I stand in the recess of the entrance and pause to survey the atmosphere. The night’s just warming up: the music busy, the lighting a perfect blur of stylish and dim. I smile broadly and confidently. The chap at the door has done a superb job at policing an equitable measure of blokes to birds. Tonight will be brilliant. I am a seducer. I’m not looking for the girl. The girl is looking for me.
I request a Laphroaig, the proper scotch of choice, glad-hand the bartender. He makes an aside about my timepiece. It’s gaudy, overbearing. Tacky in every sense of the word, but critical to the game of seduction for reasons I’ll later explain at a later point.

A handbag settles on the countertop to my 3:00. It’s owner, a perfectly quaint mark to start the night – Girl A. Girl A is reserved. She sets a brief, however intoxicating, gaze in my direction before gliding into the chair. I give it a beat before telling her I like her hair. And then I proceed to ask if that’s her natural color – a hint of skepticism in my voice. She smiles, but can’t help but show a bit of sourness at my backhanded compliment. I’ve planted a bomb in her mind. A minute later she can’t help but follow up with my query and, more importantly, my criticism. She asks how I can be so cavalier and why I’d suggest her hair being an artificial color. I’m in. Within five minutes she’s laughing, the physical space between us shrinking by installments. I lean back – she leans in. Our roles have reversed. Now that I’ve opened her up I start to exhibit reservation all the while making firm eye contact, exhibiting worth (seduction is a very linear process).

Mid conversation she invites me to study the tattoo hiding discreetly on her hip. Her stomach is incredibly firm, a golden brown of a testament to the ludicrous hours spent poolside. She’s looking for a compliment. Her pupils have dilated. Kinesics and the breakthrough studies of eye movement confirm: this change in pupil response holds a significant meaning. Her eyes are a window into her subconscious. But I make no mention to the firmness of her stomach; the perfect shade of tan. A seducer is an exception to the rule at all times.

The night grows as the room continues to swell. We maneuver our way through the loud crush. She pulls me by hand out onto the dance floor. I give it a gentle squeeze. She presses back (an involuntary indicator of interest I’ll touch on later). Brilliant.

An hour later we hop a taxi. We find our way to some random loft of some random friend with randomly perfect music playing – a soundtrack to the movie-esque night. People load into the flat seemingly by the truckload. Drinking, laughing and carrying about until they slowly fade out on the sofas, in guest rooms.

In a special arrangement with SOHO Magazine I’ve agreed to tear open a portal into the underground world of seduction. The mechanics I’ll dissect are well-proven, empowering any man of any breeding and posture to close the deals they want most.
So, first thing’s first, and the first thing you need to develop is an approach. Having rolled out my own red carpet, let’s explore the 10 laws paramount to any approach.

LAWS TO THE APPROACH

The approach is widely held as the toughest element of the seduction. Most chums quake at the mere thought of engaging a woman – let alone a group of them. Although some guys have a naturally ability to glitter charisma and star power, most don’t… they come across like twats.
So in an effort to properly equip the chaps of the Valley I’ve penned a few of the more salient points to pocket during The Approach.

1. Be the alpha male! An alpha male (a) knows the dynamism of a firm stare, (b) has a savvy wit and humor, (c) keeps proper hygiene, (d) and smiles with a fearless confidence. I want to shine a special light on that last point – the smile bit. I can’t place enough stock in the importance of walking into an establishment with a smile. People’s eyes wander constantly in the parlor and lounge atmosphere. They’ll take notice to your confidence and demeanor, believe me. Studies have proven:
it let’s people know that you’re a somebody who knows what he wants.

2. Don’t be timid. Confidence is your shield in battle. Remember, at all times, you’re playing The Game. Nothing is real. I’ve approached over 1,500 women in the last year and a half alone and every time, without fail, I pick up something new. Think of this as a faux reality; it means nothing. You’re going to stumble before you dash. Tonight: at the very most take three (3) seconds before making your move. If you size up a chick for too long you’ll come across like a stalker (and that’s bad).

3. Keep your emotions at bay. Emotions try and jostle you, throw you off center; they tell you when you should be embarrassed, remind you to be self-conscious. Again, nothing is real. You’re going to misstep; plan on it, actually. Eventually you’ll be better attuned to the more ethereal cues in social dynamics.

4. No Blind Approaches. No one likes to be surprised, especially in an environment that forever encourages groping, the tugging of an arm, et cetera, to gain attention. Of a similar vein, never approach a target from straight on. This is overwhelming to a mark; aggressive and direct. Also, you lead her to feel that SHE’S the reason you’re walking in the direction you are. You want to go for casual. The best approach is flying in at an angle, her 2 or 11 o’clock. This says I had other things going on, but I might have time to chat for a second.

5. Keep two or three well-developed openers in your arsenal. Keep it simple and stick to what you know. This is the groundwork to creating intrigue, the most important component to all of the approach. In the early stages of your development, as you’re making the contacts and refining a more activating opener, go with something simple: “Wow, so this is the party table” to “Shit! Did you see that fight outside?” Something unassuming like “I’ve got to ask, how’d you flag a server around here? I can’t find one for the life of me. ” Your mission is to get in, but as soon as you’re in jump tracks. Openers never make for good conversation pieces.

6. Never everº! I’ve heard a variety of blokes opening conversations with “I’m sorry”, “Excuse me” or some other ugly cousin to. Are you comfortable begging for her attention? Do you like to wear your insecurities like an oversized gold chain around your skinny twit neck?? Should you have to earn her conversation??? No, no and NO! So grab your nads, remind yourself that life is too short, and brave forward with confidence you flimsy dick fool!!

7. Friends first. Your mark doesn’t exist. You need to isolate her, keep her chained outside, ignore and estrange her. The friends. Nine times out of ten they’ll ruin the deal if you fail to see the importance of this one. She may even like you. (And by the way, if you think you’re going to approach a show-stopper sitting all hapless and lonesome you’ve got another thing coming.) Winning the friends over, planting the seeds of intrigue, and steering the conversation will have her toppling over the table for your attention. People want what they can’t have. Also know that she puts a lot of stock in her girlfriends’ opinions. Make them a champion for you post-haste.
8. Play the numbers. I touched on this one a bit in the previous point; seduce the group. Gents oft cower to shriveled little wienies at the prospect of approaching a table of three of more – this point underscored when the male of the species is present. Take it from me, 90% of the time they’re either (a) friends, (b) family, or (c) coworkers. If guys are present at the table I try and find commonality right out the gates. The ugly friend? She becomes the warm little center of the fat little space we share together. Play the numbers and be the exception to the status quo.

9. Nix the compliment. Ok, so after depriving your mark of conversation now it’s time to gear up. What do you do? (Unfortunately, that’s detailed in the next issue) But I’ll tell you what NOT to do. Never compliment her. Not so soon. If you’re missing the trend here, you need to set your status above hers. If your goal is to close the night in the warm sheets of a foreign bed you need to offer her something in return, something to hook her (e.g. intrigue, excitement). Complimenting her at first opportunity pronounces desperation. She immediately becomes the dominant personality in the social interaction you’ve created. Never compliment her.

10. Never buy a mark a drink: In opposition of popular NBC programming and day time soaps, this clichéd accession never works and is one of the wobbliest of constructs to a seduction. You shouldn’t have to buy her attention. It’s that simple. This goes back to creating status.

We started drinking after work at Shane’s favorite Happy Hour drinkery, a martini bar downtown. Several Stoli Razberi martinis later (tell me he’s not gay!) we moved on to our favorite rib restaurant and gorged on ribs, fries, and at least six beers apiece until about 11 o’clock. At this point, Shane was right at the border of barely coherent and blackout. This was the perfect level for him as a blackout Shane would surely get us kicked out of the club. We took a cab uptown to the spot of Shane’s birthday present.

I had failed to do my homework, but luckily, this place had no telltale signs outside that it was a gay club. We went in and there was roughly a 60:40 ratio of guys to “girls.” Best of all, these “girls” tried very hard to look the part – apparently there was prize money for the winner. I remember thinking to myself, “It’s a good thing I know these are dudes. It’s a better thing that Shane doesn’t.”

Shane found himself a ‘girl’ named Miracle and began attempting to dance with and hit on her. At this point the rest of us gathered together and took turns glancing at Shane’s progress. We discussed whether we thought Shane was convinced that he was hitting on a girl, or whether he actually wanted to hook up with a guy, and then tell us later that he thought he was with a girl.

We soon found out as Shane began making out with his new friend, prompting in-mouth vomiting among the rest of us and discussions of whether we should bail Shane out of what had gone from a hilarious joke to a disgusting exemplification of the quote: “Be careful what you wish for.” When Shane walked by us and mouthed the words, “Her place,” I felt I had to intervene. Outside the club, I asked, “Miracle, is it? I have to know, inboard or outboard?” Miracle countered sheepishly, “Asshole.” She let go of Shane and walked into a cab and shut the door before he could get in. Shane looked at me like I just punched his mother in the face, and started to yell “YOU MOTHERFU–” and then vomited on my shoes.

The next day, Shane couldn’t remember a thing from the gay club, and no one has since told him that he made out with (and were it not for my damn conscience) would have hooked up with a guy in drag named Miracle.

Wayne always had a talent for blocking cock, but he gained the reputation on a particular Friday night where me and my four best buds all found ourselves without significant others or significant amounts of work to do. We started out like several dozen Fridays before and since, trading stories and playing cards while pregaming with whatever beer was in the host’s fridge. Wayne was with us because every now and again fat girls need to get laid too.

We proceeded to a bar where I instantly found myself talking to a cute blonde who looked like a curvaceous Kate Hudson. Unfortunately, I forgot her name immediately after she told me, but even worse, she was toting along a DUFF (Designated Ugly Fat Friend). Fortunately, I had Wayne. Wayne predictably walked up to me about five minutes after I began talking to this girl and her DUFF and stood idly and silently about six inches away from me as I pretended not to know him until a break in the conversation warranted his presence.

I texted Wayne, telling him to get over here and get this girl’s friend away from me, and get both girls to introduce themselves. So Wayne comes over and says, “Hey girls, I forgot your names. What are they?” They introduced themselves as Jenny and Tina. Instead of turning to Tina, the DUFF, Wayne turns to the Jenny and says, “My friend here would like me to… um… take you this way.” Reluctantly, Jenny goes with him, about four feet behind me. I start making extremely awkward conversation when I hear Wayne attempt to hit on hot Jenny: “So I was just told to occupy you while Nate hits on your friend.” Tina looks over my shoulder at Jenny and nods, and they leave.

Stuck with Wayne I knew I would strike out the rest of the night anyway, so we proceeded to get really drunk on Jim Beam and hit up late night Taco Bell. On the way home, I made the cab stop at my friend Bill’s house because an unfamiliar car was in the driveway and his bedroom light was on. I then paid Wayne $20 to pour Mild sauce all over himself and run through the house yelling and screaming. I watched from the cab with delirium as a half naked girl ran to her car, carrying the rest of her clothes, and sped away. Wayne then ran into the cab and we took off. At least I wasn’t the only one who was cockblocked.

When the five kegs arrived I had four quick beers and quickly found myself in “the Zone.” Every word I said was delivered with perfect enunciation, every joke I told was uproarious. A couple of rednecks within earshot disagreed becoming insanely jealous and acted on such jealousy by challenging me to a myriad of drinking contests. I realized midway through that they were not even chugging and were just challenging me to haze me, but I refused to look weak in front of them, so I chugged.

Before long the Zone was a distant memory and I was a mess. I had vomited several times, I was still pissed that we had lost the game, and making matters worse, I was the odd man out at a redneck convention. So I did the only (drunkenly) logical thing that came to mind: I started antagonizing people. Mid battle-o-words with one such redneck, I spurted the night’s catalyst: “Oh yeah?! I would rather be a vagina at Vanderbilt than a penis at UT!” It didn’t make any sense, but it was enough to spark a fire amongst my toothless peers.

One of them hit me, so I tried to shake it off dramatically a la Harold Sakata in Goldfinger, but before I could my friend hit my assailant from the side and a 50-on-3 brawl ensued for a couple minutes. Before our asses became thoroughly kicked, we agreed to go up to a room and go to sleep. Some of the rednecks made their way into our room and I tried to defend myself with a kayak, but to no avail. We left and Dizzle, the least drunk of the three of us, started driving home at 3 in the morning.

Dizzle had no idea where he was going and ended up going the wrong way for about an hour, which is a big fuckup considering he was going 93 mph. We were pulled over (Dizzle pulled over into the median), and the cop saw me nearly dead in the back and ordered Dizzle out of the car.

He convinced the cop that we were friends; the cop told mandated that we spend the night in a local motel, or go to jail. He made us drive backwards on the freeway to the nearest exit and park it at the nearest motel. I woke up the next morning, massively hung over, and a hundred miles further from home in the middle of nowhere. That was the first of many times that I said, “I am never drinking again.”

His 21st birthday was not different, but rather, it was approximately twice as bad in every respect. He had a 10-page paper due the following day, so he came back from class at noon and started writing. His deadline did not stop me from making him periodically chug vodka, because he knew I would kick him out of the house if he did not make 21 shots on his birthday. Six hours, ten pages of high quality political analysis, and 13 shots later, the paper was done and an inaugural Legal Beer Run was at hand. We packed some beverages for the road and went to the liquor store.

At the liquor store, we met a middle-aged man who claimed to be a card-carrying Jack Daniel’s Squire. Ekim believed him and bought what the man recommended: a $45 bottle of Jack Single Barrel. Ekim proceeded to drink all 17 shots of it over the next three hours. This put him in full Blitzkrieg mode by the time his party started. At this point, he was well past his goal of 21 and publicly announcing his new goal of going for 42: “If any of you m’fuckers try to stop me, I am ripping off your fucking pubes!” He then showed us he meant business by standing on the couch, showing his own pubes to the party, and screaming Cowboy-style. “Get the fuck down before you kill yourself!” I screamed above the blaring Van Halen song in the background. “Fuck you dude! I will kill you with my dick! You wanna do a dick wrestling championship right now?” I let him go, because a dick wrestling championship was the last thing I felt like doing.

Later that night, with the drink count nearing 40 and all but ten people gone from the party, Ekim’s girlfriend tried to make him stop drinking, to which he replied, “If I want your opinion, I’ll scrape it off the bottom of my nutsack!” She promptly left the party, which made Ekim/Blitzkrieg angry. Ekim took two more shots, bringing his total to 40. He took our dining room chairs and smashed them to pieces on the sidewalk in front of our apartment, and then passed out.

Since the apartment came furnished and the chairs were property of the university, they could basically charge whatever they wanted for new ones, and they did: $520 for four shitty wooden chairs, a costly birthday indeed.

On Friday evening, my ex called me over for a pre-concert booty call. We liked to fuck before going out because she felt comfortable talking to anyone when she was in post-coital euphoria, and I felt comfortable getting belligerently blackout drunk and not having to worry about getting my dick up the rest of the night.

On Friday night, I met up with my new hookup friend after both of us had gotten thoroughly sloshed at the concert. I went back to her place and, too drunk to do anything else, got naked and made out for a bit. The next morning, I woke her up by fingering her, and after she came, she gave me a blowjob. This had become our custom. She didn’t like having random sex, but she loved the cock, and I didn’t want to be in a relationship with a 19-year-old, so it worked.

I also got a call from a friend who was coming in from out of town for a marathon. I had met her the previous summer when we were in the same study abroad program in China and was always trying to hook up with her but she resisted. On Saturday, I went from my hookup friend’s house to her hotel room after the marathon. She was exhausted, so we took a nap together. When we woke up she mounted me and we had sex. She may have just been bribing me to drive her to the airport that evening, but whatever she was doing, it worked. It was awesome because I ignored my ex’s phone call later that afternoon and didn’t even feel bad about it.

That night, I went to the concert and met a new girl whose friend was dating my former roommate. I talked to her for about 30 seconds and then we started making out. We went back to my place, and luckily, my hookup friend was not there. I was exhausted, but we hooked up nonetheless, and she stayed over.

I had weathered the perfect storm: the on-and-off ex, the friend with benefits, the girl from out of town, and (as it turned out) the new girlfriend. On Sunday morning I woke up and thought, “If I die right now, it would be okay because I’m pretty sure my life has just peaked.”

By Maureen Brown

Dear and the Headlights have been referred to as “the best local band you’ve never heard of,” as well as the next best thing out of Arizona since Jimmy Eat World. And yes, all of these descriptions are true, but their talent deserves more credit than that. Their hard work and dedication finally paid off for them when they were signed to the New York based label Equalvision Records, which nationally released their first full length CD, Small Steps, Heavy Hooves on Feb. 6 of this year. Yet, Dear and the Headlights aren’t interested in fame and notoriety, in fact they rarely bring up the fact that they are even in a band.

“Like 70 percent of America is in a band, it seems like that…it’s just like you’re in a band? Oh cool,” explains lead singer Ian Metzger, 25. A percentage that is probably not far off from being accurate. Nevertheless, anyone can start a band, but not anyone can create awesome music like these guys can.

It’s rare to find a band that sounds as good as DATH does when they play live, their recordings alone don’t do them justice. Bob Dylan once said of Harry Belafonte that he was, “a rare type of character that radiates greatness and you hope that some of it rubs off on you,” after meeting the charismatic, 6’5” Metzger, you would swear the same quote applied for him. Metzger’s voice is piercing and explosive, his stage presence is undeniable as he stomps his feet across the stage and forcefully strums his acoustic guitar, as he bobs his head to the beat of the drums. He has an intensity that makes the listener believe in every word he sings out. The energy and chemistry that is exchanged between each member is remarkable. Your eyes remain glued to the stage going back and forth between each of these five guys throughout their entire 30-minute set, anticipating their next move. An exchange of witty banter between Metzger and guitarist, Joel Marquard gives the audience a few seconds of comic relief, before you are drawn back into the intensity of the music. Each member exhibits immense talent which is made clear to even the most oblivious of observers. Their fans participate the entire time, singing along with every chorus and verse, clapping and dancing and flailing their arms with the rhythm of the music.

Fan, Meaghan Bunney, 21 exclaims, “They’re full of energy, everyone’s either dancing crazy or at least shaking their legs because the music is that contagious.”

Small Steps, Heavy Hooves may not already be the most anticipated release of 2007, but it might as well be. Recorded in Mesa, Ariz. with famed local producer Bob Hoag (The Format), Small Steps, Heavy Hooves gives the listener everything they could possibly ask for in an indie CD. Some of their tracks are fun, catchy and radio friendly, such as their first single “sweet talk” and “It’s getting easy.”

While others are more dramatic and emotional, which flow off the tongue with an organic lucidity such as “hallelujah,” and “mother make me golden.” However, unfortunately on a few of the tracks there is a laziness in the recordings that is foreign to their live performances. The problem appears to be more in the quality of the recording rather than the bands actual studio performance, although at times this seems less believable than we would prefer.

Yet, altogether the CD is noteworthy, equally combining the extraordinary efforts of each individual member of the band, capturing their individuality, talent, and creativeness. The CD is suitable for everyone; it is a rollercoaster of emotion and enjoyment. It is as if the listener is reading entries from Metzger’s personal journal and viewing a slide show of memorable photographs from his life, that you can apply to your own. The music and vocals that accompany the lyrics capture the feelings of falling in love, and the personal traumas of growing up that can only be best represented through sarcasm.

Dear and the Headlights have come along way since their first show at Borders Book Store on Mill Avenue. They have released their first full length album nationally and have signed with Equalvision Records with intentions of releasing two more full-lengths under that label. They are currently on a national tour with The Plain White T’s and will also be showcased at the world renowned South by Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas. If you haven’t already heard of these five, young, talented guys, you probably aren’t paying attention. You can purchase their CD on itunes, or at your local Zia records store.

To hear more about Dear and the Headlights, check them out online at www.myspace.com/dearandtheheadlights and www.dearandtheheadlights.com and be sure to check out their next local live performance.

We’ve all done it and most of us regret it - drunk sex. Oh sure, for two people who love and trust each other, putting on the ol’ Beer Goggles now and then can ignite a raging fire where there usually burns a lowly pilot light. Even between strangers trysting in a dark bar, drunk sex can lead to a ravenous tale of glorified deprecation and porn-star feats! But in general, is drinking yourself stupid the best way to fornicate? In an age where 1 out of 3 people have HPV, and Herpes runs rampant, is getting naked with someone while under the influence really such a great idea? Probably not. After all, alcohol dehydrates the body and fluids are necessary for good sex anyway. Alcohol is also a depressant, which only adds to the mind-reeling regret that often follows drunk sex. Drunk driving is illegal because alcohol impairs our good judgment and basic motor skills, rendering us more likely to do harm to ourselves and to others. So offering up our precious genitals while intoxicated can’t be such a wise decision, or even a decision at all since when drunk we are operating on mostly instinct anyway. While drunk we’re too moronic and slow-moving to even notice the potentially-diseased genitals of our partner before rubbing ourselves all over them. Having drunk sex is a lot like playing with fire – the possible fire of an itching and burning crotch later. But abstaining – especially when drunk and feeling particularly amorous - is more easily said than done. And I’d be a hypocrite if I tried to tell you otherwise.

Plenty of us have had a hard make-out session lead to the embarrassment of vomit afterwards as our temporary mate deals with the very unattractive cleanup. A friend of mine woke up in New Jersey next to a naked caveman-ish type she didn’t know and couldn’t find her pants. My brother received a late-night text message from a buddy accompanied by the camera-phone-pic of a passed out, buck-naked girl in his bed doing the Spread Eagle. And a truly dear friend of mine once exclaimed, “I’ll never have drunk sex again! Not since I woke up in that trailer park…!”

And as for my own experiences with drunk sex, let’s just say if there were a ladder of status one could climb for Drunken Sex recognition, I’d be a general and you’d be saluting me. But if none of us are proud of our sloppy sexcapades, then why do we do it? Why is it so alluring to rush out of a bar as soon as they turn on the Ugly Lights and find the nearest bed (or couch, or parked car, or backside of a dumpster) and hump like wildebeests? Alcohol dulls our senses so sex doesn’t even feel as good drunk as it would sober. And medical studies prove that alcohol, a nervous system depressant, can result in temporary erectile failure in males, and lead to severe vaginal dryness in females (the Number One cause of condom breakage.) But if reality television has taught us anything, it’s that people love to engage in drunk sex. However, do any of us seem to know why?

There’s a sense of doing something wrong when we give into drunk sex – a sense that returns us to our teenage days before we felt our limits. Not only does our confidence soar like a lopsided pigeon that’s flown into a window, there’s also excitement, danger, and risk involved in drunk sex. And more often than not, if you didn’t get so drunk that a nasty hangover prevails, you’ve probably enjoyed yourself in whatever haphazard tryst you ended up with at the end of the night (depending on how honest those Ugly Lights were.) After basting in enough courage gravy, we can feel like rockstars. And what do rockstars like better than rockin’ out? Porn stars! After you get wasted enough to sing that Bon Jovi hit at karaoke, your inner (drunk) rockstar is gonna look for its mate. And after drunk karaoke, anything goes! Finally, at that point in the evening we turn back evolution and practically sniff each other’s butts to determine who’s ready to throw down before throwing up. There’s really no profound meaning in it, but there certainly can be a good time. Otherwise there wouldn’t be so many of us waking up next to someone we hardly recognize, praying that this person (whose name now escapes us) has a bottle of Tylenol nearby.

Often drunk sex can lead us from holding a warm body all night to holding back someone’s hair as they vomit in a toilet. Oh sure, the invincible feeling we can create in ourselves by using alcohol certainly works as an aphrodisiac, but sometimes we’re not drinking ourselves sexier - we’re drinking ourselves stupider. And frankly, only morons want to have sex with other morons - but hopefully not morons with HPV or Herpes.

It’s happy hour! Imagine you are at your favorite watering hole, pub, bar or nightclub. The server approaches and asks what you would like to drink … and now the agony begins. What can you order that won’t balloon your butt or inflate your thighs? And just so you know, a six-pack of beer won’t help you keep those six-pack abs.

So what can you drink that won’t pack on the pounds and will keep your happy hours happy? Well, here’s a simple guideline … if the drink tastes sweet, then it’s a good bet it’s loaded with sugar and carbs and lots of calories — that applies to both the alcohol and the mixer you use. Let’s take a look at a couple of popular examples:

THE ULTIMATE MARGARITA

Let’s say you decide to rationalize and order just one larger drink to last you through the night — you know, the margarita that comes in the soup-bowl size glass. Check out the calorie count in just one ultimate margarita.

6 oz tequila 414 calories
4 oz lime juice 28 calories
2 oz sugar 218 calories
2 oz orange juice 28 calories
1 oz Cointreau® orange liqueur 160 calories

Total 848 calories

APPLETINI

Okay, so how about something simple like the currently popular Appletini or a Strawberry Daiquiri? They can’t have too many calories, can they?

2 oz citrus vodka 200 calories
1/2 oz DeKuyper® Sour Apple Pucker schnapps 36 calories
1/2 oz Cointreau® orange liqueur 40 calories
3/4 oz fresh lemon juice 7 calories

Total 283 calories

STRAWBERRY DAIQUIRI

1/2 oz strawberry schnapps 36 calories
1 oz light rum 69 calories
1 oz lime juice 7 calories
1 tsp powdered sugar 110 calories
1 oz strawberries 6 calories

Total 228 calories

So for a little less than 1/5 of your daily caloric intake (assuming a 1,500 calorie a day diet), you can have one Appletini or a Strawberry Daiquiri.

Now I know what you are thinking — you’ll just skip lunch or dinner to make up for the calories you’ll be drinking at happy hour, right? That’s one mistake you shouldn’t make. Alcohol will thwack you more quickly and strongly on an empty stomach — a full stomach slows down the absorption of alcohol, whereas an empty stomach allows the alcohol to hit your system hard and fast. You’ll definitely need a designated driver if you drink dinner over eating it!

LOWER CALORIE ALTERNATIVES

So let’s look at some alternatives that allow you to keep the pounds off and still enjoy a “happy” happy hour. Your best bet is to drink your hard liquor neat — no mixers or fancy stuff, just straight up or on ice. For example, a simple shot (1 ounce) of gin or vodka is only 69 calories. Here’s a terrific alternative to those sugar- and calorie-loaded drinks

DIRTY MARTINI

1½ oz gin 103 calories
½ oz dry vermouth 32 calories
1½ tbsp olive juice 10 calories
2 olives 15 calories

Total 160 calories

Another way to make hard liquor more palatable and avoid all those extra calories is to mix it with diet soda or soda water. A splash of fruit juice can add extra flavor as well.

RUM AND DIET COLA

2 oz rum 138 calories
4 oz diet soda 0 calories
Total 138 calories

You can look up the recipe and calorie count of your favorite drink at this website: http://www.drinksmixer.com. Forearmed with this information, you’ll know what to ask for when the server takes your order, and you won’t pack on those pounds. Party hearty, but keep it safe and low calorie!

Liquor Diet Guide

It would be entirely cliché to dive into this cover-boy profile commenting on how Phx Suns franchise hoopster Amare Stoudemire is a young man with a an old spirit. How he’s wise beyond his 24 years; an innovator; a man-child; et cetera, et cetera.

But cliché is entirely appropriate.

Amare has a countenance all his own. A father, CEO, activist (www.thatsamare.com), student, eco-conscious citizen, Stoud has seen a lot with those young eyes. And he’s taken notes.

Someone once told me to always stay positive and focused.

My life is better than a movie. Look out for my book soon about my life.

The world would be a better place if we all just used socially and environmentally conscious energy.

I just finished reading my human geography book, 4th edition.

There’s not one person who could have guessed I used be a skateboarder and a trick biker.

STAT. When people look back they will see a positive person and a person who was being himself.

Getting serious rotation in the iPod as we speak is Makaveli.

Favorite eats at my restaurant downtown (for the moment): the boneless chicken wings, grilled salmon.

If I left this earth tomorrow I’d want my kids to know that I was a soul survivor and a man of truth.

Career? If I weren’t playing basketball I’d be in college, getting a degree.

Keeping an online diary: It’s only right for me to tell the world about my life experience.

Where? Sickest party is, without question, New York.

Fatherhood. Has the outlook changed? It hasn’t, my outlook has been the same. I always have been this way.

My first job? NBA, age 18.

I love fashion because my mom was a model, and she passed fashion onto me. P.S. my pops was smooth as well.

Black Jesus on the neck – It holds a different meaning because through history, it says that Jesus is black.

Tupac Shakur, he was one of my role models growing up.

Academically, I’m pretty dialed-in to History, human geography.iPhone or Blackberry? iPhone.

“Each 1, Teach 1”* – My goals with Each 1, Teach 1 is to build an academy for the kids of poverty, and to make it a boarding school and fly kids in from broken homes to give them a great education and pay teachers more than what they get paid.

When I die, all you have to do is read my tattoos, and you will know a lot about me and what I lived for.

EVERYONE! Amare’s Downtown - Located across the street from US Airways Suns Arena.

I would play one on one with Oscar Robinson, just to learn from him… We’d both have triple doubles.

I’m trying to leave the world as a legend, a la Tupac Shakur, Michael Jordan, Malcolm X. Black, successful men.

* For more information on Each 1, Teach 1, visit www. thatsamare.com