldn’t do my own, either. And that is pretty much all there is in the way of jobs on the Chicago Reader’s website. So thank you for…nothing. Nothing but the prospect of having the self-esteem of a 6’4” 150 lb. teenage D&D freak with pizza face and big hands. Thanks again. No, really.

All I’m looking for is a job where I am allowed to use my brain, even if it’s only a little bit. And not to do mathematical equations (see above, re: English major), or make my fingers type a bit faster. Is it too much to ask to be challenged intellectually, rather than sane…ally? And oh, to not be paid in chicken-flavored crackers and/or food stamps? Where in the Bible is it written that companies cannot pay a person above $28,000 for doing something remotely fun and interesting, else the entire outfit be turned into a corporate accounting firm and everyone who works there will have to wear pantyhose or ties?

Seriously, how can anyone expect a person to survive on $16,000 a year in this century? And again without benefits! I live in a frakking city! That’s Latin for death, people. I need to know that if I get hit by the 151 bus or trampled in the L, I won’t have to pay for it. Fiscally, anyway. I realize that there are trillions of people out there who’d be so happy to be paid $16,000 a year, and for far worse work. I know this. I am a bad person to want to be paid a lot of money to do something I might like. But you know, in a world where Tom Cruise can impregnate a woman, I think it’s possible that there might just be a job out there for me that doesn’t make me want to sell my soul to the devil just because there’s nothing else to do.

If you find that this cover letter speaks to you in any way, if you by some freakish chance find that you might want to even interview me, then please, call me. Email me. Send a carrier pigeon. Whatever! I will happily put my life on hold so that I may slap on a business suit in 100 degree weather, take the red line full of freaks to the Loop to then trudge the 80 blocks to your office building in high heels, and try and convince you with my perfect posture and faux eagerness that I am right for your company. I am, I swear. You just don’t know it yet.

Sincerely,
The Germanatrix

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s teacherly question. Send your own queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!




Dear Jables,

I am not a teacher. But I love teacher sweaters. It's something about the rulers and pencils and crayons that are always so delicately embroidered on them in that chunky acryllic thread. And they've even got their own department in the stores. There's a very clear delineation between the trendy clothes and the teacher clothes. Somehow I always wander into that department. It feels so safe, so cottony and crocheted and bedazzled. And are teacher sweaters really that bad, Jack? I think they get a really bad rap from all those silly hipsters, and that makes it hard for people like me to feel comfortable in public in our teacher sweaters. Teachers wear them and they seem to be nice people. Why when I wear mine, do the young people—people who are probably my own age but don't realize it because they can't see beyond the vibrancy of my sweater—snicker and jest? There's that song, "Hot for Teacher," and I'm betting that teacher wore teacher sweaters, so why the social stigma, Jack? Why?

Love,
Teacher at Heart

Dear TH,

You know that other song about teachers? That little weird one by Sting that starts off:

Young teacher the subject
Of schoolgirl fantasy

Well, there’s a reason teachers are the subjects of school-people fantasies. Just look at my character in School of Rock. I was hot! And it most definitely was not because of my outfit. Teachers are fantastical because they have that forbidden, sexy knowledge thing going on. You know what’s not sexy? Low self-esteem hidden under lumpy pencil sweaters. That’s why the chorus of said song goes like this:

Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me
Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me

No one wants to be seen with a teacher in a lumpy pencil sweater. Even more so, no one should want to be mistaken for a teacher in a lumpy pencil sweater, especially if she’s not even a teacher.

I think your sickness comes from an innate desire to be overlooked. Perhaps you are self-conscious about your love handles or your flabby upper arms. You said it yourself: people can’t see beyond your sweater—and I have a feeling that’s subconsciously what you want. If people don’t look beyond the acrylic crayon imprinted on your bosom, they won’t notice the flatness of the chestal area underneath. You told me yourself: you are drawn to the teacher department because “it feels so safe.”

Let me ask you this: Is fashion safe, my friend? The answer is NO—no it’s not. Fashion is daring and dangerous. It’s chic and mod. It’s everything that a teacher sweater embroidered with rulers and pencils is certainly not. Take a hint from our own Fashionista, and try out some new trends for 2006. Shop beyond your comfort zone; perhaps a legging will suit you. But then again, perhaps you have chunky calves. In that case, I would advise you to try a long coat on for size. A long coat can hide many a chunk—take it from me.

And I must defend hipsters for just a moment, since many of my readers are said young people who might “snicker and jest” at the vibrancy of your decorative apparel. Hipsters aren’t mean. They just want what’s best for you and they have trouble expressing their awkward concern. Said awkward warm-hearted hipsters tend to giggle out of confusion. I suggest making a hipster friend and taking her shopping with you. That would be a great first step out of your comfort zone.

And finally, teachers are nice people. I like sweaters. I even like pencils. But here’s a general plea to the masses: Do away with teacher sweaters and make the world just a little bit sexier.

Good luck and send us some snapshots of the new you!
Big hug, sloppy kiss,
Jables

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The Rocking Consumer Report

Product: The Scrunchie
Price: 99¢
Materials: Fabric, elastic, style
Home: handmade-scrunchies.com




Observe the Scrunchie. This rad, custom-designed hair-elastic is all the rage in today’s swanky fashion world. It’s hip, it’s fresh, it’s stretchy. Just as the scrunchie can be stretched or crimped, double-wound or taut, so it adapts to the whims of fleeting generations. No one can say the scrunchie was left behind in the 80s.

Your scrunchie can be made to order in a variety of fabrics and prints. Have a ritzy holiday party to attend? Get dolled up with a “Hearts and Holly Mrs. Santa Hair Scrunchie” in rustic red with sweet white hearts and delicate green holly leaves. Handmade-scrunchies.com has a scrunchie for every holiday. From the “Happy Halloween Creepy Spider Hair Scrunchie” to the “Handmade Patriotic Pinwheels Hair Scrunchie,” every holiday is sure to be a blast with this festive finery.

And for those hassle-free nights out with the girls, a more whimsical look might suit your style. Hand-stitched cartoon character scrunchies are perfect for those laid-back occasions. Each scrunchie features your classic favorites; pump up your party with Clifford the Big Red Dog, Hello Kitty, Snoopy, or the cast of Cars. Handmade-scrunchies.com scrunchies also come in a variety of sports prints, seasonal themes, plaids, solids, and polka dots.

Uses include: restraining troublesome fly-aways while you plant tulips in the backyard, adorning your wrist at roller skating birthday parties, and breaking up your relationship with an overly sensitive author who insists that his main character would wear a scrunchie. It’s useful and fashionable. As the sales department states, “Your imagination is your only limit!” That’s right, the scrunchie can fill any lonely, outmoded chasm in your otherwise full and stimulating life. One satisfied customer raves, “I own at least 20 of their scrunchies & have never been disappointed.”

For just 99¢ you, too, can have style.

Click HERE to see the many luxury scrunchies available at homemade-scrunchies.com. Have too many scrunchies to keep track of? Keep them all in one place with this useful scrunchie holder.

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From the Diamond to the Runway

Project Runway: Toe-Sock's First Time
Fashion generally disgruntles me. I come from a long line of men who believe that to be fashionable is to be invisible. In other words, if your clothes are attracting the glances of the multitude, you’re clearly doing something wrong.

This means you, young lady in the gladiator-style sandals. It is already hard enough to make feet presentable and you have to go and remind me of Russell Crowe? For shame. Of course, men do have things a bit easier in the sartorial arena. The simple pairing of a black tee-shirt and jeans has the remarkable ability to render a man invisible AND increase the likelihood he will receive that appreciative glance from ’lil miss doe-eyes over there.

A black tee-shirt and jeans say many things about a man, including, "I am not trying very hard and am thus very secure in my masculine charm, forsooth no desperation here!" Well, it’s unlikely my tee-shirt and jeans ever said the word “forsooth,” but they did laugh heartily at the fellow bellying up to the bar in slacks and a salmon-colored dress shirt. "Hey business-man! I don't care what they told you at the boutique, that shirt is pink. PINK." Anyhow, lest I stray too far a-field of my point, let me restate the obvious: Fashion has secured precious little space for itself in my life. Which makes it all the more preposterous that Project Runway is my favorite show on television.

I know what you are thinking: Reality televison? Fashion!? The Bravo network!!? Have you gone soft on us, Toe-sock?

Ye of little faith, fear not—it is still possible to maintain masculinity while indulging in the delight that is Project Runway. Do you know how hard it was to type that last sentence while flexing and scratching myself at the same time? While Heidi Klum and company are galavanting around the runway on Wednesday evening, you’ll find me drinking a cold one. And I'll probably catch Sportscenter after Runway wraps up. And in a perfect world those model ladies would walk down the runway at the end of the show to Le Tigre or Company Flow instead of whatever euro-trendy electro-candy is popular at the time.

What I'm trying to say is that it isn't an anomaly for a heterosexual man to be into Project Runway. Ladies, park your husband, your significant other, your landlord, or the mailman in front of the television and you'll find that the anomaly is the straight man who doesn't find Runway every bit as compelling as Lost or those spaceship shows on the Sci-fi channel.

*Picture the following text billowing up out of a hazy 'flashback' style sitcom fade-in*

I remember when I lost my Project Runway virginity like it was just yesterday. It was a cold, cold night but my baby made me some chicken potpie. She also mentioned that "some show" that she very much enjoys was premiering that night and that I should watch it with her. She explained the premise and somewhere between designers and judges, I lost interest. "Let me grab my Dostoevsky," I exclaimed with a condescending look. Moments later we hunkered down on our creaky green couch. The program began and instantly I was hooked.

It was the premier of Project Runway: Season 2, in which all manner of hipsters and homosexuals, arrogant upstarts and slim young things congregate for a chance at $100,000 and a mentorship at the Banana Republic Design-a-torium. Immediately, their television personae coalesce. There's the gangly mean guy with all the facial hair and tattered more-is-more style. There's the ridiculously short Asian woman with the clean lines agenda. There's the guy they kicked off last year before he had a chance to prove himself (Daniel Franco, where did ya go?), the kid fresh out of design school, a half dozen others you know never have a chance... and of course there's Andrae.

I repeat, I'm hooked. My copy of The Brothers Karamazov lies untouched on the coffee table. I begin extrapolating theories as to who would win it all and whining that there are at least a dozen more episodes before I'll even know who’s in the running for Fall Fashion Week.

At this point, I'm sure you are all wondering what exactly makes Project Runway so great.

But, really: what doesn't? I mean, we're talking dresses made from groceries, for goodness sake! Each episode has all of the fun engendered by ingenious design projects coupled with the docu-drama of Real World-esque in-house squabbling. There are heroes and villains, guys to laugh at, and underdogs to root for. And on almost every show, the dress you think should win doesn't for inexplicable reasons. The judges are uncompromisingly harsh and the designers’ back-room impressions of said judges uncompromisingly hilarious. Needless to say, I now count the days between episodes.

Now that the show has returned for Season 3, my life is a bit more complete. It seems there's a little fashionista-bug in my Cleveland Indians Baseball cap after all.

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Jack Black's Body Wears White

Following the strict rules of fashion, it's quite the faux pas to wear whites after the Labor Dabor. So, in celebration of Style Week 2006, Jack Black's Body will be rocking the whiteness until the very last socially acceptable second. Enjoy!

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Meet Kristahl

Kristahl (Kah!-wrist-Ã¥wl) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something writer, photographer, and production editor working and living in Chicago. A graduate of Purdue University, Kristahl is JBB's resident expert on celebrity gossip, computer technology, stencil graffiti, skiing, Thai food, hammocks and naps (separately and in tandem). She enjoys camping, kitschy decor, 80s movies, books, and mint mojitos. The Brat Pack makes her heart swell with happiness.

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The Elements of Style

The Fashionista’s
Guide to Fall 2006Photograph by Kristahl
The September fashion magazines are out, and you’ve bulked up your biceps lifting them out of the mailbox. If there’s one thing I’ve always loved, it’s the fall season—especially now that school supplies, the Clairefontaine notebooks and Pilot pens of my college years, have given way to similarly necessary Diane von Furstenberg dresses and Michael Kors satchels. I may even plan an apple-picking trip just so I can wear a chunky Marc by Marc Jacobs sweater with cute little knit owls. But enough about me. Without further ado, the Fashionista’s picks for Fall oh-six.


Gentlemen,
The hottest, most accessible trend for fall is definitely the straight-leg jean. The look is modern, masculine, and undeniably sexy. Straight-leg covers a lot of territory, from comfortable (room to move) to extreme (think Diego Garcia). Colors are dark—blue, gray, or black. The straight-leg jean, long a favorite of the Wrangler crowd, is available everywhere from the Gap to Levi’s to Diesel. Once you put them on, you’ll never go back to “relaxed fit.”

The new James Bond, Daniel Craig, may have been named Esquire Magazine’s best-dressed man of the year, but not even 007 has as much influence on men’s style as your friend and mine, Johnny Depp. Granted, style is only 30% fashion and 70% attitude, but Capt. Jack Sparrow lacks in neither category. After Depp’s turn in Finding Neverland, men’s fashion experienced a “raconteur” or “dandy” moment, with emphasis on rich woven wools and intricate Liberty-style prints reminiscent of the turn of the 19th century. This year, after Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest, Depp’s influence extends to men’s accessories, a long-neglected area once populated only by ties and cufflinks. Skulls, in any form, are everywhere, and layered chains with pendants like daggers, crosses, horns, and “found objects” are the height of panache. Stephen Webster and Chrome Hearts are at the forefront of this accessory explosion.

And now, some trends to avoid: unless you’re feeling the Rivers Cuomo or Grandpa Joe vibe, steer clear of the man-cardigan. I know, I know, I love it too, in that ironic sort of way, but I think it’s one of those concepts that’s better in theory than in execution. Remember: what’s good for Carlos D isn’t always good for you. Similarly, while velvet remains hot for fall, there’s a right way and a wrong way to wear it. The right way involves one posh piece, like a blazer (or, for the adventurous, a vest), worn with jeans after dark. The wrong way would be wearing a full-on velvet suit or wearing anything velvet during the day. Particularly if you work with animals or have pets that shed—forget velvet altogether. Although you are probably aware of the continuing prevalence of preppy, one final caution: this season’s sartorial styling relies on a single vital principle—irony. Much better to mix your tweeds with your plaids in a rumpled sort of way than to wear one or the other, neatly pressed, head to toe.

Ladies,
By now you have probably noticed the ubiquity of leggings. Now, just because I won’t wear them myself doesn’t mean I won’t condone them for others. When worn properly, leggings can be cute, and at least they can save you from the mortal sin of a skirt too short. And I actually love the legging with the extra-long sweater, à la Edie Sedgwick, maybe with a little ballet flat, no? Two things to remember when looking for the proper legging: length and opacity. As self-evident as it may sound, you will need to try on leggings before purchasing, as you’ll need to determine the best length for your body type. Stay away from leggings that end just below the knee or just above the ankle—these lengths look awkward on just about everyone—and aim for mid-calf instead. And please, don’t go anywhere near sheer; opaque is necessary if you don’t want to look like you’re wearing a cutoff pair of L’Eggs. The best thing about leggings: they’re cheap! Shouldn’t set you back more than $15-20 for a pair you’ll wear all season.

Sadly, the fashion world is experiencing what I’d like to call a “bag-lady” moment, perhaps inspired by Zoolander’s “Derelicte” line. In a charge led by the Olsen twins, designers are flaunting long dresses over baggy pants and Henley tops—dégoutante! That being said, there is an oversized look that can be worn stylishly. Now’s a great time to buy a maxi coat in a long length with big lapels, or a pair of wide-leg Hepburn-style pants. The key to pulling off this look is balancing an oversized piece with other trim separates—like the aforementioned extra-long sweater with leggings, or a slim pant under the maxi coat. At least one piece should be your proper size.

And I simply cannot let the opportunity pass to comment on my favorite accessory of all—jewelry. Luckily, many of the trends in jewelry are accessible to everyone, due in large part to the great fashion jewelry in the market today. On street corners from New York to San Francisco, you can buy fabulous big earrings or chunky wood-link necklaces, generally for around $10. You can also get dolled up this season with yellow gold jewelry (again, faux is widely available) and estate-style pieces (raid your grandmother’s jewelry box!), especially emblematic pins and brooches (à la Hogwarts’ insignia). No well-dressed woman should leave the house without jewelry—not only is it a personal statement, but it can take an outfit from looking fairly put-together to looking expertly styled.

So, fashion pupils, ’tis the season for shopping. Make some key purchases to update your wardrobe and be the envy of your friends and neighbors, because this season is all about going back to cool.

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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Style Week!

Welcome to Style Week, dear dandys and fashionistas. It's the season to put down our plows, carry our lunchpails five miles to the one-room schoolhouse, and get all dolled up in our back-to-school best! For one week—and one week only— my trusty editors and a slew of our most stylish contributors will be sharing what we'll be wearing and what we won't this Fall oh-six. You'll learn what's hot and what's not. There'll be chic cartoons, snazzy photos, spiffy advice, elegant oddities, and stylish surprises galore. So grab your tweed coats and jaunty hats and join us on the runway. Let the Style Week begin!

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The Friday Hoff

Dear Mr. The Hoff,
We know where you got these moves.
And The Revolution approves.
XOxooxoXOXOox,
Jables

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The Official Fantabulous JBB Photo of the Week

For JBB's friend Cortland, Gary, Indiana puts on a pretty face.

Gary Steelworks


Do you have photos of your wild travels? Portraits of circus people? Images of rain falling on a croissant dropped on a sidewalk in Paris? Send ’em on in! Impress us with your journalisticatory skills!

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The Rocking Consumer Report

Ever been stranded in the middle of nowhere and thought, “I could sure use a drink right about now.” Your fondest dreams are about to come true. JBB proudly presents: the inflatable pub.

Product: Portable Pub
Price: £4,379-£16,500, depending on model
Materials: Plasticized PVC polymer direct, anti fungal & flame retardant, aluminum, beer
Home: Amber Iris, Ltd.

Observe the inflatable Hogshead Pub. Ye “Olde Worlde,” CAD-designed, state-of-the-art, fully working pub can be yours for a modest price. This 40ft x 19ft x 22ft place of business and pleasure has room for a bar and holds up to 30 customers. Designed by Airquee Ltd (Air-key Lim-it-ed), the company that brought you bouncy castles and the world’s first inflatable church.

Your inflatable, portable pub can be erected on a level surface in just ten minutes with the help of two small blowers. Stand clear and watch your dream pub rise from the ground. It’s built in the traditional English style, with stone exterior, chimney pots, and a “pan tiled roof effect.” Inside, you’ll bump your head on the low, wooden ceiling. You’ll notice planked floors and stone walls hung with framed paintings of the English moors. You’ll warm your hands by the Inglenook brick fireplace at the back of the pub and admire the framed trout above the mantel. If the classical Hogshead style is not for you, the Inflatable Pub comes in three other charming models, the Barrel, the Kilderkin, and the “quaint and cozy” Firkin.

The inflatable pub’s uses include: providing a rubber-walled haven for the mentally deranged, furnishing a practical drinking establishment for poker enthusiasts, and supplying a lucrative business that folds up in your pocket. You can rent the inflatable pub for your next swanky event, or buy one to start your own business. Amber Iris, Ltd., offers guidance and training in food hygiene, entrepreneurship, and “beer dispensing.”

We are certain that your business venture will be a success with the Amber Irish Portable Pub. As the marketing team proclaims, “it’s just like relaxing in a real country pub!” except that everything is one-dimensional. Get yours today!

Click HERE for more information about the Portable Pub.

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Meet Stohlermandude

Stohlermandude (Stole-her-man, Dude!) is a pre-collegiate, post-professional twenty something writer, gamesman, husband, VAX e-mail systems expert, and historian soon to be living in the Big Apple. A graduate of Grinnell College and the U of C, Stohlermandude is transitioning back to the ivory tower, aka NYU. Stohlermandude is JBB's expert on poker, marriage, pub rock, and chinese food. He enjoys baseball, jazz, tonal languages, railing against humanism, obscure asian cinema, and kitties. He is a fan of something called anarcho-syndicalism.

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The Hand, Not the Heart

Stohlermandude Calls
Your BluffIllustration by
Master Matt

Poker is a game of bluffing. I'll lead you to believe that I started playing poker because of the Robert Altman film California Split when, in fact, it was the cheesy flick Rounders that peaked my interest. I'd like you to think that my first TV exposure to poker was Deuces Wild when it was actually Chris Moneymaker winning the World Series of Poker on ESPN that got me hooked. I will tell you these untruths to engender a sense of awe that I am in the poker avant garde and should be trusted so that later, when I say things like "I play poker as something to do with my hands while I drink with friends" you will believe me. Poker is all about bluffing—but bluffing only works if people believe you.

Of course, this isn't a “how-to” article on bluffing in poker. If you're a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something, then you already know how to bluff. You bluff all the time. You bluff to yourself ("This paper deserves an A and I deserve another drink"), bluff to your friends ("Of course I agree with you that there's a noticeable difference between the Shawn and Matt eras of Tapes'n'Tapes"), or bluff to your company ("I am working on this very important project full-time. I am definitely not writing an article on poker and reading biographies of Tapes'n'Tapes while I am at work.”). We are all practiced in the art of deception. But this is beginning to sound like a half-ironic send-up of a "Life is Poker, The Rest is Just Details" shirt, and that is not my intention either. So, this is not a “how-to” article—it is a speculative “why” article.

Perhaps you, like me, found Rounders appealing because of Matt Damon's preternatural ability to read his professors' minds or the look on John Malkovich's face when Teddy KGB's tell is finally revealed. Perhaps you were enthralled by David Cross's resplendent performance on Celebrity Poker Showdown. Most likely, it was Chris Moneymaker, the professional accountant who won the World Series of Poker, who drew you in. His Cinderella story was gripping (despite the absence of poker announcer Gabe Kapler’s dulcet tones). It's likely that one of these astounding performances drew you in to poker, but why have I/you/we stayed? I personally play poker so I have something to do with my hands while I drink with friends.

I've never played an entire game of poker sober. Not even when I played with my in-laws did I totally refrain from alcohol (leading to a hilarious episode in which I said "fuckballs" in front of my new mother-in-law). I once began playing a poker video game sober, but it quickly drove me to drink and turn off the PS2. There's a symbiotic relationship between poker and drinking. I'm guessing that most of you readers aren't yet to the
come-on-over-and-talk-about-mortgages-and-vacation-houses-and-how-difficult-it-is-to-get-our-kids-into-a-good-preschool-cocktail parties point in your lives, but I'd also wager that you've got at least one foot out of the bar scene or you do a substantial amount of pre-drinking at home before heading to the pubs. Well, if you're not comparing tasting notes on Chablis and swapping stories about Timmy's ACT Prep/Irish dancing class, you're going to need a reason to have people over.

Sure, you could listen to music or watch TV, but then you'd just end up talking about how derivative Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is or who’s in the lead on America’s Top Model. When playing poker, you are doing more than that. You are drinking with your friends, talking about your lives, occupying your hands. And having something to do with your hands is key, because it keeps you from drinking too much. I've never played sober, but I've never had to boot and rally during a poker game either.

Of course, if poker was simply a game to keep your hands busy, it wouldn't be very interesting or popular. What keeps you playing is the drink, to be sure, but it is also the stakes—though not the stakes you might think. Certainly, money plays a part in our desire to play. We don't have vacation homes or tenants, so winning an extra $5 actually helps our checkbooks (if only to defray the cost of beer). Even if it's a $30 buy-in, the stakes that matter are catching our friends in lies without jeopardizing our friendships. If we are actually called on any of the bluffs we make throughout our day (say, if someone actually asked me to elucidate the difference between Shawn and Matt, or if my workplace took away my computer’s alt-tab abilities), the consequences could be severe.

In poker, however, you only lose the chips you put into the pot. Being called on a bluff and losing $2 by representing a flush when you're holding a pair is a lot more palatable than being called on your affinity for The Sea and Cake or your claim that your thesis is going really well. Poker allows us to see how well we know our friends. But the costs of gaining that knowledge are limited by the game. Unlike Truth or Dare, poker doesn’t drag out dirty secrets about who slept with whose girlfriend. It’s a matter of the hand, not the heart.

I should close by looking you all straight in the eye and saying something savage like "Ultimately, I just play to take your money," but I won't do that. Instead, I'll tell you that poker is really just a basic game of statistical probability. But unlike a pre-calc or statistics class, you can drink and talk to your friends, which makes statistical probability a hell of a lot more fun.

And ultimately, I do get to take your money.

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s timely question. Have questions of your own you’re just longing to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!


Dear Jack,
I'm having trouble budgeting my time. How do you manage to get everything done on deadline? Thanks for your help.

Time Crunched
Chicago, IL



Dear Mr. (Captain?) Crunched,

I find that lots of my post-collegiate, pre-professional 20-something friends have the very same problem. That’s right, they’re disorganized and dysfunctional. I say “they” because I, thankfully, am past the pcp20s stage of life. Which means I’m an expert budgeter and I get everything done on time with no help whatsoever.

Not quite. Actually, I’m pretty messy and a little lazy. I always say I’m going to join the gym, but I don’t. Before my hot wife came along, I always planned to learn how to cook but always wound up microwaving frozen meat patties for supper. That’s right, I’m a bit of a wreck. Or I was, until my trusty editors came along.

The best way to budget your time is to get yourself a pair of trusty editors (and I'm sorry, man, Croftie and Oline are not for sale). Trusty editors can do anything—they sweetly nag me to finish my creative endeavors, they kindly dispense just the right ratio of bubbles to bath, they tend to all the needs of my needy Body, they check my mail and write my letters, they make my words do the work I want them to do—and they look damn good while doing it.

So, while I’m not one to tell you how to budget your time and get all your work done, let’s take a look at how my trusty editors do it for me:

Lists:
Trusty, organized people make lists for everything, my friend. The books they’re going to write, the sentences that will go in the books they’re going to write, the things they need to do today and tomorrow, and the things they think they might need to do if they decide to do them. My editors tell me that there’s nothing that can rival the joy of crossing something off a list. I never said they weren’t dorks.

Planners:
Planners are little books filled with calendar pages. Apparently, you write the things you need to do today inside the little square for Wednesday, August 23, 2006. Whenever you’re given a new deadline, put it in your planner. This way, you can see your whole month laid out for you on one handy spread. This sounds boring to me, but I’ve heard that these little books come in lots of colors and fashions… some even have unicorns on the covers. So I say, go for the unicorn, dude!

Prioritize:
Now that you’ve got lists and planners, you must learn to prioritize the projects noted therein. My trusty editors recently explained the meaning of this word; here’s what they said:

Prioritize /pri-or-e-tiz/ : to list or rate (as projects or goals) in order of priority

Useful, right? What you’re supposed to do is decide which of your projects are the most important. Get to work on those first, and save the others for later. Here’s my personal list of priorities for this afternoon, ranked in order of importance:

1. Respond to Mr. C’s Ask Jack question
2. Join the gym
3. Choose dessert from vending machine
4. Check in with trusty editors to schedule further priorities

You’ll notice that I put your question down as my top priority. I have nearly finished dispensing my wisdom, which means that it is almost time to call the gym. And I’m going to do it this time, because it is a top priority. Please also notice that dessert comes before checking in with my editors, because dessert takes precedence over most other things.

So go treat yourself to some dessert and get to work. You can do it Cappy Crunch. And remember, if all else fails, get yourself some trusty editors.

Keep me updated and send me a photo of your new planner!
XOXoxOxOXOxoxoXooxoxooxoooooooo,
Jables

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The Creeps in the Shadows

Bernanation Muses on Lessons Learned from
Little Miss Sunshine and Humbert Humbert

While Little Miss Sunshine has received a healthy heaping of praise from movie buffs across the country for its wit, charm, and surprising humor, little has been said about the film's darker undertones. As the JonBenet Ramsey case rises with the rest of the sleaze to the top of the tabloids, and lawyers scramble to represent the gender-confused John Mark Karr, I can't quite suppress the chill in my bones, regardless of the sunshine.

The film follows a kooky family’s road trip across country so the youngest daughter, seven-year-old Olive, can compete in the Little Miss Sunshine Pageant. On the day of the big pageant, the family sits uncomfortably in an audience of plasticine women. Olive's father notices a lone man decked out like a Hell's Angel sitting among the sea of pastel. He leans over, "Are you a father?" he asks. The leather-jacketed Goliath snorts and responds, "This your first pageant?" and pops in his ear plugs. While this moment caused me to laugh, I ended up choking on my mirth.

The film clearly identifies the pervert among the crooning mums, but it's not as easy to put your finger on the sicko in real life (not that you'd want to literally put your finger anywhere near a sicko). I mean, look at Karr: he was a schoolteacher; a nice looking man who was hunted down in Thailand and transported to America in business class whilst feasting on king prawns. No, the Humbert Humbert is not always the sleazy looking fellow dressed in leather; hell, the openly sleazy guys are usually more like Olive's grandfather, who'd rather be purusing porno magazines at the gas station than secretly lusting after the Olsen twins. Porn in and of itself is not illegal, but pedophilia is a different story. And the scary thing is, the guy with the kiddie porn on his harddrive could be the one teaching your kids their ABCs.

"Little Miss Sunshine" takes a close look at sexuality in American culture, and just how supremely warped our conception of it is. Some Americans think it’s perfectly acceptable to dress young girls in midriff-baring bikinis and lacquer their faces with make-up. They get to their feet and cheer when "tweens" croon suggestive pop songs and gyrate with batons. Because sexuality is only hinted at, Americans sit back in comfort; they don't have to stare sex in the eye, so it doesn't exist. (Now, I'm going to give away the ending of the film, so anyone who loathes spoilers should move on to Croftie's cartoon or something.) Still, if you put on "Super Freak" and "take it all off!" like Olive does for her talent, ho boy! America will slap you with a big old "censored" sign. It doesn't matter that Olive's moves are clumsy and childish, nor that she's still wearing more clothing than all the other girls combined, sex is expressed outright and that's WRONG. Let's all bask in the hypocrisy of our culture for a minute. America loves a good tan.

Little Miss Sunshine is a great film; it tells us to accept our families as they are, regardless of their eccentricities or shortcomings, and it reveals the truly revolting nature of the beauty pageant. Yet, while the film implicates the moms and pops who mold their daughters into mini sexpots, it falls short of dispelling certain stereotypes, namely, that those who look respectable are not always so genteel. The bad guys don't always wear leather and chains and tool around on bikes. No, if we've learned nothing from Lolita, Gentle Hum prefers first class.

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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Technical Notes from the Overlord

My trusty editors continue to be rather concerned about my Internetal confusion. Thus, we had another technological intervention at JBB World HQ yesterday. And because my Body is your Body and I'd hate for you to miss out on any of the wonders of our collective Body, here are some of my notes from the meeting (and be sure to check out our prior intervention for the answers to any other questions you might have)...

* DON’T MISS A POST-DATE! (DATING CAN BE ROUGH!)
Sometimes the post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something lives of my trusty editors or the post-collegiate, pre-professional, twenty-something lives of our JBB writers get the best of them and they are not able to post new articles every day. However, they are clever minx, my trusty editors, and they've been known to post-date articles. So always scroll down or you might miss something splendiferous.

* FOR SOME PEOPLE, JBB APPEARS AS JUST ONE POST!
And you people must be thinking What a dinky business this whole Jack Black's Body is! Psahw! In fact, JBB is not a dinky business but an extensive collection of fascinating articles covering thrilling topics that are somehow falling by the wayside on particular browsers (most often those of the Internet Explorer persuasion). If you are a computerly-minded person and know why this might be, my trusty editors would love you forever if you'd tell them. Until then, Internet Explorers, bear with us!

* I CAN STILL COMMENT! It seems that many of our lovely readers are unaware of the comment feature. I love comments. I live for comments. I sneak out of bed in the dead of night just to check comments. So send me some lovin’! Just click on the COMMENTS link at the bottom of each post and create a Blogger account (and this does not mean you'll be forced to have a blog) to join in the JBB chatter. Come one, come all.

* QUESTIONS? You, too, can have a voice in our JBB World HQ staff meetings! Just send me your questions or comments at jackblacksbody@gmail.com and I’ll bring them up at the round table.

That's it, folks. My Body lain bare.
Big hug, little kiss, bigger hug,
Jables

(and a peck on the cheek from Croftie and Oline)

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The Official Fantabulous JBB Photo of the Week

Since one of the hallmarks of the post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something existence is the owning of a digital camera, a camera phone, and good old school 35 mm, we at JBB will be rolling out a new photograph every week. We kick this feature off with a photograph from Oustein-sensei's Tsushima, Japan.

Watazumi Shrine


Do you have photos of your wild travels? Portraits of circus people? Images of rain falling on a croissant dropped on a sidewalk in Paris? Send ’em on in! Impress us with your journalisticatory skills!

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The Rocking Consumer Report

Product: SquidSoap
Price: $3.49
Materials: Soap, ink, squid, bottle
Home: SquidSoap


Ever wish you had the skills necessary for success in today’s specialized world? Ever feel that you lack the training and certification you need to get started on the right path? Ever wish you could make sophisticated choices informed by higher education? Here’s your chance! You’ll never to feel inadequate again with your very own SquidSoap!

The SquidSoap motto: “Training Tomorrow’s Great Hand Washers.”

Observe inky soap of squids. This fun, decorative bottle of soap comes with a detachable squishy, stretchy rubber squid that provides “hours of entertainment.” This handy product is designed to teach even the most dim-witted man or woman about the proper hand washing methods—and you don’t even need to step foot in a classroom. All training can be completed right in the comfort of your own bathroom.

Did you know that doctors recommend 15-20 seconds of scrubbing for a thorough clean? This smart squid knows how to keep you cleansing long enough to remove all the harmful and deadly dirt. One press of the pump secretes a squirt of soap accompanied by a spray of ink that stains your hands. Now you scrub. By the time all of the ink is washed away, your hands will be squeaky squiddy clean.

SquidSoap uses include: providing relief for OCD tendencies, making great strides in sanitation, diminishing the loneliness of the hand washing experience, and educating infants about proper hand-washing techniques. But that’s not all. SquidSoap also a decoration! As the marketing department proclaims, “This fun product turns into an attractive addition to anyone's bathroom or kitchen when the squid is taken off of the classically shaped bottle.” Who can resist classicism?

For just $3.49 you, too, can be on your way to a better and cleaner future. Get your SquidSoap today!

Click HERE to learn more about SquidSoap. Still not sure SquidSoap is for you? Check out the educational video..

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Returning Japanese

Osutein-Sensei: Out of Asia
(Part 1)Illustration by Master Matt

The students at Kashishi Jr. High School decided I needed to cry. They were not alone in this. A good portion of my town of Toyotama, on the remote Japanese island of Tsushima where I lived and worked as an English teacher for two years, was conspiring to tear-jerk me. Perhaps part of the reason was that they had not yet seen me cry, despite what they must have considered to be ample opportunity. We often think of the Japanese as rather cold, with upper lips as stiff as samurai steel, but even the manliest man's men are reduced to blubbering in the proper setting, like graduations and good-bye parties for departing teachers. And though I was sad to say "sayonara" to students and teachers I'd befriended, my eyes always remained dry at such events.

I am, after all, an American male, and that means I am by law only allowed to cry at loved ones' funerals, when dogs die, and during cheesy, inspirational sports movies when everyone begins to slow-clap. Even had I gotten teary, there'd be no competing with the overflow of emotion around me. Being an American at a Japanese good-bye party is like being a robot in the midst of an Italian funeral.

So, Osutein-sensei had to cry. I was leaving after two years. Crying was simply called for. I nearly broke at my elementary school good-bye ceremonies, when all the adorable students I'd come to think of as my little Japanese sisters and brothers gave me hand-made gifts and messages. I held strong, though. Toyotama Elementary School would have succeeded in making my tear-ducts flow had they not used a computer to translate the big banners they made into English, "It Returns to America and It Is Not Forgetting of Enjoy Memories and We Tell It Come Back." Never before has being reduced to an anonymous, genderless pronoun been so profound.

At Kashishi, though, they had an ace up their sailor suit sleeves. While I greatly enjoyed teaching at all my schools, Kashishi was special. From my first day there, the staff and students had welcomed me and made me feel that I belonged there. They had treated me, in other words, not as the mysterious outlander, but as one of them. A lot of this was thanks to the English teachers, a woman with the wonderfully unfortunate name of Saiko (pronounced "psycho") and her eventual replacement, Mayumi, both of whom made me feel like I belonged. For an expatriate, especially in Japan, where I always stuck out like a white-skinned thumb, finding such a place is sanity-saving.

Which is all the more remarkable considering that Kashishi is a small squid fishing village at the dizzy fringes of the earth. Even in my town of 4,000 people, it was considered remote and backwards. But I belonged there, in my own strange way. It was like my Cheers, where everyone knows (or at least tries to correctly pronounce) your name. So they didn't have to try so hard to make me cry when I left, though try hard they did.

As I found out later from Mayumi, the students had gathered in secret and plotted their tear-summoning masterpiece. They took my favorite karaoke song, John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," and rewrote the lyrics to be about Tsushima. And they practiced into the long dark hours of the night (or so I like to imagine), trying to get it right. A delicate process, as one girl named Nagisa realized. "We have to sing it cheerfully," she told the others, "but not too cheerfully, since he's leaving."

Thus, it was that during my farewell ceremony in the gym, my students gathered in a semi-circle around me and sang their new version of "Country Roads" at the top of their lungs. When they hit the line "country roads, take me home, to the place I belong..." their conspiracy was realized and I broke.

I never would have imagined that leaving Tsushima would leave me empty. After all, it's about as far from my familiar world as I could get geographically, culturally, linguistically, and culinarily. But it was home for two years—home in every way a place can be. I've come to find that home is a fluid concept, it shifts and changes like tidal sand. Language and culture are important but home, simply put, is where you belong. And that can be damn near anywhere. One's man hinterland is another man's home.

People keep asking me how it feels to be back "home" in America. I smile and reply politely, but I can't really answer that question. Soon enough the States will feel like home again, but for right now the word "home" doesn't mean America, it means that little island on the other side of the ocean. There's no place like home.

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We Can't Go On Together

Prof. J on the Burden of The King
The King and I have never been close. I wish this were different. There have been nights, too many nights, when a voice from the speakers purring “Are You Lonesome Tonight,” would have been more welcome than all the red wine in the land. When that staccato guitar and drums in “Jailhouse Rock” could have set me afire. When that impossibly low note on the “I” in “I Can’t Help Falling In Love” could have synced up with my heart and carried me home.

Home is something the King and I share. Memphis was his first, but it was mine for my first eighteen years, and though my hometown is so far away now, seven hundred miles of bad road between me and Beale Street, Memphis will always be the first and the last. There is a rhythm there that can not be found any other place. It’s there that the humidity makes the music stick to the vinyl in ways non-Memphians will never know.

They asked the King what he missed most about Memphis.

His answer: Everything.

We’ve never been close, the King and I, and I think it’s because there was too much of him in my life. This is the burden of Memphis. There is no middle ground. Either you fall under the monarchy or you set sail for the new world.

We’ve never been that close, save for two songs, both from The Memphis Record, his greatest work. There is “In the Ghetto,” where the King sings in that smoky low register of his, his vocals perfectly matching the descending melody. Never mind the song is an attempt to be politically conscious, to point us in new directions, to show us those left behind. Listen instead to the passion in the vocals, and imagine a King before his peasants, even if that King is nothing more than a singer, those peasants little more than adoring fans.

And then there is “Suspicious Minds,” the greatest of all the King’s men. The guitar line crackles, the drums thud, and the horns swoon. And the King is all torn up because his woman, his love, will not trust him. He’s adamant in the verses, passionate in the chorus, and nothing short of broken in the bridge. And when the song starts to end—when the sound engineer decides enough is enough and that no man should put himself through this, and begins the fade out—the King will have none of it. No, the sound engineer brings the guitars, the drums, the horns, the strings, the backup singers, and the King himself all back for a minute more, and we’re caught in a trap all over again.

We’ve never been close, and I wish this was different, especially now, when Death Week has come, when Dead Day has passed, when the time to mourn the loss of the King has returned once again. There will be tourists, more than the normal amount, roaming the streets of downtown Memphis this week. The King’s songs will be on radio stations that never touch his music. The local news will run stories that ask the JFK question: Where were you when you heard the news? And on the night of his death, thousands will stand outside the gates of Graceland, candles in hand, and they will sing his songs. You have to see it to understand it. And if you start to understand, then maybe you and the King will spend a few lonely nights together. Maybe you’ll get the chance I never got.

Some nights, I want things to change. Some nights, I want the King to walk into my room, to sway his hips and toss back the bit of dangling hair from his eyes, and to tell me “That’s all right.” I want him to speak of his favorite restaurants in Memphis, where to hear the best bands, and where he and Priscilla first held hands. I’ll nod my head, smile the way I do when I’m truly pleased and not pretending, and then I’ll close my eyes and dream about what it would be like to be a boy from Memphis in love with the music of the King.

Thank you very much. Thank you very much, indeed.

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s cuckolding question. Have questions of your own you’re just longing to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!


Dear Mr. Body Sir,

This morning my dog ran away. The milk in the fridge was spoiled and the hot water wouldn't work. Outside, I found my Dodge Stratus had a flat tire and the bus I took as a last resort was overcrowded with men with strange musks. When I finally got to work I found I'd been demoted, now I'll be filing and alphabetizing each day for 9 hours. And they took away my computer because they suspect me of looking at pornography. In the cafeteria they were serving vegetable lasagna that was three days old and nobody wanted to sit next to me because a pen exploded in my trousers making it look like I wet myself. My back's been killing me ever since my firm's championship softball game. I dove for the ball and missed causing us to lose in extra innings. This afternoon I found my wallet has been purloined, my library card suspended, and my identity stolen, though I'm still required to pay the outstanding credit balance that the thieves have already rung up. I'm pretty sure I'm catching a cold and that nasty rash just won't go away. My brain surgeon former Miss Teen USA girlfriend of 7 years recently met a virile and hirsute young actor with a devilish grin and body that could stop traffic. Nowadays they're together all the time. My question is this. How does one tell when one is being made a cuckold? And what course of action do you advise me to take in this matter?

Yours with infinitely piling regrets,
Phineas Bumbershoot
Shackleton Falls, WI


Dear Mr. Cuckold… er, Bumbershoot,

You’ve unleashed quite the slew of pathetic information. And it all leads right back to your unfortunate girlfriend situation. Ask yourself these questions: Why did your dog run away? Why did your lady run to the shelter of another man’s hirsute arms? I think you’ll find that man’s best friend and your lady friend fled for the very same reasons.

Dogs like happy people. So do ladies. I doubt that your girlfriend enjoys spending time with the young actor for his virility, his talent, his devilish grin, or his body that could stop traffic (although I’ve heard that those are all admirable qualities in a man). It’s not this other guy who’s the problem in your relationship—it’s you. That’s right Bum, you’re pathetic. You’re whiny. You’re self-pitying. You’re irritating. You’re many, many bad things.

But you didn’t ask me if I thought you were a wimp, you asked if you’re a cuckold. Now, I don’t know your girlfriend, but I suspect that such an intelligent, winning creature would prefer to be showered with affection rather than your boring issues.

Now that we’ve established your cuckoldhood, what course of action should you take, you ask? I’ll give you a handy 8-step program to start off the healing process:

• Always check the date on your milk.
• Pay your bills on time.
• Learn to change a tire, man.
• Invest in a scented hanky to hold up to your nose during long commutes.
• Save the porn for home.
• Bring your own lunch to work.
• Don’t carry pens in your trousers.
• Drink lots of orange juice.

But JB can’t fix everything. To address your more profound concerns: I’m sorry about your canine. Demotion sucks. You probably stink at sports—that’s ok. Too bad about your wallet—next time don’t lose it.

And that goes for your girlfriend, too. Ladies are like wallets. If you don’t hold onto them, someone else will. And then you’ll have to pay the price.

Hope this helps, Bumberdude.

Big hug, very little kiss,
Jables

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Meet Jack's Jock

Jack's Jock ('jaks 'jäk) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something writer, journalist, sports fanatic, living, writing, and working in good old Atlanta, Georgia. A graduate of Washington & Lee Univ., JJ is JBB’s resident expert on sports, politics, Magnum, motorcycles, Mazdas, and a motley mix of male-stuff. He appreciates animals, accents, and alliteration.

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New Orleans vs. Bush, Redux

Jack’s Jock On Why Saint Reggie
Must Deliver for the Big Easy

Greetings, brothers and sisters. Indeed, I am Jack’s Jock… the authorial personification of Jables’s cash and prizes. My role within this rockin’ body is simple. As the testosterone-filled creamy center of the Jables chocolate sandwich cookie, I am here to give you the latest satirical take on the world of sport and the sport of worlding (politics, that would be). Today, on my maiden voyage, JJ has managed to find the ideal topic to incorporate les deux.

Dateline: Monday, August 29, 2005. Hurricane Katrina hits land for the second time, eventually leading to the costliest and deadliest storm aftermath ever endured by one U.S. city. Jables watched in horror as President Bush and those fat cats in Washington dropped the ball, tried to pick it up again, only to kick it, and then fall on it in a drunken stupor. The Beltway Boys then began humping the figurative ball, much like a horny dachshund. The people of the Big Easy were screwed by the Bush. Sadly, they were not the first, and it does not appear that they will be the last.

Nearly one year later, and we’re back to August. Thankfully, this year’s Atlantic hurricane season has been quieter thus far. Unfortunately, if some scary, swirling clouds decide to rumble back over the Land of the Free—the same cronies are in control. The thought leaves me a bit flaccid.

One year after one Bush let the city of New Orleans down in a dramatic and at times fatal fashion, the city is pinning its hopes on another Bush. That would be number two NFL draft pick Reginald Alfred “Reggie” Bush II. Reggie is being called Mardi Gras, The Messiah, and Saint Reggie. This last one doesn’t seem that much of a stretch since his name is Reggie and he’s playing for the New Orleans Saints. But can the Heisman winner live up to all the hubbub? He doesn’t just have any city of any football fans to carry on his shoulders. He has a city that has already been to hell and back. A city that, frankly, deserves to see the playoffs.

True, Reggie’s numbers from college are beyond impressive as a multi-tasking running back/tailback, wide receiver, and punt & kickoff returner for the University of Southern California. JJ also likes the name of his college team… the Trojans. Careful now. For the 2005 season (his junior year, but he opted out of senior year to join the NFL) ESPN has his numbers at these ridiculous levels: 200 carries for 1740 yards (for those who don’t speaky the sportsy, that means he carried the ball more than 17 football fields), and 18 touchdowns. He led his team to a perfect season with the exception of one loss to the Texas Longhorns in the Rose Bowl. Damn, son.

Adding to the hype is a complete slew of endorsement deals. In the hopes of attracting more youthful customers away from other fast food joints, Subway allowed Reggie to ink his first deal. Move over, Jared! Along with that came Pepsi (2-year deal), Adidas ($1million annually), and thanks to a deal with EA sports, his face appears on the cover of NCAA Football ’07. On the cover, you can even see the 619 that Bush would painstakingly put in black paint under his eyes—a shout-out to his peeps back on San Diego’s south side, which features a 619 area code. Suddenly, I have Ludacris in my head. “I got hoes, in different area codes… Is it cuz they like my gangsta ways? (gangsta ways.. ohh)” Ohh, indeed.

But now that we mention that particular 619 area code, it was in this part of SOCAL that Mr. Bush’s family suddenly found themselves in a $757,000 house in San Diego county during the 2005 season. Suspiciously, the home was rented from a man who just happened to have recently started a sports marketing firm. Authorities are still investigating whether Bush payed the market value rent on the home. If it is found that he didn’t pay in full, then the home constitutes a gift and such gifts are in violation of NCAA rules. If the house was, indeed, a gift, Bush would have been in violation, forcing a forfeit of his Heisman!! His ineligibility would also obligate an overturn of each and every USC game in which he bagged the ball. The school could also face further perturbing penalties, such as being banned from bowl bouts and plethoric player probations. Oh, sweet sexy sizzling scandal, yes!

And then there’s the matter of his jersey. As a USC Trojan, Bush played under the number 5. He requested the number upon signing with the Saints. Do any of my sporty kids out there know the problem with such a request? In the National Football League running backs are required to wear a jersey numbered between 20 and 49. This regulation is not new. It is not unknown to our good friend Reginald. He’s just requesting the NFL rework its policy for him. Cojones or hubris? The league said it was the latter and rejected Bush flat out. This fall you’ll find him festooned in a jersey numbered 25.

Surely I’m finished recounting this young lad’s scandalous ways. I mean, he’s yet to play his first minute of regular season professional football. Not so fast! In one final move of defiance—after being picked by the Saints in the draft, Reggie held out for more cash. Missing a mandatory meeting with his new teammates on July 28th, Bush waited for the offer he had in mind all along. He inked a 6-year deal that includes $26.35 million guaranteed and $51 million total. Incentives can bring the deal up to $62 million. “Jolted Jables’ jumblies, Batman!”

The hype machine has run full out for the length of the summer. Millions of dollars have changed hands. A city waits for the Bush that will lead them to salvation. Reggie’s past performance indicates that he will deliver. But he better stay squeaky scandal-free clean. He’d better be able to deliver the yards that he has in the past. He’d better be able to carry this town on his shoulder-padded shoulders. In this hurricane-ravaged city, he’d better hold on to the ball that the first Bush dropped. La Nouvelle Orléans ai besoin les bons temps, encore. Reggie Bush, are you ready for some football?

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And Now... A Word From Our Sponsors

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The Friday Hoff

Maligned by his love, The Hoff dons some suspenders, pleated pants, and clogs, stands amid a forest filled with musical notes and violet haze, and sings his little Hoffian heart out in a midnight melody especially for a big-banged Mortitia Adams.

Ed. Note: Seconds 44-49 are of especial interest, when The Hoff is momentarily overcome with ecstacy at the thought of what he might be able to do in a night alone and then, remembering the solemnity of "the song of the night," adjusts his visage to look appropriately lost in the emptiness.

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Meet Master Matt

Master Matt (Mass-Terr Muh'att!) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something illustrator and master of arts, biking and freelancing in Chicago. A graduate of Appalacian State Univ. and Savannah College of Art & Design, Matt is JBB’s resident expert on bicycling, zines, dreamers/fools, and general all-around boy-stuff. He enjoys sockless, coconut-shattering, KFC-sleeping, bike trip adventures.

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In Defense of Baths

ToeSock Takes to the Tub


Quick, think of the first five things that come to your mind when I say the word “bath.” Ready? Okay, go!

1. Romans
2. rubber ducky
3. bubble (as in bubble-bath)
4. -tub (as in bath-tub)
5. totally, ridiculously awesome and more cleansing than a shower.

Now that’s a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one. Not too many things have that kind of associative star power backing them up. Just look at the lovely list that comes to mind. Nothing compares to the quiet dignity of a bath. No-thing com-pares. For example the top five things people most often associate with an entity as unequivocally lovable and cute as little baby puppies?

1. snuggly
2. yelping
3. mount saint wrigglesworth III
4. pound- (as in pound-puppies)
5. urination.

As you can see, not as nice. Most people already consider baths to be much lovelier than little baby puppies or showers. This is common knowledge. Intelligent folks—those "in the know," those who are hip and cool, and down with the language of the streets really 'heart' baths. "Showers are for suckers," they say while standing laid-back against a graffito-tagged brick wall with cigarettes dangling from their lips. But there are a select few who would beg to disagree.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You can't fathom the idea that a rational human being capable of speech and basic motor skills could come to the conclusion that showers are somehow more pleasant or 'better' than baths. But these people exist! I encounter them every day. This manifesto is for the select few who think that the ineffective watery mist-like provision of a showerhead is somehow more sanitary than a good, wholesome bath. Obviously I'll make converts of them all.

Picture this. You're standing in the bathroom after a long day at the office/tollbooth/bar/brothel. If you are a man and/or unattractive you’re wrapped in a nice plush towel. If you’re a hot young lady, the towel is obviously superfluous. You stopper the drain in your bathtub and crank the hot water way up. The pleasant thundering of the water soothes your frazzled nerves. You haven't even gotten in and already the bath is working its magic. You open the cupboard and fish around for your bottle of bubble bath. You pour in just the right amount of the delightful smelling liquid. It is an understated aroma of soap and unicorns. You imagine the princess from the Legend of Zelda might smell like this.

You go through your bath checklist. Bottle of beer? Check. Paperback novel that has been dropped in the bath five times before? Check. Rubber\ ducky or an assortment of other bath friends? Check. Plush towel within grasping distance? Check. Absence of cell-phone, television, any and all food items? Check. By this time the suds and water have risen to the appropriate level. Are you ready? It is time.

Now the true power of the bath is decentralized, its greatness being a many-headed hydra of wonderment. The first aspect of the bath's greatness is its storied history. Baths have been the preferred means of cleansing oneself since the dawn of time. Adam bathed. Eve bathed. Lilith bathed. Sometimes Eve and Lilith bathed together. Jesus was a friend of the bath as well. He even performed a few minor miracles involving baths. When Cripply Joe wandered in from Hepshetzutsville, Jesus turned wine into bubble bath and behold! Cripply Joe's dirt was banished to the realm of wind and ghosts. And he could walk again without a limp. All due to bath's life-restorative properties.

The Romans brought the bath into its heyday, a heyday that has never really passed. Roman senators lounged around the bathateriums for hours, bad-mouthing the Caesar. The English almost destroyed the ritual of the bath. Under their far-reaching empire you couldn't travel three hectares without encountering an Indian, an Islander, or an American Colonist who frowned with puritanical lips of disapproval upon their colonizer's unkempt non-bathiness. And that brings us pretty much up to modern times. In the future I've heard we will have zero-gravity baths where you can float in and out of an amorphous water-blob whenever you wish. Now that's something to look forward to.

The second aspect of bath's greatness is its unbeatable clean-ability. Your body just can't help but give up its stubborn dirt accretions when it is completely submerged in watery goodness. By comparison, your average shower is much less effective. Do you know how many pores you have? Scientists estimate the average person to have eight bazillion pores. These same scientists then studied the splatter ratio of ten different brands of showerheads. What did they find? On a body composed of such an amazing amount of pores even the most comprehensive of showerheads only covered ninety percent of a human being's epidermis. That leaves a stunning one hundred and seventy bagillion pores unwashed. And human beings are lazy. Most aren't going to go out of their way to sweep those tiny droplets over their remaining skin. Baths know all about human laziness and do the work for you. The longer you soak, the less that dirt will be able to hang on.

Now I find that the most common complaint of non-bath types is this. "How can you stand just laying around in your own filth?" My answer is three-fold.

a) just how dirty do you believe me to be? I don't work in the mines. I don't win marathons and have jars of celebratory jam poured over my victoriously fit body. And I'm not your local poopsmith. I'm just a regular Joe with a regular day's worth of dirt. Not enough to pollute an entire bathtub.
b) Warm water opens pores and frees dirt. Said pores remain relaxed and don't re-acquire the now free-floating specs of dirt. As the free-floating specs wander about they are completely consumed by the molecular soap-beasts that patrol the tub's high seas. With all that soap in the water I assure you it is cleaner than when I first got in.
c) The warm water also performs wonders on aching muscles and sore joints. Can that puny mist from your showerhead claim this capability? I think not.

Now I know that the many benefits of bathing seem too good to be true. I bet your head is spinning about like a whirligig wondering how could you have been wasting all this time showering? I can't help you answer that. Not everyone is right all the time. But now you can be right for once in your sorry pathetic existence. Just make sure not to overdo your newfound pastime. Don't let your fingers and toes go all pruny, 'cause that is pretty gross. Just as the social drinker's two or three beers encourage him to be a scintillating public speaker while four, five, or ten beers turn the very same drinker into an incorrigible drunkard, so too will a bath's salubrious effects be enervated by over-doing it. Know when to say when. Know when it’s time to toss in your rubber ducky and reach for the plush towel.
Remember, always bath responsibly.

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The Rocking Consumer Report

Feeling unclean lately? Let rubber ducky Jesus wash away your sins.


Product: Jesus Rubber Ducky
Price: $11.99
Materials: Rubber
Home: CelebriDucks



Behold rubber ducky Jesus. This soulful, hand-sculpted, collectible Jesus comes with his own baby lamb. He wears a holy expression. He can squeak at a perfect pitch, remain calm through turbulent seas, and float on water. If you’ve ever wanted to bathe with Jesus, here’s your chance. You can also bubble up with Moses and the Devil. For an alternative to Western religion, consider the roly-poly ducky Buddha.

Each duck is sold in his own gift container that includes a hang-tag for your personalized message. A technologically advanced weight-adjustment system allows your Jesus to soar perfectly upright over small waves and bubbles. The state-of-the-art squeaker is hermetically sealed off from the water so your Jesus’ squeaks won’t turn to gurgles. His collectible edition number is carved into his bottom.

His uses include: providing companionship to lonely bathers, uniting bath time and confession into one pleasurable experience, helping you scrub those hard-to-reach spots, and teaching infants about proper bathing rituals. He and his brethren have been featured in multiple media sources, including Maxim, the Tony Danza Show, the Discovery Channel, and Playboy. As the founder, president and owner of CelebriDucks says, “When good taste in fine bathing is desired, I hope you will think of our Celebriducks.”

Jesus is temporarily sold out.
But he’ll be back soon, and for just $11.99 you, too, can bathe with Jesus.

Get yours today!

Click HERE to see the whole collection of Celebriducks.

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s crushing question. Have questions of your own you’re just longing to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!


Dear Jack,
A friend of a friend has a crush on her boss. He's not conventionally attractive but he does have a strange appeal. She could never tell him this and he's a happily married man with a small child, so she knows they could never be together. But these feelings are making her very uncomfortable. Yesterday, when he asked her to go buy some bubble bath for him, it was all she could do not to ask to join the bath. She knows she shouldn't say these things but it's becoming harder and harder. Her friend does these drawings of their boss as part of their work and in these drawings he looks SO HOT. All grizzled and Leo DiCaprio. While she may not feel this way in real life, this friend of a friend is totally in love with her boss as represented in these drawings. Like that Aha video. What can she do, Jack?

xo,
Ohlighn
Chicago, IL


Ohlighn, love!

Let’s get this straight—your friend of a friend (FOF) is in love, not with her boss, but with a cartoon of her boss? That’s weird.

But I’ve heard weirder (our groovy, linen-clad stalkerish friend from a few weeks ago, for instance). I suggest that FOF’s infatuation comes from a deep longing for a committed, loving, deep, lustful, bubble-filled romance with a hot, grizzled, Leo-like, slightly pudgy, perhaps slightly messy, but lovable man. However! This same FOF fears rejection, so she focuses her longing on an unobtainable figure. Her boss is happily married with a child. That’s rather unobtainable. But even more unobtainable is a cartoon of her happily married, potent boss. For what I hope are obvious reasons.

To get over this obsession, let’s make him obtainable. How, you ask? Well, there’s one way. FOF could seduce him, break up his marriage, and emotionally scar his child for the rest of his life so that he seeks therapy and falls in love with his hot therapist and breaks up her marriage and scars her child, thus enacting a virtual cycle of destruction.

I would advise against that route. But she does have another option. Have the friend of a friend’s friend make a cartoon just for FOF. In it, FOF will buy the bubble bath. Then she will seduce her boss in the bathtub. Then, just as the boss leans over all the bubbles to kiss her, he will—heaven forbid!—toot in the bath.

I’ll bet you anything her love will be drowned right then and there amongst the suds.

Best of luck to your FOF. And send us the cartoon!

Little kiss, big hug,
Jables

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