Shop Like a Man

Shopping for clothes is already uncomfortable enough for a guy; it's a time when you have to actually acknowledge fashion and make a conscious decision to prefer one piece of clothing over another. For a man, the minutes spent in the isles of a clothing store are minutes void of valor and masculinity, but full of frailty and metrosexuality. In fact, there are only three places where a dude can comfortably take his time to peruse the isles of a store for something that might look good on him; (1) The Nike Outlet Store, (2) Gen X Clothing, (3) Deseret Industries.

If I ever need some new apparel, I go to those three first, except in reverse order. Occasionally, however, a brotha's gotta step into the mall in order to pick up some new threads. Such was the case a couple months ago, when I felt I needed to add a second pair of jeans to my weekly rotation. The ridges in the corduroys I found at DI were just too deep, the 2Pac insignia on the back pocket of the pants I found at Gen X looked like it wouldn't handle much wear, and the Nike store didn't carry any denim.

And so I found myself at an anonymous department store in the mall. I say anonymous because I don't want to increase the possibility of running into any of you if I have to go there again. One of the most awkward things that can ever happen to a guy is for him to run into one of his bros at a clothing store:

"What's up, man?"
"Nothin'. What ya up to, just lookin' for some clothes, or something?"
"Yeah, sorta... just seeing, uh, if there are, um, any good basketball shorts here."
"Oh, me too. I couldn't find any long enough, so I'm just gonna grab some socks and head out."
"Yeah, I gotta go, too. Later, man."

Then they both part ways as quickly as possible, knowing full-well that there aren't any basketball shorts at Aeropostale. Anyway... I was at an anonymous department store looking for some jeans. Historically, I had done my best to never pay more than $20 for a pair. But due to high inflation and a loss of strength in the American Dollar, I was willing to shell out $30. In fact, about two months earlier at this same store, I had purchased a pair for $29.99. Since they fit great, I went over to that same area of the store where I had last found them, hoping to find a slightly different color and be on my way. I did, but I found them underneath a sign that read "$31.99." I paused, knowing full well that $30 was my price ceiling. I looked around and noticed several flashy signs that read, "lowest price of the season sale!"

New jeans in hand, I walked up to the register while explaining to my beautiful wife that I was going to get out of that store without paying more than $30. As I approached the cashier, who was a tall, older man, I said, "I got this same pair of jeans here just two months ago for $29.99; I'd like to pay no more than that." He actually became quite defensive and showed no interest in my plea. I quickly pointed out the signs all over that read 'lowest price of the season sale!," and explained that $31.99 was not the lowest price of the season for the jeans because I got them just two months ago, in the same season, for less. More words were exchanged, the cashier started yelling and shaking the counter, my wife got embarrassed and left to hide in the women's jewelry section, and a long line of impatient shoppers built up behind me. I had every reason in the world to pull out another $2 and have it all end, but I held my post.

Eventually, the manager was called over the intercom and I was pulled out of line so the customers behind me could get on with buying the junk they had in their hands for a price slightly above the lowest price of the season. Things actually went much better with the store's manager. I explained my case, again as kindly as possible. She listened, rolled her eyes, and had me follow her to another register where she rang me up for $29.99.

Customer 1, Retailer 0

Bye Bye, Beto's

As a run-of-the-mill BYU student, I've had my fair share of trips to Beto's. The Mexican restaurant sits proudly on a prime spot of Provo real estate, a stone's throw away from any hungry coed.

Despite my long-standing respect for the place, I implore you Beto's fans to take State Street a few miles farther the next time you head out for large quantities of cheap, Mexican food. At State and Center in Orem (O-town, Ore-mizzle, Family City USA, etc... ), in the parking lot for Robert's Arts and Crafts, you'll find several men waiting for their wives to finish purchasing expensive crap. And you'll find Rancherito's.

The restaurant actually used to be a Beto's, before 'ol Rancherito stepped in and added some class. What class? For starters, Rancherito reduced the number of weird things you find in your burrito meat by at least 50%. In addition, Rancherito put surround sound up and blasts authentic Mexican music as you chow down and wonder if they cut back on food quality in order to give you such a heaping portion.

Despite the changes, Rancherito's still features the things you love from Beto's; a condiments kiosk featuring freshly cut limes, cilantro, red salsa, and green salsa; cashiers that that don't speak much English; and a hearty load of beans and rice with every dish. So grab a significant other, a 10-dollar bill, and head on over to Rancherito's; you're guaranteed to come out on top.

As a side note, the tamarindo drink is pretty rough.

Rip Off!

I'm cheap and I don't like cold weather. With that resume, you won't find me on the ski slopes much. Instead, I spend my winter days indoors--thinking about whether it could be possible to center global warming affects in one area. In school I used to hear about a hole in the Ozone layer above Antarctica, which gives the sun's rays an open shot at the earth's surface. If anyone ever wants to relocate that hole, I've got a place for it.

Nonetheless, I was dragged out to "Utah's famous slopes" last Saturday. Not to ski, but to sled. I threw on my thickest FUBU hoodie and stepped into my black windbreaker athletic pants. I finished off my outfit by strapping on my black Adidas basketball shoes (with their shiny plastic exterior, I figured they'd be more waterproof than any other kicks I owned). I was ready to ride through the snow, or the ghetto. My iPod has music appropriate for either.

Before arriving, I had heard rumors of $17 dollars a ticket for a two-hour time slot on the slopes. I winced at the idea, but in keeping a family committment, I listened to my heart and made the 25-minute drive up Provo Canyon with my wife.

Upon arrival, the actual ticket fee became all too apparent. "That'll be $18 a person," the money-laundering 17-year old girl behind the counter said. As the money was transferred, an image of 36 iTune downloads danced out of my reach, never to return. Yes, I had just dropped 36 bucks... or 6 Hot N' Readys, or 600 Otter Pops, or a few gallons of gas on sledding.

As a youth, back when sledding was free, my friends and I would find the most dangerous descent littered with obstacles like trees, boulders, and snowmobile riders. The sledding area at Soldier Hollow has a rope tow that you hook on to and it drags you up. It's nicer than walking to the top of the hill, but probably not any faster. And I'm not sure if "hill" is the appropriate term. If it were a hill, the ride down on my sled wouldn't have taken as long as the ride up.

In fact, the only time I felt anything close to a rush was when I tried to take the speed of the sled run into my own hands. I strategically placed my sled on the top of the "hill", backed up, sprinted forward, and dove headfirst at my sled at a dangerous speed, hoping to propel myself into a hint of fun. But fun was not to be found at Soldier Hollow. I overshot my landing on the stationary sled and landed face-first in the snow. Thus, I rolled down the 3% grade alone--without a tube and without $36.