ickis.com / Julene Horowitz

As the weather continues to get warmer, every place I find myself knocks their AC up a notch or three. It’s funny, something we all consider so essential during the summer is still a novelty to me. I grew up living in a house and riding in cars that felt more like ovens. A/C was a luxury, and we weren’t partaking.

I don’t want to call my parents cheap because that’s insulting, but they were. At night they’d open all the windows, turn on ceiling fans in every room and just let the cool(er) night air blow through the house. When my mom got up in the morning she’d make the rounds, shutting windows and the back door in an effort to keep the house cool all day. Usually around noon all the cold air had escaped from our comings and goings. For the record, a brick house in direct sunlight does not self-refrigerate.

My dad’s beat up Honda hatchback and my mom’s silver minivan never had AC either, as far as I know. Actually, I think they both had it but my parents never turned it on. We were forever driving around with the windows down, holding cold water bottles against our chests on the hottest July days when we got stuck in traffic and there was no air movement.

Around the time I was seven a man rolled up in a Sears van, there to install one of those giant metal AC cooling units at the back of our house. I feel bad for that installer in retrospect, I must’ve spent all afternoon looking over his shoulder and asking questions. Yes, I was “that kid” that pestered repairmen, manual laborers, painters, plumbers… I was intrigued by any skill that could only be done with your hands. Several hours that felt like light years in kid-time later, the unit was installed.

Except my parents didn’t turn the damn thing on all summer, except during a three day super-heat wave. They installed a locked box over the thermostat, determined to keep my grubby little kid fingers from putting everything I read in the manual to use once they weren’t looking. I spent a lot of time sitting in front of industrial size box fans over the next few years, sure my parents were trying to kill me with every minute that our shiny new-ish A/C unit went unused. My parents kept a tight leash on A/C usage during the summer months for as long as I can remember. Even when my mom replaced her minivan, the windows had a tendency to get rolled down every time we mentioned it was hot outside. (She still does this, according to my brother.)

My exposure to the luxury of air conditioned living was limited to the houses of friends with rich parents and trips to Target or the grocery store. Every kid hates running errands with their parents, but I found some small good in it. The endless hours spent following my mom up and down the aisles was worth it for the two hour break from the heat. Of course I was all the more miserable once we started walking across the parking lot to her minivan, little wavy heat lines rising off the pavement as far as my tiny eyes could see. It’s amazing how many unnecessary trips I found myself convincing my mom to make and the number of kids I hated but hung out with all for the sake of air conditioning.

Was this a lesson from my parents? Possibly.

When they signed the paperwork on my first (used) car, they refused to help me get one with A/C. I spent many summer days embarrassed by the fact that the back of my shirt was soaked in sweat after driving to work. The only requirement I refused to budge on when I bought my car last summer was the AC, but I rarely turn it on. I roll down the windows, open the sunroof and sweat just as much on the black fabric seats of the Mazda as I did on the gray ones of my last car. Sure, I could turn it on but it kills my gas mileage and I feel disconnected from other miserable travelers with my windows up to trap in every last bit of cold air.

In realizing my own hesitance to take advantage of such a modern marvel, a small sense of pride swelled. I don’t need that cold air in my face in the middle of July, nor do I have to find a home that is centrally cooled. Just me and my box fan, all summer, forever…

Julene’s note: In case you missed them, here’s part 1 and part 2 for your enjoyment.

The paranoia was creeping into my subconscious, the dipping in and out of the twilight of sleep became a menacing din rising to a scream that would clamp my eyes open in stare. With my head turned toward the side my gaze fixed on the white metal blinds, obscured partially by a relaxed, dark brown nipple. The room didn’t smell of cigarettes, it smelled of drunken sex. Here I am, back in reality.

“We can’t smoke in here,” she’d repeat, as she would repeat everything she drunkenly said throughout our stay there, “My mom will freak out!” I didn’t care to mention if her mom had a nose there’d be no doubt in her mind something else went down in her apartment besides smoking.

There were no sheets on the bed, as they’d been stripped for my host who would occupy her mother’s apartment overlooking Central Park. I didn’t have an idea of the view as I lay there contemplating the blinds.

I fucking hate blinds. She snored. In fact, that’s all she did after we both relented, post-post-post-orgasms, and passed the fuck out. Finally my alarm went off the first time. I’d set it somewhere between walking, covered in bath bubbles, pants in hand, out of the bathroom and into the bedroom knowing getting up early and the fuck out of there would be wise as there was no telling when the folks would return.

Blinds, nipple… am I really in my 30′s thinking about a hasty getaway from a girl’s parents? She’s also in her 30′s, but keys to a posh Manhattan apartment for the weekend still come with their price, I suppose, and for people who live here, we can’t escape Neverland when we’re offered those kind of luxuries. It’s hard to grow up with scenarios like these arising once in a blue moon, but arise they do.

But this was an important one. I had to get back on the horse, and happily the horse came into the bar where I’d gone to pick up an art print I’d drunkenly left behind — long story. This night I was sober, she was not. She was on a mission, and oddly enough so was I, but for once I wasn’t getting trashed to shed shyness and accomplish it. The cyber monkey was off my back, the Eastern Euro gf was a month in the past, and I was on the prowl wherever I went. I hadn’t used deodorant in a week and though I didn’t smell, I didn’t want anything to obscure whatever I’m generating… didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

It worked, albeit subject to me breaking all my own conventions and actually putting up with some agonizing chat — well, more like (her) drunken confession. Normally, and perpetually I think, I’ve taken myself out of the game by just having no patience for the drunken monologues I’ve bailed on in the past. Citing, at least to myself, I have no business hooking up with someone to whom I can’t bare to listen. Truly, it’s not some alpha male shit brewing inside me, I’m just a bitch, and bitches don’t get to fuck, I guess. I’m stuck up and just don’t have time for whiney life stories of drama and chaos. I’ve had plenty of relationships that WERE drama and chaos, but those were rarely predicated on some 3 hours’ meandering preamble.

This time I was sober(-ish) and not going home unsuccessful. But, I should note, I didn’t seek this one out. She just kind of appeared, and sat silently by us for a while. We knew the same person, who popped by for a second, so for both of us it wasn’t completely uncharted territory, there were at least a few pleasant “I know you” glances back and forth.

I’ll skip the bullshit, and jump straight to it. Well, straight to what was going through my mind after the turbulent paranoia subsided and she began to wake with a series of dreamy moans, much like the ones she’d been cooing as she passed out after I finally came all over her ass.

Then it all started to happen. Text upon text, fully realized, appeared in my brain. It literally felt like I was in hyperspace circa 2001, shooting toward language I’d had bottled up for a year, or through a couple years of really forgettable sex. My friend had said, “Man it’s unhealthy to go that long without sex.” I said, “I know,” but I was also getting over some really weird shit for a while. Like, for a WHILE. And that kind of self-hate is a viscous circle of self-fulfilling prophesy. Once you get that shit on you, it’s a scent that doesn’t go away. Sure, there will be days when I walk into a room, a good day, where I’ll see everyone’s face light up. I can feel the energy lift, but those days are balanced on a very narrow precipice of self-doubt and rarely is that magic immutable. In fact what usually happens is that I’ll mentally stumble at the site of some über-beauty who might hold my glance for a second, only to be distracted by a slightly taller, yet, fully-androgynous, skinny, art-hipster with a jacked up face.

But in this case, the reset button was fully engaged. As in Cabin Boy, “These Pipes Are Clean.” There’s really no avoiding the cliché, probably because it’s just fucking true. You get laid you wanna win. It only doesn’t work in boxing or when you’re on tour and you fuck your girlfriend right before the show or the fight, and that’s just because you’re not hungry to win. In the other case, you’ve been starving to win for so long that you’re feeble and can’t hunt. Get laid and all of a sudden you’re not just back on the prowl, but you’re refueled and insatiable and the muscle memory springs back to life. You wanna feed and feed so that when winter comes you can hibernate, or at least maybe find your winter lover and keep the momentum going, but in “stay in all weekend” form.

Clichéd, yeah, but isn’t that what we all want in the dark days?

So here I am, kinda back in the saddle, definitely not giving a fuck and horny as hell. Maybe I can make it stick this time. I’m pretty sure I can.

Some people have big questions. They tend to be about the meaning of life and love, but I already know the ‘answers’ to those questions are subjective and really pointless to try to discover. This means that all my trivial questions and idle ponderings hold far greater importance, at least in my mind.

Like most of us, I muse to myself about pointless shit a lot. You want to know what I think about at 4am when the internet is boring and serious life problems seem pointless to dwell on? Here you go…

Is it possible for people to find something else to hate on aside from Starbucks, hipsters, and whatever current social tragedy (see: Katrina, Trinidad, BP oil spill, etc)?
We all know that Starbucks brews with beans roasted en masse (read: quantity over quality), that hipsters look like they got dressed in the dark, and it sucks when bad things happen. I get it, you get it — can the internet stop rehashing these same facts for me dozens of times daily? If I know something to be true, a constant reminder numbs me out to the whole topic.

Are we, as a nation, capable of putting our “first world problems” in perspective? (Short version: this tweet.)
For example, I recently switched car insurance companies -but stayed with the same agent. For months I have had problems with them trying to contact me via exceedingly outdated contact information, even though I’d updated it will them innumerable times. Recently I got a called them because they were more than 2 weeks late with the EFT. As I was whining (in my head, never aloud!) I made it through the thought “my insurance agency is incompetent” before i paused. This is a first world problem, it doesn’t need to get under my skin.

Are peep toe ankle boots going to maintain popularity for a while?
Since they actually stay on my incredibly slender footsies, I’d like multiple pairs… assuming I won’t look like a tool wearing them because something else is cool now that I missed. Like this whole high-heeled clogs that are supposed to be worn with socks thing. Just because you see it on the runways doesn’t mean it’s the right way to go with your footwear, ladies.

Has catcalling from your car ever resulted in an actual hookup?
Rarely do I get catcalled on the street, but when I do I’m forced to wonder if the dude in the passenger seat actually thinks this approach working out for him. Sure, girls will humor you to a point–but we do that at the bar if we think there’s free drinks in doing so. (It doesn’t count if she was a hooker, by the way.)

When did I become the last kid with nice teeth?
I’m sorry, but I remember how many of us had braces. Did you assholes stop wearing your retainers and then quit brushing shortly after high school? One thing people consistently compliment me on is these pearly whites, which I used to think was the lamest positive thing you could say to a person. Obviously, upon further reflection I will accept all compliments on my oral hygiene *pause* people feel like throwing my way.

More questions when I have the time, an open Word document and nothing of interest in my Netflix Instant queue…

Note from Julene: If you haven’t already, I suggest you read PART 1. Here’s part two of three from a favorite anonymous friend…

I’ve kinda been stuck at the “It was a dark and stormy night…” part of this story for a few weeks now, perhaps a month. The main-est main reason for not being able to generate a Part 2 for this story is that it just kept going. So this morning at about 12am I ended the story. I’m smiling, so it was a happy ending.

Yeah, in part 1 I didn’t think I’d be the kind of guy that’d pay for a hooker, but here it’s safe to say I never thought I’d be the kind of guy to pay for a sex on the internet.

First and foremost, never send a junkie to crack shop to research a story about drugs. (more…)

It’s funny that what started as a way to keep me from killing myself due to long office hours has become such an integral part of my daily routine. The longer I spend working out on a consistent basis, the worse I feel about skipping a day. Is that normal? Honestly I feel pretty great on days where I can pull it together enough to be awake and in my running shoes by 5:15am. Does this happen daily? God no. But I fucking try, and I can’t ask much more of myself in the mornings.

People seem curious about how this whole Chalean Extreme thing is going. So far, so good. I look leaner, my muscles have definitely toned up. I still don’t look like Kate Moss, but it’s fair to say that’s probably out of the question regardless of how much working out I do. I do need to up my equipment game, though.

This is a bunch of fitness related ‘wish I had’s off my Amazon wishlist, for those of you that are into encouraging good habits.

This is a thigh toner, and it’ll probably ruin my life for at least a week. After that, hopefully it lives up to its name. I swear I’ll try not to bitch too much about how tender my legs are via Twitter.

Another must-have is a set of resistance bands. I’m dying for a set of these for two reasons: one, they’re travel friendly for when I’m not at home and two, I don’t always feel like fucking around with a set of SportBlock weights at 4:30am. Give it a try and tell me you blame me.

The last thing I’m thinking about giving a try are supplements for managing my estrogen levels. I have an incredibly fit female friend that told me about these–she swears they help cut that last bit of belly flubber. Another friend told me he thinks my boobs will shrink, which is totally NOT an acceptable side effect for me. Thoughts? Help? I figure it’s worth a shot, if nothing else I’ll be tit-less for the summer.

I can see the difference in weight in weird places like around my collarbones and the shape of my quadriceps. With any luck I’ll be strutting around in one of these American Apparel slut-couture onesies with pride by the time I’m at Hell City Phoenix in August. (What, you think I want one and I won’t wear it in public? WRONG.)

I may have grown up in Colorado, but Ohio was never on my travel radar until last weekend–and that was only because of Hell City. I was only there for four days but it struck me as a weird lovechild of Kansas and South Dakota. If you’ve spent any amount of time in either of those states you’ll know exactly what I mean.

My trip started off a bit rocky…. I guess that’s what I get for wearing a shirt that says “GAY FOR SATAN” to the airport & seating myself directly across from a couple sporting crosses on their neck that bordered on crucifixion-sized. Oops.

(more…)