Semi-pants.

So I've done it. A blog. Something I've despised and ridiculed for a long as I can remember. I've become one of the Them. You know, one of those people. The coffee shop loitering, indoor-scarf-wearing, low-rise-narrow-inseam rocking 'hipsters'. The people with the decals of favorite indie band covering all but the stylish white apple on the back of their mac books. I've become a hypocrite. A prostitute loving governor who crusades against the sex trade. A vehemently anti-gay mega church televangelist leader whose hobbies include meth-fueled binges with male escorts. A pro-life abortionist. These are my brethren.

Oh well, I suppose it was bound to happen. In the downward, purgatorial spiral that I melodramatically use to describe my life, a blog about sex, drugs and paper clips was an inevitable consequence. Even if the name does sound like the danish word for onion, løg (no, this blog is not D.O.C certified and does not come from Læsø, prick).

Now, 'Semi-pants'. For those of you thinking I'm talking about 'capris,' the denim in vogue when Nick Carter was breaking hearts and snapping training bras, you can fuck off. No, semi-pants are an extraordinary thing. Before I explain anything, I must post a disclaimer. The following explanation is gender-specific and hetero normative. It means you require certain equipment to understand. That means, if you're reading this, nodding your head and giggling, muttering to yourself 'you're so right,' or 'I've been there,' and you aren't Male, well, then you're an asshole and no longer welcome here. Okay, back to semi-pants. Semi pants are those pants in your closet you wear once in a while. They're usually tight-thigh hugging brands like Cheap Mondays, or J. Lindeberg. Often worn with old school converse, or whatever other bits so you can pretend to look pretentious and/or Swedish. They're the type that give you legs like Johnny Weir (read: not Elvis Stojko) and a similar stiffness in your walk. They're the pants that, from the waist down, you could fool pedophile with a penchant for pre-teen girls. That's not the point though. Semi-pants are important because they give you a semi. Somehow, a perverse combination of narrow stitching and celestial providence lead to permanent semi hard on when worn.

So when you're raging out at the bar belting out Kings of Leon's "Use Somebody" like your a seventeen girl, the semi is there. When you're pound shots of licorice alcohol with a girl that may or may not have hepatitis, the semi is there. Later, when you're mowing through more chicken kebabs than Xerxes army (See: 300, the movie), its there. And finally, when you're using big words to describe how you feel about an early Gauguin impressionist painting, it's poking though. Semi-pants are a lifestyle. It's about being in a constant state of partial arousal, of half interest. To put it lightly, semi-pants are a metaphor for my life right now.

In this current climate of professional and emotional limbo, the semi-pants metaphor seems apt. This blog does not endeavor to any great heights. It's got not desire for any stiff commentary or a firm look at any hard facts. It's a really a half-assed job. And it's how I feel.

The politically correct urban baby in the meat freezer at the supermarket says, "Chill the fuck out, it's only the internet".