In these times of economic uncertainty, you might find the stress to be more than you can bear. You may feel like breaking down, and I can assure you that is a perfectly normal response. You may want to hit somebody until they feel as bad as you do. You may want to take out your aggression on strangers who fail to provide you with an appropriate level of customer service. You may even want to kill someone’s pet rabbit. But before you do, keep in mind that spontaneity has no place in a well-executed nervous breakdown. In order for your breakdown to be memorable and quoted for decades, you’ll need a well-rehearsed list of one-liners and a role model to emulate.

For example, if you feel a break down coming on at a hospital, doctor’s office, free clinic, or similar medical facility, you may want to draw inspiration from Shirley McClaine’s breakdown in Terms of Endearment.

If, however, you’re pushed over the edge by the death of a family member, a friend, a pet, or a celebrity, review Halle Berry’s work in Monster’s Ball. Alternatively, you may want to channel Sally Field in Steel Magnolias.

On the other hand, if you feel you’re just not getting the respect you deserve or a minor oversight is ready to send you over the edge, you can’t go wrong with Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest. (For guidance on road rage and parking spot theft, you may want to cross-reference Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes.)

When infidelity strikes, don’t hold back. A misdemeanor on your record is a small price to pay for a nervous breakdown that the neighbors will recount for years, as Angela Basset so brilliantly demonstrates in Waiting to Exhale. (If possible jail time is a concern, you may want to invoke a more witness-friendly approach to adultery retaliation as demonstrated by Diane Keaton in The First Wive’s Club.)

To recap, here are a few tips to help you plan your next loss of sanity:

• In a pinch, poor customer service can justify a breakdown on short notice, but save your outrage for low-security businesses such as fast-food chains and dry cleaners. A superb nervous breakdown at a bank or airport could be cut short by an inelegant taser zap or billy club blow to the head.
• Don’t leave your audience hanging. Smoking a cigarette can help punctuate your breakdown and provide closure.
• Arson can ensure that your breakdown is taken seriously. Be sure to research local ordinances and assess collateral damage before choosing a location.
• Incorporate music whenever possible. Pay a day laborer to follow you around with a boombox blaring “Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves” or Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy.” This investment will yield high dividends in the long run.

Today I feel as though a thousand-pound weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Clay Aiken has finally come out of the closet. I’m sure it’s a relief for all those Manhunt users who have been dying to know the true identity of FreckledManilowFan22. Now he can finally add some face pics to his profile to go with all those shots of his Spam-toned nether regions. How liberating!

Staying warm around the house has always been a challenge. We all know what a hassle blankets are. All that slipping and sliding! And sweats? They’re great once you finally get them on. But who has time to for two completely separate garments? Thank God some housewife turned inventor found the time to engineer a high-tech solution to this age-old dilemma.

A few questions immediately sprang to mind after watching this:

1. Is the joke going to be on me when the cost of heating oil and natural gas skyrockets this winter and there’s not a Snuggie to be found in any As-Seen-On-TV product distribution center in America? Perhaps I should buy two. Or maybe I should buy several thousand and resell them on ebay for a tidy profit as the nation grows desperate for fleece-based sleeved blanket products.
2. The ad claims similar products sell for up to $60. Really? There are similar products? And they sell? Maybe they were comparing the Snuggie to its close cousin, the winter-weight choir robe.

I’m heading out for a haircut tomorrow, which means I’ve been doing my usual pre-cut web search for hot, age appropriate haircuts. A quick Google search led me to coolmenshair.com, which gets points for its straight-to-the-point domain name. Eventually I found a post on Alex Evans Emo Hair, which really made me wish I was still under 25. I thought the second cut shown was particularly great, but I think jet black hair is mandatory to pull this off. Dark brown might also be acceptable, but I’m pretty sure golden blond locks like mine are incompatible with anything that resembles a Pete Wentz ‘do. So, it looks like I’ll probably stick with my current wavy, shaggy cut for now. If I decide to take the plunge, however, it’s great that someone as already made an instructional video for any guy looking for the perfect emo hairstyle.

My mom called Wednesday night right after Sarah Palin wrapped up her speech, and we had a very interesting and heated discussion about why she and my father are voting Republican in November. Despite my persistent campaign to gently, kindly convert them to Obama-ism, I had a feeling my parents weren’t going to vote for Barack, and I’m 110% sure they never would have voted for Hillary.

My mom can’t really put her finger on why she hates Hillary. She assumes Hillary will raise taxes, but that’s more of a general beef she has with all Democrats. More than anything, my mom thinks of Hillary as a ruthless bitch, and not in that cool hockey mom way. (Oh, Chelsea! Why couldn’t you have been born an Alaskan boy who liked to stomp in the faces of your rivals with razor-sharp skate blades?) I think Palin’s bitchiness goes down easier because she’s the perfect blue-collar feminist—tough enough to field dress a moose and reapply a coat of Revlon’s Midnight Rose all at the same time; human enough to have a pregnant teenage daughter and pious enough to tell everyone that abortion is never the answer. Oh, and in case you haven’t heard, she also has a baby with special needs. She’ll even let you take a picture with it for a small donation. Just don’t dilly dally because she needs him back in time for an appearance on The View.

My mom loved Sarah’s speech and it’s easy for me to see why. It was brilliantly written and well-delivered, but most of all, it made her seem like the sassy neighbor who every mom in the subdivision can’t help but love. Sarah is selling millions of women on the idea that she’s fighting the good ol’ boys network and no one seems to notice that she’s a card-carrying member. It’s like heralding Aunt Jemima as a neo-feminist who fought the good ol’ boys at Quaker Oats because public opinion finally forced the company to let her take off that doo rag and start a part-time catering business. You go girl! (But don’t start wearing pantsuits just yet and make sure dinner’s still on the table when Uncle Jemima gets home.)

After talking to my mom about Sarah’s weaknesses, it became clear to me that no weapon formed against Palin shall prosper. Want to claim Sarah’s experience as mayor of Wasilla didn’t prepare her to be Vice President? Well I’m sorry that Wasilla isn’t “cosmopolitan” enough for you, city slicker. Want to question her on her own admission that she has no idea what the vice president does all day? Well, she doesn’t have to answer that because she’s not going to Washington to please you, Campbell Brown. She’s an outsider and proud of it, baby! She’ll live in a wigwam on the white house lawn and dry caribou jerky on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, just you wait and see.

So what’s a gay guy to do? My best friend advised that I should play the gay card. Remind my mother that Sarah Palin won’t support my right to get married or adopt kids, and that a vote for Palin is a vote against the basic human rights of her own flesh and blood. On the one hand, I don’t hesitate to point out that I can’t vote Republican because the Republicans are only hands off when it comes to helping the poor, but not when it comes to stem cells or marijuana or unwanted pregnancy or gay sex or any other moral regulation God needs help with.

On the other hand, I don’t think I can control who my parents vote for by threatening to never speak to them again and I don’t like to press my luck when it comes to their tolerance of my “lifestyle” and my “friend.” When I was 17 and my parents found out I was using their AOL account to meet guys online, I suddenly found myself on a plane to spend Christmas with my biological father in Iowa. It was the first time I ever had to spend the holidays away from home and at the time, I wondered if my relationship with my mother would ever recover. So, I’m pretty happy that they don’t spit on my boyfriend and that we’re both welcome at all major family functions these days.

In the end, I’m still not sure if my friend is right. Maybe I’m too complacent. Maybe he’s doing more for gay rights by demanding political solidarity from anyone who claims to love and care about him. It’s hard to know when you’ll catch more flies with honey. I like to think the best option lies somewhere in the middle—to speak softly and carry a lot of pamphlets. At the very least, we owe it to ourselves to be well informed and to know the views and plans of all the candidates inside and out. We may not be able to win over others with vinegar or honey, but we may be able to bring them a little closer to our side with patience and a lot of accurate information.

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Maintaining the title of cheapest gay man in America is no easy task. We live in a nation full of pricey temptations and seductive luxuries, and at times even I find myself mesmerized by their siren song. I recently visited Zappos.com hoping to find a cheap new pair of black dress shoes. I thought my mission was sufficiently specific and that I could make it in and out in a snap. Two hours later, I was still there, obsessively examining every single item in men’s loafers. Eventually I started entertaining options that were more and more casual and before I knew it, I wondered if what I really needed was a new pair of sneakers. After 30 minutes in the casual shoes department, I found my way back to dress shoes and came across some promising options:

Lacoste Argon 3 (Not black, I realize, but the contrasting white stitching makes these so much better in brown.)

Bruno Magli Malazu (My boyfriend said I can’t buy Bruno Maglis because O.J. Simpson wears them. Plus they cost even more than these Prada frames that have been on my wish list forever and a day.)

Fitzwell Gavin (This is the kind of comfortable shoe I keep saying I’m going to start wearing to work, but I always wind up getting drawn in by something more sexy and painful.)

During my shoe hunt, I went through the many stages of purchase rationalization. First there was the, “Oh, just buy them all. You deserve it.” moment. Then I thought, “If I can find them cheaper somewhere else, that will make it alright.” Eventually, I did find the Bruno Magli’s on Amazon for $165. But by that point, I had completely talked myself out of buying any new shoes at all.

It’s not easy to know when we’ve earned the right to treat ourselves to something we want. On the one hand, I’m a big fan of mulling over any purchase for at least 24 hours before pulling the trigger. On the other hand, those Bruno Maglis that haunted my dreams aren’t available for $165 any more.

In the end, I don’t regret my decision. I hesitated because I’ve come to realize that no one at work notices my shoes, and I should probably wait until I find something that will make for a more comfortable walk to and from the train. In addition, I just finished up some summer traveling and swore I’d keep my expenses in check for a month or two before the holiday shopping season arrives. Of course, if you’d like to tell me what a horrible mistake I’m making and show your support for a particular shoe, feel free. I’m also happy to entertain alternative shoe suggestions.

In the mean time, I’m treating this as a victory against those corporate fat cats at Zappos and pitching it to the Hallmark channel as an inspiring tale of one man’s triumph over materialism. That is, until those O.J. shoes are 70% off, of course. If those babies go under 100 bucks, I will not be responsible for my behavior.

An old friend of mine came to town for a visit recently, and I wound up spending my Saturday night at six different bars. We drank, we danced, we pointed out cute guys from across the room, and I didn’t make it home until 4:00 a.m. I had a good time, but painting the town with one of my single friends always leaves me with a mixed bag of emotions.

Initially, it’s all great fun—getting dressed up, getting out of the house, and patting myself on the back for still being younger than the majority of the guys around me. Eventually though, the joy of people watching and being seen wears off. I discretely begin checking my watch, and I wonder how much longer I have to wait before I can suggest going home without the usual chorus of sighs and accusations of party pooping. But before I can leave, one of my single friends has to make out with a hot stranger, leaving me to fend for myself while a shirtless man old enough to be my father attempts to seduce me by gyrating and pointing in my direction. The shirtless man usually resembles George Lopez, but with dead eyes and a chest covered in stubble that burns as it grazes my upper arm.

None of this is really a problem. The problem comes the next day when I reflect on my wild night out. I begin to feel sorry for my single friends, then I immediately feel guilty for being so judgmental. Part of me knows they don’t need my pity, and it’s certainly not unusual for gay guys in their late 20s and early 30s to stay out late every weekend. Yet, I have to wonder, when does all of this go from being funny and entertaining to being pathetic and disturbing? When are we officially too old to be taking guys back our places and then dropping them off at their dorms the next morning? When is it no longer cute to giggle and call yourself a lush as you sign off on a bar tab that represents 5% of your net weekly income? And most importantly, when do we go from being hot, slightly older men to creepy grandpas on the prowl?

Maybe I’m just a holier-than-though prude—the one who settled down early because he was too concerned about straight standards of propriety and age-appropriate behavior that don’t apply in the gay world. Maybe I’m jealous or compensating or projecting or (insert appropriate self-help book term here). Maybe this is what the gay rights movement is all about—the freedom to adopt a Chinese baby girl and move to the suburbs or to keep the condo in the gayborhood, wear your Prada shoes, and show off your trophy teenage boyfriend and moderate alcoholism with pride. I support my friends’ rights to have their Manhunt and their cosmos and their anonymous bathhouse threesomes. But I also support my right to be completely grossed out by it as soon as they start losing their hair or getting Uncle-Fester-sized bags under their eyes.

We might moisturize every day, but we can’t all be Demi Moore. And even if I we could, I think we’d still have to accept what Demi already knows to be true: at a certain point, an age-appropriate Saturday night includes a DVD from Netflix, a bucket of popcorn, and a bag of delicious Viactiv calcium-enriched chocolate chews for strong, healthy bones.

I certainly can’t compete with the folks over at CuteOverload.com, but I thought I’d share these pics anyway. I really was doing a work-related photo search on Flickr when I found them, honest.

• If Franken Berry and Christina Ricci had a baby, and the baby was a kitten…
• Racoons Have a Midnight Snack

In you’re trying to find the best deal on airfare, it helps to know how much one airline will nickel and dime you over another. For those of us who can’t keep all the fees straight, this handy airline fee chart can help.

Say hello to SpongeBob’s latest weapon in his ongoing mission to turn America’s youth gay: the SpongeBob Squarepants singing thermometer. Studies indicate that rectal use of this thermometer creates a Pavlovian response, causing kids to forever associate the SpongeBob theme song with stimulation of nature’s most delicate flower. I really hope this concept is expanded to other products. I’m sure there’s a huge market for Hannah Montana glycerin suppositories—the only suppositories that play Hannah’s biggest hits while providing gentle and effective constipation relief.

When I went to graduate school several years ago to get an MFA, I thought being a professor would be the best job in the world. No being chained to a desk all day, summers off, and a job title that my friends and family would finally understand and respect. Of course, I also I thought it might be nice to help people learn, be a mentor to my students, yaddah yaddah. Along the way, I got sidetracked by a career that has kept me in academia, but on the staff side. Now I find myself in a comfortable routine. I can take a vacation whenever I want, my boss adores and appreciates me, I like my coworkers, and I rarely have to do anything unpleasant.

The only major downside to my current job is that there isn’t much room for growth. For the first time in my life, I’m not sure that I want my boss’s job, which leaves me wondering what’s next. When I began working in my current position, I jumped through countless hoops to get someone at the university to let me teach. At the time, I still thought teaching might be a great gig. Now, having worked closely with faculty for a few years, I’ve seen many of the less appealing aspects of the job—nasty student evaluations, colleagues with massive egos, the pressure to publish, and last-minute changes to teaching assignments that force instructors to become overnight experts on subjects they don’t like and don’t fully understand.

Now that I’ve survived my first year as an adjunct, I find myself questioning the pros and cons of becoming a full-time faculty member. I had hoped I’d have a few more years of part-time teaching to weigh the benefits of my current job against the joys of professor-hood. However, it looks like an offer for a full-time teaching position is going to come sooner than I had planned. Obviously this is a good problem to have, but it also means I need to hurry up and decide if I want to chase the thrill of the new or embrace the peace and predictability that come with my current job.

I figured while I was taking the time to make a list of pros and cons, I might as well exploit my friends (and complete strangers) for free advice.

Professor Job Pros and Cons

• Pro: working 33 weeks per year, off Thanksgiving to New Year’s and all summer (optional)
• Con: can only take off when school’s out
• Pro: room for growth and advancement, multiple options (tenure, dean, admin)
• Con: must exhibit work and/or publish research regularly
• Pro: having my own office and a more prestigious title
• Con: no division between work and personal life, very busy when school’s in session
• Pro: working directly with students; advising and mentoring would be rewarding
• Con: being evaluated and criticized by 90 students three times a year

Current Job Pros and Cons

• Pro: seven-hour work days
• Con: must sit at a desk all day
• Pro: six weeks off per year
• Con: can’t travel for extended periods of time (two, maybe three weeks max)
• Pro: low stress, low pressure
• Con: only growth opportunity is director-level job at another school
• Pro: able to teach part-time for additional pay (around $4200 per 11-week class)
• Con: teaching one class on the side leaves no time for other interests
• Pro: enough free time to take advantage of free employee tuition or pursue hobbies (although this would probably also be true of teaching after surviving a year or two of hell)

One last thing I should point out is that becoming a full-time professor would probably mean about a $10,000 pay cut if I only teach three quarters per year. However, I’d probably wind up a few grand ahead if I taught over the summer, which would still leave me with seven to eight weeks off per year. So, fair reader, what would you do in my shoes?

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