The good news is that 2009 was another great year for music.  Sure, the industry will cry about how they’re losing money, but smart acts are pushing the envelope more than ever before, challenging themselves to produce unique, high-quality work that makes them stand out.  This is a quick glance at five such artists that left a positive impression on me in 2009.  Be sure to check some of these out and comment below.  I’d love to hear what you think of the music and my recommendation.

Them Crooked Vultures

DNA: Sum of their parts

Panacea, A Mind On A Ship Through Time

SJ: Your book was written about the year of the gift — sex every night for a year — you gave to Brad when he turned 40. What made you want to write a book about your sex life?
CM: I did not go into the year even thinking this was going to turn into a book. I thought it could possibly turn into a funny magazine article, but nothing like this. I have a friend (co-author Betsy Thorpe) who had been in publishing in her former life and she thought this would be a great book concept, but the discussions didn’t even happen until after the year of “the gift” was over. I think the way the events unfolded was better than being something contrived, because what I wrote about really happened.

SJ: What made you want to offer up daily sex for a year? I think a lot of guys would be happy with a few more Lewinskys thrown their way and that would be the end of it.
CM: Brad and I had a great life and a happy family, but we had let intimacy fall off our to-do list. This was an honest attempt to reconnect and restart our marriage. It’s not a book about sex, per se; it is about intimacy and how that affects the relationship.

SJ: So no hot sex tips? No wild antics, potions or aphrodisiacs? Are you saying this ain’t the southern version of “The Kama Sutra”?
CM: Right! The book is less about the physical and more about the investment in a relationship. The book will be pretty boring if someone is looking for crazy stuff. It just shows one couple’s way of connecting in some way every day.

SJ: Does sex heal all wounds?
CM: This book is not for someone who is trying to fix a broken marriage and it is not for Beavis and Butt-head husbands who think their wives should just submit. But if you as a couple find yourselves leaving intimacy off the priority list, then you should try it. It will change your game.

SJ: What did you learn throughout your year?
CM: When I offered my husband, Brad, “The Gift,” I really thought he would be thrilled because I thought guys just always want sex, but that isn’t really the case. I was surprised to learn that sex is just as much about reconnection for men as it is for women. It was nice to know that, with all the people out there in the world, even on my worst day Brad still thought I was pretty neat. That was a confidence booster to me. The other thing I learned is that women are the gatekeepers to intimacy in a relationship. There was a therapist I met on the book tour who said that sex stops happening in a relationship when the man stops asking. That has stayed with me. Every time we had sex, whether I had been in the mood or not, I never regretted it. The year of “The Gift” was truly the most transforming year of our marriage. Who wouldn’t want to try it?

Charla’s Tips for Bringing Sexy Back

Make it a priority; be intentional.
Remember: there is no magic number. Maybe every night seems daunting, so just double up whatever you’re doing now. (If it’s 2x a week, try it 4x; you get the picture, Einstein.)
Let your inhibitions go. (Did you know the Victoria’s Secret models have the same amount of sex as you? Don’t you feel better?)
Basic grooming is important (that includes nose hair).
Sometimes you just gotta do it! (You can always DV-R “Grey’s Anatomy.”)

~ Sheri Joseph

We were still stuck in the tar pit of recession. People who a few years before had snuggled deep into what they imagined was a clearly mapped future of economic security and rising home values realized it was all coming apart. They had to make choices, big ones, about the directions of their lives and livelihoods.

Charlotte, like the nation, owns plenty of those stories as it staggers into a new decade. Here are two. One is about a woman who realized, suddenly, that she and her career were separate things. Another is about a man who seemed years ago to have reached the same conclusion, then chose to double back to the career he’d left. Sort of.

As it happens, I meet Emily Achenbaum Harris for coffee a day after the announcement that Editor & Publisher, the venerable trade journal that covers the newspaper industry, was shutting down. To a pair of veteran newspaper reporters, this seemed like the tolling of the big bell. The explanation, from Nielsen Business Media President Greg Farrar, was vintage corporate media newspeak: “This move will allow us to strengthen investment in our core businesses – those parts of our portfolio that have the greatest potential for growth – and ensure our long-term success.” Translation: There’s not much point in continuing to publish a trade journal covering a dying trade.

For years, the trade dominated – defined – Emily’s life. Mine, too. We were colleagues and friends at The Charlotte Observer, where we worked as reporters. In March 2007, the Observer published a story of hers about a mentally retarded Anson County man accused of murder under suspicious circumstances and held without trial for 14 years. The man, Floyd Brown, was freed, thanks largely to Emily’s reporting. This is the sort of story reporters can hang careers on; Emily pulled it off before she hit 30.

The Michigan native left to work for The Chicago Tribune in early 2008. A year later – a few months after I took a buyout from the Observer, a few weeks after The Tribune Co. filed for bankruptcy – she was back in Charlotte with her fiancée. She’d told Tribune readers in a column: “I’m leaving to see how self-sufficient I can be. I’m going to try growing our own vegetables, learn how to can and preserve them, and shop locally for everything else.”

A few years ago, I – hell, everyone we’d worked with – would have approached Emily and gently asked her if she was OK, possibly offering to e-mail her a list of therapists. But I’d been through 2007 and most of 2008 in the newspaper industry, and believe me, compared to that, growing and canning vegetables sounded sweet.

“It got to the point where I thought, ‘I’m going to quit or I’m going to crack,’” she says, dunking morsels of muffin in her coffee. “The big thing was the sensation of, ‘I have no control over my life. I could lose my job at any time.’ The industry was collapsing before my eyes, and there was no other news organization where I wanted to go. It basically was a pre-emptive strike. It felt that inevitable.”

But that was only the half of it, really. Ex-newspaper people have their own unofficial fraternity, and we talk. When we do, we speak with sad resignation about the economic reality that has gutted newspapers: Essentially, when they lost their dominance of advertising markets to online and other platforms, the game was over.

What gets us boiling, though, is the corporate doubletalk, like Greg Farrar’s, directed by people who should know better at people who do. Papers nationwide cut staff and news hole while desperately latching onto (and assigning staff to) whatever new, shiny object they thought might draw a few more readers – Twitter, Facebook, rapid-fire stories on the Web, interactive this and that. All well and good, but managers’ demand for in-depth stories never flagged, and they continued to insist, to staff and public, that the wave of buyouts and layoffs wouldn’t lessen their commitment to quality journalism.

Toward the end of 2008, even as Emily was helping cover Barack Obama’s preparation for the presidency, having thought her career and life were made, she began thinking along the same lines. “Do I want to be a full-time Twitterer? No, I don’t, actually,” she says. “Do I want to be in a shrinking newsroom where I’m being told that we’re still serving readers the same? I don’t want to do that for five years, no, thank you … and if I’m going to work at a dissatisfying job, why am I making this salary and working on Christmas Eve?”

So what now?

She married Erik Harris, a software programmer, and they live in a 1,200-square-foot brick ranch house on a three-quarter-acre lot in east Charlotte. She’s expecting her first child, a daughter, in late January. She’s freelancing a bit and volunteering for a China Grove nonprofit that cares for abused and rescued horses. She’s written 150 pages of a novel “about vigilante justice and race horses.” (Hmm.) She’s trying to grow food. Trial; error. “The things that died? Wow. The list is so long,” she says. “The pumpkins really looked like they were going to make it.”

But this isn’t exactly a case of a 31-year-old woman who suddenly finds herself careerless and tries to cobble together a new life out of spare parts. There’s a method to all this. Emily researched it before she quit. It’s called “voluntary simplicity.” In essence, it means living the life you want on as little money and material goods as you can, or care to. That’s another thing she’s done: launched a blog, Little House on the Southern Prairie (littlehousesouthernprairie.wordpress.com), chronicling her new life. (Check out the post on the baby snake. Fun-ny!)

“I still think good journalism can be world-changing and life-changing. I was just seeing a lot less of that,” she says. “But I managed to isolate what I love about journalism – I have to write, and I have to make a difference in the community. I still do those two things.”

It’s not as if she’s gone completely off the grid. She doesn’t want to. She still lives comfortably, has a computer, has a car. (She also freely acknowledges that, with an employed and supportive husband, she can afford to; it’d be a much tougher proposition if she were still single.) But, she explains, she’s no longer on the treadmill of thinking constantly about the next promotion, the next bonus, the next job, and what those might buy her. Instead, she’s asking an essential question: What is wealth, really?

Her provisional answer: “Being able to have as much time as possible to do the things I want.”

She and Erik are still working out the details.

“That’s definitely part of the learning curve – what we like, what we don’t like, what’s fantasy and idealistic, what’s realistic,” she says. “We don’t want to live without a TV and computer. I’d rather buy eggs from a local farmer than have chickens myself. Erik would never want to go without air conditioning.

“So it’s kind of a game: ‘How much electricity can we cut back on?’ ‘Cause everyone has a different threshold.”

Not surprisingly, she’s taken some ribbing, both from friends who think she’s nuts for giving up her career and from those who think she’s a dilettante ascetic because she still has Internet access. Whatever. “I’m definitely happier,” she says. “The job seemed that hopeless, whereas now I feel that there are so many possibilities in front of me.”

And one of her unexpected, though humbling, pleasures has been learning what she doesn’t know.

“How was I allowed to graduate from high school,” she marvels, “without knowing when to plant spinach?”

Geoff Owen spent three years as a finance officer for Wachovia, managing the issuance of tax-exempt bonds and the like, then just got sick of it. The employees in the unit he was in seemed to care less about shareholders than about their own portfolios, and the job struck Geoff as a cold, meaningless way to make a living.

In 2005, he and his attorney wife, Missy, opened their own business, Owen’s Bagel & Deli, in South End. It was rough at first, but gradually business picked up, and Geoff stayed true to his original idea of a small, homey deli that’d stay intimate and friendly to its customers and treat employees to an occasional early shutdown if they’d done enough business. As 2010 approached, the deli was doing fine and Geoff had hired a full-time manager, meaning he no longer had to put in 18-hour days. He’d taken his chance, followed his gut and built a success out of nothing, his way.

You’ve heard this story before. It’s a staple of places like Austin, Texas, and Portland, Ore., where the Frank Zappa clone frothing up your latte behind the counter at Chilly Bean Coffee & Sundries turns out to be a former probate attorney. He was plenty good, of course, editor of the law review, cum laude grad, pulling down six figures at 28, on his way to making partner, but man, the work was such a drag, and he couldn’t see himself at 55 hammering out another brief, so he opened this little coffee shop, and he’s enjoying life and roller-blading to work every day. Like that.

Except Geoff did something weird, or reverse weird. He went back. We talked the evening of his second day at a new job as a financial adviser. (He declined to identify the firm.)

He still owns the deli, though, which makes for strange careerfellows. “I had a customer tell me, ‘Man, you should name a sandwich Sell Your Soul to the Devil,’” he says, laughing.

So what happened?

“We’d achieved our goal, you know, built a deli for the neighborhood. I’m not creative, but I’d like to think we’ve created a place where people can be creative,” Geoff says. “It had just gotten to the point where I was counting straws and mustard packets, and I realized I’d kind of made myself expendable.

“I’ve just had the opportunity in the last couple of years to learn a little about myself. I have an MBA, and I’m a lot better at this than at restaurants. I guess it’s returning to a core strength of mine. It’s building relationships with people and hopefully having a positive impact on their lives. That’s what we tried to do with the deli, and this position affords me the opportunity to do the same thing.”

Geoff, who grew up in Cleveland, is like thousands of transplanted Rust Belters who moved to Charlotte in the boom years of the early 2000s. He and Missy were living in Pittsburgh before they moved in 2002, and they settled in nicely with their careers. But both felt something was missing.

“My wife and I were living in Charlotte, lower case, but not Living in Charlotte, upper case,” he says. “We were not really establishing ourselves here, making connections, getting involved in the community.”

Thus the deli idea was born. Geoff had earned his undergraduate degree at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, home to a well-established deli shop and restaurant that steamed its bagel sandwiches. Good idea, Geoff thought.

But once the deli began earning a profit, he intentionally steered it away from runaway success. Some days, he’d close early. He consistently rejected offers to expand to other locations. When the economy began tanking, he set up a job nook in one corner, where customers could take advantage of free Wi-Fi, soup, tea and coffee while they looked for jobs. The Owens have always donated food and a percentage of the deli’s earnings to area nonprofits.

“We don’t operate on all the b-school’s advice. It’s our fault, and it’s our greatest strength,” he says. “You see these restaurants going out of business left and right … but we don’t beat vendors down, and we stick with employees for the long haul. We’ve had a certain sense of loyalty, and customers want to make sure businesses like ours make it. And we’ve been incredibly fortunate.”

Then again, Geoff is 37. He has two daughters, ages 3 and 5. The freedom you win by being your own boss is offset by the responsibility that comes with being someone else’s boss and having a business venture ride, entirely, on you. Somebody broke in overnight? Your problem. Planning a Saturday trip? Hope nobody calls in sick. Paperwork, payroll, arranging benefits for you and everyone else …

“Sometimes you just want to have your health insurance taken out of your paycheck,” he says with a sigh. “Just take one decision off your plate.”

So he’ll keep owning it, but his friend Richard will manage it, and Missy will help oversee the books. The child can look after itself now to some extent, and Geoff can get back to doing what he’s suited for.

And here’s the funny thing: As risky as starting the deli was four-plus years ago, taking a job as a financial adviser in the midst of a recession might be even riskier. Geoff is fond of saying he expects his kids to work at the deli someday. But who knows? He might find himself working alongside them.

“I guess,” he says, “I’m just one of those who likes working without a net.”

~ Greg Lacour

I had graduated high school in 2004, thinking that I’d never look back on what, at the time, I considered to be some sort of gulag. I went to prep school. I was a punk. And it’s not that I was a bad kid, or didn’t perform well in my classes, only that I – without recognizing that anybody else might feel the same way – felt out of place.

So nobody was as surprised as I was when, upon receiving notification of a five-year reunion, it actually seemed like it might be a good idea.

My 17 year-old self would kick my ass.

The days ahead of the decision were fraught with anxiety and awkward jokes delivered via Twitter. “List of HS reunion RSVPs is publicly visible. I’m not too proud to admit that seeing who else is going is influencing whether I go,” read one tweet.

After weeks of deliberation, checking the guest list over and over and weighing the pros and cons, I made a decision. I would attend my five-year high school reunion, the first such gathering in my still-young life.

I figured that at worst, I could leave early, and at best it’d make for a good story. I never imagined I’d enjoy it.

I tweeted my decision: “HS Reunion update. I am officially registered. Feel like I’m jumping into a shark tank with a seal-flavored wetsuit.”

And when the day came, I went.

The event was at Tyber Creek Pub in South End, in the bar’s upstairs lounge: a room large enough to hold a class as small as mine, plus leave space for pool tables, and darts to be mostly neglected. I arrived early. And I sat by myself at the bar drinking ice water for 10 excruciating minutes.

Eventually people began to trickle in. An old friend arrived, boyfriend in tow, and we started catching up. Others filed into the room as we began to quietly ignore each other. I flipped open my phone and started tweeting.

“Trying to figure out subtle ways to read nametags,” I wrote. It’s remarkable how you can forget people over a few years of not seeing them, even if they look mostly the same.

The first hour felt like five. Awkward sidelong glances and insular conversations slowly built, separately from each other. There was no reuniting going on, merely continued conversations among friends who had arrived together.

But by hour two, the refreshments seemed to have dissolved the walls. Inside jokes turned to, “What have you been doing with your life?” as polite smiles and stiff side-hugs offered the friendly touch that was much warmer than, or unthinkable, five years before.

Once the ice was broken, things moved much more smoothly. Conversation was easy. I found myself genuinely interested in the lives of these lost acquaintances. They seemed interested in me. The smallest of talk, perhaps, but sometimes that’s what you want. Why order an entrée when you can fill up on the rolls?

They’d tell of their new careers – teachers, financial analysts, software engineers, whatever. I’d mention my work as a music critic. They’d invariably ask what my favorite band is. I’d pause, stammer and claim that wasn’t a fair question. We both knew they were looking either for a recommendation or for validation of their own tastes. I like weirdo heavy metal, they like Dave Matthews Band. That’s not even apples and oranges, it’s apples and spaceships. Quick change of subject, and then conversation spent. We’d glance around for somebody new to talk to. “Great to see you,” we’d say, smile and nod and part ways. But we’d leave the conversation feeling entirely pleasant about the exchange, even if the specifics of it had begun to dissolve before we’d even turned around.

And we’re still not Facebook friends.

As expected, there were a few marriages and engagements. The marrieds and betrothed felt it their duty to offer relationship advice to the daters and the singles. We daters and singles took it upon ourselves to feel weirded out by the willfully old permacouples.

“She was never nice to me, and now she’s giving me relationship advice,” sneered a friend (a dater) after an encounter with a married.

Five years past high school and some people just seemed to have their lives figured out. They’ve got job security and diamond rings. Others are idling away their 20s writing about bands and high school reunions for a living. They’ve got Twitter. The ones with their lives on track, they want to help you find your own path to the boardroom or the altar. The rest of us, we just wanna gawk at the guys who went bald.

At this point, most people looked the same or better than they did in high school. But, as secretly hoped, some didn’t.

There were the usual and unexciting receding hairlines and unshed Freshman 15. But there were bound to be a few extraordinary specimens to whom time had been utterly and deliberately cruel. Not that the cable-knit sweaters and corduroy didn’t lend life a hand in the aging process..

One had filled out considerably. His voice was graveled as though he’d been smoking three packs a day for 30 years. He wanted to offer investment advice – as if anybody at 23 would be in a position to invest in much more than rent? Another I couldn’t gather the nerve to talk to: An athlete in school, the years had left him hunched, combed-over and dressed like Mr. Rogers. A little unfortunate, I’ll admit. I was afraid if I tried to talk to him he’d sit me on his knee and tell me about “Matlock.”

A part of me felt sorry for them, and sorrier for myself for making jokes in my head (and on the page) at their expense. I hoped they’d see the humor in it.

But setting aside the awkward moments and schadenfreude, I left the reunion happy. It was fun to reconnect with people I hadn’t seen since adolescence, to hear about their adventures in college and their entry into the working world. It was a validation of my own career choices and a reminder of everything that still makes me nostalgic about high school.

The changes were notable, but so was the ease with which, after a couple hours, old conversations seemed to pick up exactly where they’d stopped half a decade ago. The memories didn’t so much return as make it known they never went away. And by the end of it, every hesitant handshake and one-armed hug was a precious reminder that just as we had been in high school, we’re all still looking for our place in the world. And as awkward as that search can be, sometimes the most awkward experiences are the ones that leave the rosiest glow in memory.

I might never be best friends, or even Facebook friends, with most of the people I graduated high school with. But I’m looking forward to seeing them all again in five years.

Ready to return to my current life, I slid into my ’98 Accord (the same one I frequently borrowed from my dad in high school), peeled off my nametag and sent one final tweet.

“My nametag is officially crumpled and on the floor of my car. This party is over.”

~ Bryan Reed

I can only speak for myself but I believe that we all experience this food-induced soul-satiety on occasion, and, on a subconscious level, it is what we are looking for when we go out to eat or when we prepare an elaborate meal. Have you ever, after a nearly perfect meal, perhaps on Thanksgiving or Christmas, set your napkin and your drink down and remained in your seat, staring at the table. You do not speak, your eyes don’t drift, you do not move or even think – you stare. Before you want a cigarette or a cup of coffee, before you think about the dishes or your company, even before you want a nap, you sit saturated in renewal – it is euphoric. It may only last for a few minutes, but for those minutes you have neither want nor need, you haven’t a care – you are satiated, you are complete.

There are times when I accept my limitations as a seeker. With only so much time in this life, I, unfortunately, can’t afford to make every meal a spiritual experience – most of the time I am so busy seeking fulfillment in other areas that a meal becomes the superficial matter of filling up in order to keep moving. These are the times that you’ll catch me eating chicken fingers and ranch dressing over a trash can in the dish-pit, or sitting in line at the drive-through of McDonald’s.

But from time to time, I get a water break from the rat race and these are the times that I go out to experience food the way it should be experienced – fully. Recently I had such a break and what I really wanted, what I craved, was a burger. But not just any burger. I wanted one of those burgers that makes you wish you could walk into the kitchen, slap the cook on the ass and tell him he played a great game. With a recommendation from a friend who really knows food and knows Charlotte a lot better than I do, I took what felt like an insatiable appetite to Mueller’s Sandwich Shop.

Mueller’s is at 119 Huntley Place, off Providence Road, right before the inconvenient intersection of Providence and Queens and Providence and Queens when driving away from center city.  It’s a tricky little spot to find because there isn’t a sign visible from Providence, but as soon as you turn onto Huntley you’ll see a boldly painted, old-school sandwich cart with the name of the joint written all over it.
A giant oak tree whose roots make the asphalt parking lot look like a topographical map and whose branches envelop the sky greets you. The tiny sandwich shop, tucked in the back corner of the parking lot, was clearly built as a cottage and not as a restaurant. I felt comfortable before I even got out of my car. Walking past the semi-circle of hinged-together picket fencing, I began to notice something. Among the mix and match iron patio furniture sits a metal fire pit, kids’ toys and flowerpots, a mailbox and an old sidewalk clock. This, I noticed, is someone’s restaurant. A Christmas wreath hangs in a window and a wind chime dangles from the crest of the awning, sharing its nail with a purple hula hoop. I pushed the door open and heard the ring of the saddle-bells nailed to the door. After rubbing my feet on the doormat, I lifted my eyes and saw Dave Mueller standing behind the counter. I knew without asking his name – the restaurant belongs to him.

Dave has a face that reminds you of somebody you know. Appearing to be in his mid-40s, (apparently I’m a bad judge of age – turns out he’s in his late 50s), he was wearing faded jeans and a green polo shirt that had a few years on it. He’s the kind of guy that you know you’re gonna get a handshake and a conversation from, whether you have something to talk about or not. He actually walked around the counter to introduce himself and take my order. I was so intent on having a burger that I ignored the list of my favorite sandwiches – the Cuban and the Reuben, the Philly and my dear chopped barbecue. I ordered the Carolina burger, and a side of Chicago-style hotdog, although I thought long and hard about doubling up and having the pimento burger. If you haven’t lived here long enough to catch the definition of “Carolina,” it means that my burger was waking up to one hell of a hot day on the grill and getting dressed with chili, slaw, mustard and onions, getting into his bun and driving into my mouth. What better way to wash it all down than with an Arnold Palmer? I knew I could ask for this most anywhere I go; it’s simply equal parts lemonade and iced tea, but actually seeing it on the menu warmed my heart.

I went outside for a smoke and watched, through the center of the wreath hanging in the green shuttered window, as Dave and his help fixed my fare. Inside, I only had a few minutes before my attention was devoted to the delight of stuffing my face, but a few minutes was enough to observe that the interior of Mueller’s was just as original as the exterior. The black and white checkerboard floor scurries underneath Coke coolers with bottled soda and shelves of chips, wrapping around the “order here” counter, only 5 feet from the door and tucking back into the tiny open kitchen, which butts up against roughly painted, light yellow walls. On the walls hang the most eclectic collection of adornments I may have ever seen in a restaurant: a men’s basketball poster for Queens College, a Grand Marnier poster from the 1970s, a painting of tennis equipment from the ’50s, and a poster depicting the alkaline and antioxidant levels in various types of water.

The Chicago dog hit the table first. I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled and it was gone – the perfect warm-up for a burger. She was a tasty little yipper, either deep-fried or grilled, I couldn’t be sure. The snap of the dog, coupled with the crisp pickle spear beside it, made for a refreshing mouthful with the additional relish, tomatoes, onions and banana peppers (more complementary than the spicier sport peppers). The ingredient-balancing act was made easier by the hearty poppy seed bun, but there was still enough love to let a little dribble off into the basket for finger picking after I finished. I would feel like a criminal if I ate a hotdog without making at least a small mess.

I had another conversation with Dave, in which he told me about the history of the Thies building next door, of the founding families of Charlotte, and damn near the rest of the city’s history. We talked about his former lives as a horticulturist, and working in the tennis shop at a country club (where he opened his first burger joint). We talked about the restaurant business – Mueller’s is almost three years old so the honeymoon period is over – and though he’s been struggling in the recent economy, he has hope and believes in what he’s doing. Most important, we talked about burgers. I asked Dave how he ate his.

“I’m a purist; just meat and cheese and sometimes ketchup,” he said with half a smile. “I like to taste the meat of a fresh burger but I’ll fix it any way I’m asked to for anyone else.”  It’s rare to find a nonjudgmental purist.

The Carolina burger arrived on the tail end of the dog, and when Dave set it down I knew I had come to the right place. Holding the burger in both hands, before my face as if to say hello, I was aware of the warmth from the lightly toasted bun as I opened my mouth in anticipation. Perhaps my anticipation altered my sense of reality and fogged my memory, but man…that burger was G-double-O-D good. It had been laid to rest just long enough for the charred walls to hold back the flavor that was loosed on the first bite. I closed my eyes and let the juice run down my chin; I didn’t care if anyone was watching. I savored each bite of that burger, working my way around the outside first so as not to let any of the Carolina abandon ship, and finishing it off without once setting it down. I licked my fingers, and I sat there. I just sat.

I had a long drive home, back through center city and up 85 North. I didn’t care about the traffic – I got in the right lane and actually drove the speed limit. I didn’t even turn the radio on. I wasn’t just full, I was satiated.

~ John Zoet

Need a boyfriend
There is nothing sexier than desperation.  Think about when you go into a store at the mall.  It doesn’t matter if you’re browsing, looking for something specific, walking in with intent to purchase, or simply killing time.  If a salesperson approaches with an eagerness that suggests she works solely on commission and you’re the first customer to come in all day, it’s an instant turnoff and many times, a deal breaker.

You are now justifying to yourself – But I don’t need a boyfriend, I just want one.  If you spend more than an hour a day on match.com; if your friends, co-workers, and hairdresser know exactly how long you’ve been single and the sagas of the last three dates you went on; if you are a member of multiple online dating sites, are a part of an organized social outdoor activities club, and none of the TV remotes works because you’ve hijacked the batteries for your vibrator – you are sending the message that you need a boyfriend.

Text/call/e-mail him
Text him something cute two hours after exchanging numbers.  Don’t wait for him.  Time’s a wastin’.   Rob him of the thrilling experience of trying to woo you.  Emasculate him by eagerly suggesting plans rather than allowing him to ask for your company.  Make him overly confident, thereby encouraging his laziness, by always being the first to reach out.

Don’t take care of yourself.
Rock 3-inch roots.  Sleep an extra 10 minutes and throw your hair into a ponytail rather than style it.  Wear baggy clothes that don’t fit you perfectly because they’re comfortable and allow you to fool yourself into thinking you’ve been to the gym this month.  Your personality will grab him from across the room.

Take what you can get
Don’t be demanding.  Don’t be clear about what you want.  Don’t set any standards for yourself and what you expect from a man if he wishes to date you.  I mean, you might scare him off.  Instead, take whatever you can get.  I can almost guarantee he’ll give you just that.

Inspire the world around you
Putting up inspirational quotes on your Facebook page about attitude, opportunities, doors/windows opening/closing, paths, big pictures, or how you have the greatest friends and family sends the sexy message that you’re miserable and trying to talk yourself out of it.  But if you can fool yourself into believing your world is full of sunshine and rainbows, maybe you can fool him, too.

Take advice from those in the same boat
If you want what someone else has, do what they do.  This applies to all circumstances in life except dating.  When it comes to finding and keeping a man, it is best to consult your fellow single gals struggling with the same challenge.

Think that you are owed something.  And react accordingly
If he asked for your number, took you to dinner, or you chose to sleep with him, then he owes it to you to make you happy and act in accordance with how you wish him to.  Any deviation from these things simply makes him a complete asshole worthy of frequent public slander.

~ Amanda Pagliarini