Beauty

The delectable Eva Green, portraying Vesper Lynd, in Casino Royale. A modern day Helen of Troy? Perhaps...

Life is too short not to get laid. Ten Reasons Why Sex Is Good for You

The werewolf didn't need 10 more reason to enjoy mounting an agreeable, attractive, and worthy female. However, for those of you that are having trouble closing "the deal," perhaps this list will somehow help you bolster your chances. Personally, 8 and 10 seem increasingly appealing from a strategic age management perspective.

"1. Sex is a stress reliever
Sex can lower blood pressure and reduce stress. One study looked at women’s heart rates and cortisol levels as a measure of stress response. It found women showed less stress after good sex with a partner. Emotional support alone didn’t have the same effect.
2. Sex boosts immunity
Good sexual health can mean better physical health. Having sex once or twice a week has been linked with higher levels of antibodies that can protect you from getting colds and other infections.
3. Sex burns calories
Thirty minutes of sex burns around eighty-five calories. That may not seem like much, but the more sex you have, the more you burn. Sex versus the gym… hmmm?
4. Sex improves cardiovascular health
Women who have more sex tend to have higher levels of estrogen, which protects against heart disease.
5. Sex boosts self-esteem
Researchers at the University of Texas found that a self-esteem boost was one of 237 reasons people have sex.
6. Sex improves intimacy
Orgasm and having sex increases levels of oxytocin, the so-called love hormone. It helps us bond and build trust. Researchers from the University of Pittsburgh and the University of North Carolina evaluated 59 premenopausal women before and after contact with their husbands and partners. They found that the more contact, the higher the oxytocin levels.
7. Sex reduces pain
As the hormone oxytocin surges, endorphins increase and pain decreases. So if your headache, muscle aches or PMS symptoms seem to improve after sex, go ahead and thank the oxytocin.
8. Sex strengthens pelvic floor muscles
Bring on the Kegels! Doing a few of these exercises during intercourse offers several benefits. Women have more pleasure; they’re strengthening their pelvic area and helping to minimize the risk of incontinence later in life.
9. Sex helps you sleep better
According to researchers, oxytocin released during orgasm also helps you catch more z’s. And that can come from solo sex or sex with a partner.
10. Sex fights aging
Sex is a form of exercise. And like most exercise, it burns calories and can battle the onslaught of aging. In fact, nursing home experts say they wish seniors would have more sex."

Bond: Man Talk

Timeless scene from Goldfinger. Gone are the days.

Musings, high-beams, and bushy eyebrows.

Today was one of those days that went by quickly with no good reason. It wasn't too busy, it wasn't too slow. What one would assume to be an near ideal pace, methinks. Where morning arrival, lunch, afternoon tea (yes, the werewolf makes himself a Lipton's black tea around 3pm; it's rude to mock what you don't understand), and quitting time were all reasonably spaced and the lull in between never asserted itself in an ugly way.  

Although, he works in a building that is directly across the street for the Capitol South metro stop, on the House-side of the Hill, the werewolf is loathe to ride the metro out of his way when he can walk. He normally uses the Union Station metro stop, which is on the Senate-side of Capitol Hill as his preferred stop on the metro. This means he is guaranteed a nice walk across Capitol, with full vistas of the Supreme Court, the Capitol Building, Library of Congress, and House and Senate office buildings. It is a walk that never gets old. The people watching is a regular spectacle unto itself to boot. Staffers with inflated egos, some with style, others hopelessly drab specimens of humanity. Young interns, old functionaries and party hacks, throngs of tourists,students, all make for added accents.

Today, there was an added distraction to the regular fray. An athletic looking female, about the same height as the werewolf, 5'9, red-headed, with a body toned to near-perfection - not overly muscular, although her stomach was as flat as the deck of an aircraft carrier, with marginal, if any flab elsewhere- was out for a late afternoon jog. True to her athletic disposition, she wore only a sleek black racer-back sports bra, running shorts, shoes, and a sweat band. Here's where things got interesting. Her breasts, smallish, yet perfectly formed C-cups, were bouncing with a rhythmic purpose that matched her cadence in the most seductive of ways. As she closed in on the werewolf and the distance allowed for details to be determined, he noticed she had very pronounced high-beams set on near blinding brightness. (For those of you that do not speak "man-talk," high-beams refer to a woman's erect nipple that is visible through her clothing.) Like two beacons begging for attention, the werewolf's radar locked on these two targets like heat-seeking missile onto the exhaust of a jet-engine. As she crested it past him, his head shamelessly turned his head and he strained his neck muscles to admire this passing siren, and then THWACK! The werewolf, being a total asshole and buffoon, knocked the wind out of himself by walking directly into a parking meter. He missed nailing his jewels narrowly.  As the werewolf yelped and colorfully cursed at the parking meter, a fellow pedestrian rightfully chuckled at the werewolf's expense. After rescanning the area, the ginger-siren had drifted off screen. That sort of sums up how good things have been ending for the werewolf for the past few years.

While at the gym, the werewolf encountered an oddity of a new order. A rotund, pear-shaped older man - who liked like a dorky, civil-servant cross between the uber-dweeb introvert Milton Wadams from Office Space, and Thufir Hawit from Dune - had finished his workout and was grooming himself. Although balding, the man had the bushiest most pronounced eyebrows the werewolf had ever seen on a human. They looked almost like little flattened squirrel tails or something. They were so absurdly bushy and pronounced that the man was actually blow-drying his eyebrows. He had a little comb to brush the moisture out while he was blow-drying them. It was unreal and the strangest thing the werewolf has seen in several weeks. The werewolf was paralyzed by this scene unfolding in-front of him for about 3 seconds, do to the level of bizarreness it encapsulated. 

Exile still sucks, but today had some cosmic humor injected into it.

Echo and the Bunnymen: Lips Like Sugar - Live

Echo & The Bunnymen have been a perennial favorite of the werewolf since he stumbled onto them during college. That discovery was courtesy of one of history's greatest footnotes, Napster. What a find it was back in the day. He felt like Cortez stumbling upon the legendary Aztec city of Tenochtitlan and realizing the potential for something great. The song that pulled him into their orbit was actually the eerily addictive and chilling The Killing Moon. Echo & The Bunnymen served as the gateway that introduced the werewolf to the joys of Gary Newman, Peter Murphy, Tubeway Army and Joy Division along with the uniquely distorted electric sounds associated with the early 80s.

The song is great for other reasons. It tells the tale of that unattainable wench who steals our heart, drives our imagination wild in the most lascivious of ways, knows her power over us and leverages it as she tempts and teases with the sadistic cruelty normally reserved for a Spanish Inquisitor, while never allowing us the chance to follow through. You all know the type of women to whom I refer. Yet, we convince ourselves that the pay-off of enduring her torture is that her "lips are like sugar." What fools we men can be when it comes to allowing the fairer sex have imaginary dominion over us at times.

This song is on the karaoke bucket list. It'll take a bucket or two of beer to execute

The werewolf interviews

One of the things the werewolf intended to write about when this blog was quickening, was the style and haberdashery of the modern man. (It's unoriginal, I know, but they say write about the things you like and know about.) To be charitable, the werewolf can be described as a rabid clothes hound with an insatiable appetite for classic tailored clothes and styles. He fancies himself a bizarre blend of trad, preppy, and country gentlemen when he is at his best.

The attempted look was the understated financial services professional seeking to blend in, yet knows how to dress. The suit is an two-buttoned, medium shoulder padded, single pleated, made-to-measure charcoal gray Adrian Jules from the now defunct Michael Christopher in Atlanta; the shirt is a light blue herringbone with french cuffs and a spread collar from Robert Talbott, the tie is standard navy and red Hermes; the cuff-links are hunting hounds from England; and the shoes are black Johnston & Murphy cap-toes that the werewolf acquired during his first internship on Capital Hill in 2001(They are faithful servants on their second sole).  During the end of business school and throughout exile, I have lost a little weight causing some billowing in the shirt, yet somehow, I look like a chubby-fuck in those pictures. I would love any input on the look, as I am constantly trying to improve and I fear exile has dulled my sartorial senses.

Anyhow, last Thursday, the werewolf was in Washington, DC, interviewing for a management consulting position. For the record and despite being an Vanderbilt MBA, the werewolf wants it to be known that he harbors a healthy skepticism for lawyers, investment bankers, and management consultants. (The werewolf recognizes and embraces the value that the aforementioned trades bring, but the consensus of their alleged collective greatness stokes his contrarian flames on multiple levels, plus consulting promotes the wearing of black suits, a hell-bound and unforgivable style sin in the werewolf's book) He'll think of something pithy to have engraved on his headstone that captures the aforementioned sentence and his strong emotions on the subject.

Back to the interview, for whatever reason, something about the interview had the werewolf profoundly nervous and agitated the few days prior. It was some sort of uncharacteristic lapse in confidence that was a first for him. Perhaps it was the fact that the quiet desperation of exile has him considering career options he vowed never to pursue and that breaking his own internal code of honor for all the wrong reasons just causes indigestion. He conquered his internal defects and rallied to put his best effort forward. In retrospect, The werewolf gives himself a B for his interview performance. He didn't royally fuck-up, yet, yet he didn't knock the truck window out. Quick overview, the werewolf had two interviews with senior managers in the firm, both lasting about an hour. The first interview was with the chief of research officer, a nice and smart guy, who had the attitude of a failed academic. It was lively discussion; there was were a few small case questions bandied about, however, the interviewer fixated at the werewolf's three years as an insurance broker, and was obsessed with trying to get the werewolf to confess that there is no longer a value-add in that important financial service. Rest assured, the werewolf didn't buckle. The second interview was the head of new product development. The guy was nice enough, but had a sever head cold, and was doped up on some sort of cocktail of DayQuil/NyQuil because he asked the werewolf the same question three different times throughout the interview and kept being intrigued by the same answer. Plus, his runny nose and glassy eyes were distracting. That's the quick wrap on it all.

The company itself was a tad sterile and stodgy. However, they must have had an unwritten policy that dictates recruiting tall attractive women from the volleyball teams of elite universities. While waiting in the reception area, three exceedingly lust-worthy women who exceeded 6ft in height, floated down the marble floored hallway with the sound of their clacking heels heralding their approach. They all had that bitchy and entitled "I know I am hot, asshole" look about them bred exclusively in elite universities. The werewolf was proud to be caught by the second one in one of those head-turning scope the chick's best features as she walks by moves. Sometimes, discretion is overrated.

The Cars Live: Bye, Bye Love

The Cars are one of those iconic 80s bands that don't get the credit they fully deserve. The werewolf remembers being a little boy and thoroughly enjoying "Moving in Stereo" and "Best Friend's Girl" on the radio. This live version of "Bye, Bye Love" showcases the innovation inherent in their music. Plus, what's not to love about the collection of rockin' mullets?

This song also makes the werewolf wonder something about the fairer sex. Why are certain women like bad luck pennies? They keep turning up when you need them least.
 

Christopher Hitchens: Why Women Still Aren't Funny

This five minute clip speaks for itself. The werewolf has a female friend from high school trying to make it on the LA stand-up comic circuit. She's struggling.

A week in review: New burger joint, a few decent laughs, exile looms

Yet another week has droned by for this werewolf in exile. Beyond the standard routine of job hunting, cover letter writing, networking, task list execution, and for the sake of stability and sanity, daily gym trips, the werewolf has a few semi-note worthy things to share.

There is a woman who bears an eerie resemblance to Helen Hunt at his gym. She's always on the same treadmill. If it is her, the last few years haven't been kind. Not from a horizontal perspective, it's just the woman's face has huge bags under the eyes. As Good as It Gets is still one of the werewolf's favorite films.

The werewolf has applied to four distinct opportunities in the energy, extractive mining, and steel industries. He hopes for at least one call-back.

An old flame turned nemesis emailed the werewolf out of the blue bitching about the tobacco industry. It caught the werewolf flat-pawed. He doesn't like being unnerved. She still lacks a sense of humor.

While on a recent visit into NYC, the werewolf discovered something new, the Black Shack: A Burger Joint. Few things excite the werewolf as much as unapologetic greasy burger joints. The Black Shack satisfies. The joint is sparse; service is attentive and quick; the burger is meaty, filling, and cheap; and the fries are crispy and salty. He'll go back. The werewolf actually met the owners while they were pouring over their spread sheets and talking market strategy one booth over. They seemed like nice and driven entrepreneurs. One of them claimed a USC MBA. 

While enjoying drinks at a bar with his brother and a good friend, the trio engaged in a brief but fascinating conversation about what foreign accent on a female is the most seductive. The werewolf's brother, the Shark, voted for an Australian accent. The werewolf recalls his friend, Patrick Bateman, suggesting a preference for a Teutonic accent.  The werewolf is highly predictable. He goes bananas for ladies with either an Anglo or Afrikaans accent from South Africa. They command a very high premium in the werewolf's valuation book.

The werewolf crossed paths with a dear friend from business school who will be completing his JD/MBA this May. Smart guy. He hates the law and has vowed never to practice it. He's looking for a finance job in NYC. Easier said than done. The werewolf and his friend commiserated about an exceedingly debaucherous New Orleans bachelor they both attended in late March of 2009. Few things make for male bonding like recalling shared memories of improbable and grotesque mischief.

It has been colder than an icicle on a polar bear's ding dong this past week. In a fitting twist of fate, the Saabstory's air conditioning died. At least it has heated seats.

As this week ends, the werewolf begins the next week with the hopes of something to liberate him from exile. Here's to something better.

Ivy: Lucy Doesn't Love You

Ivy, a small indie band from NYC, has long been a favorite of mine. Their lead singer, Dominique Durand, has a voice that could charm a deaf curmudgeon. There is something ethereal about the way her French accent harmonizes with the guitar. Since I was on a music video kick a little earlier, I inadvertently stumbled on this gem of a video from Ivy and thought it was worth sharing. I'll be honest, I feel like I've known a Lucy, or two, in my life.