Max-stravaganza

At 8:45pm she arrived at the bar for her 8:30 date, although carrying herself with the calmness of a woman who was only running five minutes behind.   When meeting for the first time, it is advisable to  show up eleven minutes late.  Let him know that you're worth the extra time alone.  Eleven is an odd number so it doesn't seem too premeditated but is substantial enough to make it clear   who is going on a date with whom. Parking was a hassle, which attributed to the non-power-play lateness.  She kept spiraling up and up in the parking structure, every helpful green light mocking her with a compact car already in the space.  After settling for the roof, she promptly stepped in a puddle and had to wipe down her far-too-constricting shoes.  She then missed the light and had to wait at three consecutive crosswalks, which at least gave her time to get over her nerves by pre-selecting what drink she would order. He was already sitting at ...

Dear Esquire, Long time reader, first time griper. Ever since opening my first copy in my childhood dentist's waiting room, I have been a firm believer that Esquire is the one, true authority for men with regards to fashion, food and foxy ladies. So much so, in fact, that I will personally thank Esquire on my tombstone. This is done in part because your magazine helped me pick out the gravesite that will attract the most single women. Your most recent issue, however, has put me in quite the moral quandary regarding your magazine's capacity to accurately judge what constitutes "manliness." In an article titled " 10 Trends to Steal from Fashion Week ," you run down the essential points that American men should take from European stylists. These include: Shortened, blue blazers, shiny tuxedos, mesh tops, and tribal print. What the hell, Esquire? It's like you want me to get run out of town by angry villagers like I'm Frankenstein's mo...