Guest Post: The Sisyphean Struggle Against Bro Shorts

Last week at a science fair party my dear friend Henry started telling me about his long and tragic quest to find a non-douchey pair of shorts. I stopped him mid-sentence and said, "Henry, who knows how many men are facing the same challenges in silence and isolation? You need to blog about this." He was about to embark on a road trip to the Grand Canyon, so he agreed to file a guest post from the road, Jack Kerouac-style. This is his story.

Readers of Daddy Likey may not know it, but millions of men every year are burdened with the task of properly ventilating their legs. Sure, toughing it out and wearing pants during the summer months is an option, but when the raging inferno of an out-of-control barbecue backdrafts into an already sweltering August heat, the practicality of pants goes up in smoke. Which leaves us with the unenviable task of picking out shorts - and if you’re a man of discerning taste, that means shorts that don’t make you look like a bro.

Bros, for the unfamiliar, are so common you probably don’t even realize what a distinct group they are. But it is their numbers that have forced clothing manufacturers to cater to the poor tastes of every Chad, Kyle and Tre in the ultimate frisbee league. Though their interests may range from Jagermeister to hemp, and hackey sack to Playstation, their commitment to baggy, canvas shorts with non-standard pocket configurations is their common banner. So in a stand against this tyranny of the majority, I attempted to find shorts that broke free of the bro mold. The following three trials were taken on a road trip through the Southwest with my future in-laws and rated on a scale of 1-10, with 10 being maximum bro-ness.

Exhibit A

A descriptor: A pair of cargo shorts from REI, except they weren’t real cargo shorts. Yeah they had the pockets on the sides, and zippers in places that weren’t my crotch, but they were made out of a blend of nylon, polyester and some other fibrous abomination devised by man, rather than a just and all-knowing God. They do, however, appear to be spill resistant. Regular fit. Knee length. Are they bro-ish? Well sure, but more the kind of bros that drink wheatgrass cleansing smoothies and are really into parkour.

Performance: These held up surprisingly well. Granted, I didn’t put them through the rigors that millions of dollars worth of textile science at REI-HQ designed them for, but they did repel crumbs from most of the salted-snacks consumed. And the toothpaste I accidentally smeared into the pocket will come right out in the wash. Extra points given for their innovative material, which on long car trips went a long way toward mitigating ass-sweat.

Bro-factor: 8.1

Exhibit B

A descriptor: Do you know how hard it is to find a pair of loose-fitting, khaki knee-length shorts if you’re a semi-professional man between the ages of 25-30? Because I sure as hell didn’t. I am in the uncanny valley of casual men’s summer wear. I’m not quite ready to take the plunge into pleated, cuffed old man shorts, but I also want to differentiate myself from the neighbor kids who keep me up at night with their goddamn skateboarding. Out of options at the big box retail operations, I made a defeated trek to the Vans store in the Lloyd Center Mall in search of some tan Dickies. Result was plain khaki Red Hat (some Dickies equivalent) shorts that sit right below the kneecap. No extra pockets. No awful screen printed designs.

Performance: These get an “incomplete” for the trip. Yeah they fit really well when I tried them on in the store, but after three days of driving for 8 hours per day and eating In-n-Out burger, not so much. Canvas work shorts just don’t have the ‘give’ that an indulgent life on the road requires. Not what I would expect from a company tasked with outfitting countless Warped Tour performers lo these many years.

Bro-factor: 8.9

Exhibit C

A descriptor: Fuck it. These are used, camo-print, button-fly cargo shorts purchased from Buffalo Exchange for $12. Their pockets can hold 6 cans of Milwaukee’s Best Ice (“Beast”). We’re through the looking glass, people.

Performance: Wow these are comfortable! When combined with a pair of flip-flop sandals and a baseball shirt, these may, in fact, be the most comfortable things I’ve ever worn. I can keep everything in these pockets too. Digital camera, wallet, keys, phone, other shorts, whatever. There’s also psychological comfort in just giving in and embracing the bro shorts. I now have a new appreciation for people in muumuus or the crazy guy on my way to work who wears a down comforter as a cape (I call him The King). They’re doing what feels good, society be damned.

Bro-factor: vast and immeasurable

Clothes Make the Man, by my little brother Bob

I'm busy with work today so I asked my 14-year-old brother Bob, who was recently the subject of an impromptu makeover conducted by yours truly, if he would write up a guest post about the experience. The short essay he submitted makes it clear that he is well on his way to becoming a better writer than me, which stirs up feelings of intense pride and blossoming insecurity, but I'll deal with that later in therapy. For now, here's Bob's post:

Imagine if you will, a 14-year-old boy in a grease-stained Portland State University t-shirt from 1998, old black jeans with red paint drips on them, and holes from where he stabbed them with a knife.

That was me at one time, although I cannot remember those days with clarity anymore. They seem so far away: days of poor hygiene, grubby clothes, low self esteem. Lately things have changed. I am happy, my teeth are white, I bathe regularly, and I am proud to say I have been completely de-wormed!

During a recent outing with Winona, we were waiting for her boyfriend and decided to wander around in a store for several hours. As usual with Winona, things started drifting into the clothing section. That day I was wearing my aptly named "badger attack pants" and a poorly fitting Carhartt shirt I borrowed from my dad. We had a make-shift intervention right then and there, and Winona convinced me to go shopping for some new clothes. I really didn’t know what style I liked, so I just stood around saying I hated everything she picked out for me, mostly T-shirts and button ups.

Eventually she persuaded me to try on a button up. I slid the shirt over my greasy dark green work shirt and decided it felt good. That was the easy part. Now I had to swallow my pride and tell her she was right and I loved it. We tried on more shirts until we had a nice stockpile built up. Winona’s eyes must have wandered to the suspicious “bloody residue” on my pant leg because before I knew it we were off to pant world. I decided I liked Levi’s so we rifled through those before Winona picked some out for me. Let me just say, she is a masterful pants picker, erm… picker-outerer, and all the pants fit. I only discarded the pair that had a button fly.

Let's move ahead to today, where I sit before you hunched over a keyboard with blood-shot eyes and delicious creative juices spraying into a cavity in my brain where something important should be. I am in a crisp white tagless T-shirt with a button up shirt on over that, with some amazing jeans that I can wear for extended periods without intense stinging pain in my waist.

One of my new outfits

I wore this out today and let me just say I felt better, know I looked better, and my heart didn’t feel quite as clogged with chunks of turkey. I was a lot happier with the way I looked, and I accomplished everything today that I would have with my old wardrobe on: I ripped apart an old couch, I played with my cats, I played with a crowbar and ran through a store with a huge pack of coat hangers looking for my lost dad (and I found him!). Thank you Nona!

To Up-Size or Not to Up-Size: A guest post from a straight-talkin' junior high boy

Today's post is by my 13 year-old brother:

The most defining moment in anyone's life, the most important moment, is getting a kickass winter jacket. A jacket you truly love will choose the path that your life takes, and keep you warm. But choosing a coat that fits the aforementioned guidelines, and is truly awesome, is a tough decision. And it becomes an even harder task when you have to make the ultimate choice: Will you get a winter jacket that fits over a T-shirt, or one that can go over a sweatshirt? And as much as we don't want to think about it, this can happen to all of us. In fact, I had to face this very dilemma recently.

My parents decided that my coat was getting too small, so they made the decision to get a new winter jacket for me. Now, I didn't know much about jackets or coats, or clothes in general, and in fact, I still don't, but when it came time to try on some jackets, I had to choose. I found a good one that was water resistant, and all the other stuff that my dad said would keep me from dying instantly in the rain.

So we had the coat picked out, and I tried it on over my hooded sweatshirt. It fit with room to spare, but when I took off my hoodie and tried it on over my T-shirt, I didn't know if I liked it or not. I tried a size down, and it fit well, but when I had my hoodie on, it felt kinda cramped. I had to make a decision right then and there. As usual my thoughts were focused on what I would do if zombies poured through the doors of the mall and I had to escape. After a while of deciding what to do in the event of of a zombie invasion, I tried them both on like 6 more times, then finally it dawned on me to look in the mirror.

With the T-shirt fitted one, it felt good, and looked good. The hoodie fitted one felt good, but without the hoodie I looked like I was trying to sneak a bunch of cocaine bricks past the border. I finally decided to go with the non-drug smuggler one.

So in summary
-find a jacket you like
-find a bigger jacket of the same kind
-stare off into space for 10 minutes
-try them all on a few more times
-does one make you look like a drug smuggler?
-use the other one.

My Extremely Modest Eighteen-Year-Old Brother Takes a Shower

My much-requested guest blogger sibling is back with a brutally honest (and always humble) account of his latest shower. In the words of Dog the Bounty Hunter: take it away, Brah:

The sweat soaked the back of my neck, my sideburns were completely saturated, and my shirt produced a smell that most closely resembled broccoli. Having just worked out for thirty minutes (until being scared from the empty gym by a sound that could only be attributed to a velociraptor), I was understandably grimy.

Staying at my sister's condo, I had no choice but to use her shower. When Nona suggested that I write a review of her new peppermint body wash, I thought "Why not go further and review the whole shower experience?"

To begin, the bathroom has a mirror that covers the entire wall; there is no escaping it. So for me, the experience was off to a good start. It took a turn for the worst, however, when I was unable to turn off the scolding hot water and had to receive instruction through the door. The shampoo was adequate and the basic ivory soap served its purpose. It was when I moved to the conditioner that I ran into problems.


The red conditioner bottle* read "None of your frizzness" or something stupid like that. What the shit? Now I'm depressed. I overcame my anger for shitty marketing and lathered up the old mop and was surprised to find an instant silkiness overtake my hair.

With a renewed sense of hope I tried the face wash. I am seriously considering adding face wash to my shower lineup at home due to the recent appearance of zits which, due to perfect genes, are a family taboo. Aside from burning my eyes worse than the time I drove a nail into a can of silicone spray this face wash was pretty satisfying.

The final and arguably best stage of the entire experience was the peppermint body wash**. Two hours after the shower and as I sit typing this I am exuding an intoxicating strong peppermint musk.


In the end, my DaddyLikey's shower experience was above average. Still, there is much room for improvement***.


Editor's notes:
*He is referring here to Herbal Essences "None of Your Frizzness" Smoothing Conditioner
**More specifically, the divine Philosophy Candy Cane body wash/bubble bath that my lovely friend Laila gave me for Christmas.
***Jeez, he's harsh.

My Extremely Modest Seventeen-Year-Old Brother Is Back

Since my brother's last guest post was such a hit, I've decided to bring him back on as a regular writer. Every couple weeks, I'll give him a new beauty product that he would never in a million years choose for himself (I believe his current routine goes something like: soap.), and convince him to write a review by buying him a burger and reminding him of the ego-boosting comments his last post received.

The other day I gave him some hair gel. Here's what he wrote about it:

Having downed two cups of coffee, I knew where my next stop was going to be. I entered the public restroom and picked a urinal spaced a healthy five feet from the obese man already painfully grunting over one. Having finished, I approached the sink, but to my left I caught a glimpse of a fire I thought had gone out. In the mirror I saw for the first time the full rich brown sugar hair that I'd always longed for. It was then that I rememberd the minty goo my sister had ordered I smear into my scalp the night before.

You're probably wondering why my second guest post is also my second hair product review. Well, the answer is simple: who better to test hair care products than someone with such beautiful curly locks? For even before I was my sister's guinea pig I was engaging in exchanges like the following:

Filipino Dental Hygienist: You have really nice hair.
Me: Thank you.
PDH: Thick like my husband's.
Me: (Uncomfortable laughter)

To conclude, "Avatar Men's Cream Care" or whatever the hell it was called is a must for anyone who wants richer, fuller hair.

[Editor's note: By "Avatar Men's Cream Care" he means "Aveda Men's Pure-formance Grooming Cream" (easy mistake, I know), available here.]

And here's a picture in case you were doubting:

The boy does have good hair.

Guest Post: My Extremely Modest Seventeen-Year-Old Brother Discovers Conditioner

When my brother came out of the bathroom running his hands through his hair and gasping, "Whatever was in that blue bottle...changed my life," I knew I had to get him to write a post about it. Here's his humble thesis:

My once-weekly shower is consistently a bleak affair. I peel off the layers of pungent moist clothing, usually falling into the door jumping out of my pants or pulling an extremely tight shirt off my rippling muscles, inciting an "are you o.k. in there?," from outside. I get in and carry out an all-too-drab routine that drags on too long (there is a lot to clean if you get my drift, ladies) and am always left wanting something more.

Well, today I got something more. After washing out the shampoo from the bright orange bottle, I was disappointed as usual by the coarse texture that I was left with. I knew I had to counteract the first shampoo with something chemically completely different, and like vinegar to a bee sting so was the blue bottle to the orange. I lathered up my hair and went to town, immediately feeling the silkiness of my hair return. Getting out of the shower I ran both my hands through my lustrous locks in a manner that would make Christian Bale in American Psycho proud.

Something changed in me tonight. That blue bottle's contents served as an elixir of youth and vitality, giving me a much needed boost to tackle another obstacle. Plus, I look even more like Robert Downey Jr. when I have well conditioned hair.

[Editor's note: "blue bottle"=Clairol Nice'n Easy ColorSeal Conditioning Gloss, $3-$5, drugstores]

[Editor's note, redux: Personally, I wasn't all that wild about this stuff. It left my hair more greasy than lustrous. But hundreds of thousands of women and my brother disagree, and it's cheap as hell, so you don't have much to lose if you give it a try. And who knows? Maybe it will make you look like Robert Downey Jr.]