Political Support

I stepped out of my apartment building (take note: apartment building, i.e., multi-unit dwelling) yesterday afternoon and saw something somewhat surprising: a Linda Cropp for Mayor sign.

Wha?

How did we come to conclusion that my entire building, en masse, has decided to support Linda Cropp?, I wondered. Actually, I didn't really wonder that, because I knew there was no way that was possible. The sign was inappropriate to the extent that it implied that an entire apartment building full of people supported one mayoral candidate for the office.

I asked the woman at the front desk when that sign made it up there, and got an even more fascinating story in response. "I saw some people getting out of their van," she told me, "and I guess they put it up. I wish I had seen that they were doing that, because I would have told them it was inappropriate, but then they took off after putting it up."

Woah.

So according to this woman -- whom I have no reason to distrust -- Linda Cropp's supporters are busy running around town putting signs up on private property to make it look like people are supporting her? Without the permission of the property owners? Are you kidding me?

This afternoon I went with a friend up to Rockville to run some errands, cutting through parts of northwest DC along the way. From time to time, I spotted Linda Cropp signs in the ample yards of these large homes, and I couldn't help wondering whether the homeowners themselves actually put them up. At one house, for example, the sign was conspicuously placed pretty far from the front door and far from any path that leads to the door. Instead, it was placed near a tree closest to the street corner, where conceivably people -- for example, I dunno, people who jump out of vans putting up signs on lawns without permission -- would be able to put them up quickly. Could it be, I wondered, that the supporters planted that sign there too? Could it be that the people in that house don't necessarily support Linda Cropp at all?

I guess now I'll never really be sure.

Jiggle TV Rose-Colored Hindsight

As a kid, I had a strange obsession with television shows featuring hot women. Go figure that before growing up to become a gay man, my favorite television shows as a kid included Charlie's Angels and Wonder Woman.

So, of course, I've jumped at the opportunity to purchase the DVDs for these two shows once they became available, as they became available. (In fact, I'd been patiently waiting for Wonder Woman to come out for years now.) Upon receiving each set, I'd dutifully conduct marathons of each, generally lasting the entire weekend. (Back then, one season included some 26 episodes.)

Unfortunately, of course, it's never the same the second time around. It's incredibly silly as I watch these DVDs what horrible acting and plots passed for exciting television back then.

Here are some of the funniest highlights as I recall them:



In Wonder Woman, some of the editing is frighteningly bad. In one episode, Diana Prince changes to Wonder Woman and continues twirling to reveal a Wonder-Wetsuit (*snicker*). After emerging from the ocean (which looked shockingly like a very shallow pool), we are treated to the rare occasion of seeing her transform from her Wonder-Wetsuit back to her standard costume -- except that it's freakishly clear that all they did was run the tape backward to create this footage.

Then there's the fact that there are many action scenes (mostly involving running and jumping) where it is pretty darn clear that there's a body double involved. Including in the opening credits!

And the reuse of stock footage! I guess no one ever noticed this because the show didn't rerun too frequently. One scene -- where Wonder Woman is purportedly jumping from her own bedroom window after changing in her own apartment -- is reused at least four times, including times when the sun is too high in the sky for it to make sense in the context of the scene.

In the end, I've come to realize Wonder Woman didn't really do all that much that was kick-ass. She mostly jumped a lot. And ran a little. But beating up people didn't happen all that often. The first season was frightfully full of "let's just be good to each other" moments meant to prevent any actual ass-kicking. And many times, she'd actually just stop and look wistfully after a fleeing car (which she should have been able to catch up to) instead of actually chasing after it. WTF?



Charlie's Angels featured gorgeous chicks, but despite accolades that it represented women's liberation by showing three beautiful, intelligent women who were doing "men's work" on their own, man oh man some of the plot lines were stupid. On more than one occasion, the sum total of the girls' plan to get into the heads of the Big Bad Guy was to walk into a bar where he was known to frequent. And indeed, all she had to do was walk in, and Big Bad Guy would walk up to her, hit on her, and spill all his secrets. Yeah. As if.

And importantly, how feminist is it to have three chicks working for a man they never ever see? Doesn't it betray a fundamental lack of respect for the women that you refuse to show your own face? And worse, doesn't it show your desire to maintain a power trip over the women? How does that make the show about "female empowerment"?


All that being said... yeah, these four chicks were hot.

Sorry, Wrong Number

My phone rang at around 10:15 p.m.; the caller ID showed a 918 telephone number. (I did a search: it's in Oklahoma).

"Matt?" a young woman's voice greeted me.

"Uh, excuse me?" I said.

"Is this Matt?" she responded.

"I think you have the wrong number," I chirped. I was in a good mood.

For any other person, the conversation would ended nicely there. But because we're talking about me, it didn't.

"Could you tell me what number I reached?" she asked.

Huh? You dialed it, woman.

"Uh... what number did you mean to dial?" I asked. As a child, someone once taught me not to actually recite my phone number to wrong numbers. Something about it being somehow unsafe. (I forget the rationale now, frankly). Best to have them tell you what number they tried; you can confirm that they misdialed, or that they've written down your number as someone else's.

She started copping an attitude on me. "Uh... okay. I was just trying to see if I have the wrong number, but I guess you can't help me." Her tone of voice conveyed a clear disdain. Whatev.

"Guess not!" I piped back, and hung up on her.

Porn and Sex: Ruminations on the Target Audience

Background: I recently decided that I was paying too much for my digital cable service, so I called to cancel the digital subscription, intending to just stick to basic cable. The woman's response to my request was, "Are you sure you no longer want Showtime, Cinemax, Starz and the Movie Channel, including OnDemand?" Fact is, I had no idea that I had all these channels, so lately I've been going crazy watching these channels just to justify the added cost. OnDemand is particularly awesome -- I get to watch a certain cache of movies whenever I want, including some original programming. Last week I took in the entire first season of Weeds.

Also included in these OnDemand packages -- and on the regular programming late at night -- are the "adult-oriented" programs: soft core porn. In the interest of blog fodder research, I have taken it upon myself to watch a sampling of these films just to see what they are all about. As I type this now, a totally naked woman is dancing lustily in front of fire for no apparent reason. Oops, she has now been joined by two other naked women. Three totally naked women dancing in front of the fire. Earlier in this movie, entitled Alabama Jones and the Busty Crusade, the women, who claim to be seeking some sort of treasure in a jungle, also had sex with surprisingly clean and hunky "jungle men" as well as with each other. Thankfully, none of them had sex with the cheesy guy in the gorilla suit. I mean, seeing as he was supposed to actually be a gorilla.

Aside: The closing credits were running just now, and the women were being interviewed while the credits ran. One of them was asked about the accommodations where they were kept during the shoot. Trying to describe how luxurious they were, one woman compared them to "Versailles in Italy." Uh, okay.

I've also sampled Busty Cops 2 (trifecta of female law enforcement types who are summoned, like Batman, by a giant lighted image in the sky... of a giant pair of boobs), Hollywood Sexcapades 13 (about some couple running a dating service on Valentine's Day), and Sex Games Cancun 13 (actress hired to play a psychic at a party, but it turns out she can actually see the sex acts of the people whose hands she touches -- including her own tryst).

Having seen now more than my fair share of breasts and coochies -- and not nearly enouch corresponding male genetalia -- I feel like I can make the following observations. This is soft-core porn, so no penetration was visible. Heck, the men were barely visible.

Each of the movies seems to follow a rather set pattern which rarely varies (except when two women were involved, with our without the presence of a man):

1. The two participants awkwardly find a reason to be alone together.
2. Suddenly, Woman's breasts would become exposed.
3. Man starts some combination of manhandling said breasts and putting his lips to them.
4. Man works his way down for some cunnilingus action. It's never visible, but you get interesting angles: her leg is up, and his head is clearly on the other side of it; back of Man's head positioned squarely in Woman's nether regions; Man doing the deed under Woman's skirt). In any event, she clearly enjoys what he's doing.
5. Presumably, intercourse. Again, you can't see it, but you presume with all the bouncing and thrusting going on, it's happening. Again, the camera angles are determined to focus as much on Woman as possible, almost ignoring Man: they're horizontal and on their sides, so that you see all of Woman with just a bit of Man peeking over her body; Woman's on top and sitting bouncing while bolt upright minimizing the need to show what she's bouncing on. Even if Woman is bent over while Man taking her from behind, the camera angles focus on her face and ginormous breasts and never on Man.

I know these movies generally are marketed to straight men, hence the focus on the women's bodies almost to the exclusion of the men. The women run around completely naked, yet the most you see of the is a torso (surprisingly nice-looking guys, actually; I was expecting more Ron Jeremy types) and maybe a nice butt. The men for whom these movies are made don't want to see the men, however attractive they may be. They want to see women having sex, and they get it.

I've often heard that men and women take different things away from porn. Men just want to get their rocks off, so they're looking for hot ladies; it's almost irrelevant what they're doing as long as they're doing it naked. Women get more turned on by intimacy or connection; it's less about the carnal act itself than the mutual satisfaction of the partners.

It strikes me, then, that these movies walk a fine line in terms of their target audience. Sure, the overwhelming majority of people who watch porn at all are men, so they need to emphasize the woman's bodies above the men's. But in so doing, these movies also end up highlighting the women's feelings as well. She's the one moaning and contorting their faces demonstrating how much they're enjoying themselves. No one even cares whether the men are having fun at all. It's all about the women enjoying their bodies -- thus appealing to a decidedly female demographic.

It's rather genius, really. Lots of naked women for the men; naked women enjoying themselves for the women. Go porn.

But don't even get me started on how all those fake boobs can't possibly feel good for either participant.

(No Google image search results for this post.)

Up, Down, and Across the Floor

I got back from lunch today and waited in my lobby for the elevator to arrive. Three of us got in after letting the elevator's occupants out.

As we waited for the doors to close, one of my fellow elevator occupants noticed two women coming through the front door of the building, and proceeded to hold the door open for them.

These women continued their walk through the lobby, then got into the elevator, never once breaking their conversation for any reason at all.

This conversation ensued when only door-holding guy and I were left in the elevator:

Me: Don't you hate it when you hold the door for someone and they just continue to walk at their normal pace? Like without even trying to speed up for you?
Guy: [chuckles] Yeah...
Me: Or when they don't even bother to thank you for holding the door for them!
Guy: Yeah, that bugged me more than the walking to the elevator. Bitches.
[We both laugh.]

I'm glad I'm not the only one who still thinks there's a protocol to be followed when it comes to elevators.

** UPDATE: (6:56 pm) So I just noticed that Wonkette linked to this post, driving an unprecedented amount of traffic here. Yay. Thanks. But then when I went there the blurb of me was quite snarky. Harumph.

Loopier Than Usual

I was on Q Street NW the other night, heading home after dinner with a friend, walking toward 17th Street.

At some point, the guys in front of me turned around and one of them, with an unfortunately (you'll see why in a minute) thick accent asked me: "'Scuse me, do you know where Loopy Girl is?"

"Uh... no," I reply, because, sure enough, I have no idea where "Loopy Girl" is.

We get to the light at 17th and Q and the guy who asked me gets a little more animated. "There!" he tells his friend. "There it is!" He's pointing across the street.

He's pointing to Le Pigalle.

I'm just gonna say I totally heard him wrong.

O Stereotypes, You Amuse Me So

Part of dinner conversation recently:

Me: So I'm going to be heading to Atlantic City in a few months, if anyone wants to join me on a weekend trip.
Friend 1: But there's a catch.
Friend 2: What catch?
Me: I have tickets to a show, but it's not like anyone has to come with me to it....
Friend 2: What show?
Friend 3: Cher?
Friend 4: Madonna?
Friend 2: Streisand?
Me: Wow, you guys think I'm totally this uber-stereotypical gay guy, don't you?

For the record, the show I'm seeing is (no surprise to longtime readers of this blog) Olivia Newton-John. Yeah, because ONJ is totally not stereotypically gay.

Gay Threesome

A good friend of mine was visiting town this past week. Like the terrible person that I am, it completely skipped my mind that I could have cleaned the apartment and offered that he crash my place for the extra nights he stayed that weren't conference-related (and therefore paid). Oops. Anyway, we hung out a few nights -- most times much later than I should have for school nights -- hitting some the gay bar scene that I hadn't explored in a long time. I learned two important things:

1. Throwing Your Cell Phone at a Boy Is Not an Effective Way of Breaking the Ice.

I learned this wholly by accident, and it involved a boy I (thankfully) wasn't planning on saying anything to anyway. I was at 30 Degrees, waiting for my friends to show up (actually I didn't know that they were already upstairs at Cobalt, so I made a round of the relatively dead downstairs first), when I wanted to check the time. Watchless, I reached for my standby to get the time: my phone, tucked away in my back pocket.

Thing about these Razrs -- so thin, so elegant, so chic, so difficult to hold on to. I pulled it out of my pocket then promptly lost my grip on it. My efforts to keep from dropping it only compounded matters, as I ended up batting it upward and sending it soaring across the room, where it landed near the feet of some random guy sitting there with his drink.

"Uh, sorry," I said sheepishly as I bent down to pick it up. I can't even begin to imagine how stupid I must have looked juggling my phone in my hands (and failing).

The guy didn't say anything. About 20 seconds after I retrieved the phone and continued my milling about, he got up and left. Maybe some other time I'll try to do this again with a guy whom I might actually want to talk to, but I'm not sure I'd want to risk throwing my phone around so much.

2. The Gay Men in this City Can't Get Enough of Skinny White Guys.

I've reached the conclusion that this city is filled with gay men who have little to no appreciation for diversity, and who have consumed with full force all that the media has to offer with respect to what is considered "hot."

My friend and I made our way to Wet one night (who knew it was still open?) (and that dude on the webpage is scary) because he has thing thing for stripper boys. And if you're in a city where it all hangs out, well, you gotta hit the strip joint. We were enjoying watching the crowd hover around various unclad men gyrating the thrusting and bobbing (not their heads) on the bars, socks overflowing with singles. There were black guys and white guys, all of whom were slim and tone and none of whom I would kick out of bed for eating crackers....

Then the amateur night started. And I say this not to try to be snarky about the dancers, I really mean they allowed people from the crowd who were not "professionals" to hit the platform to compete for a prize. In what I can only assume was sheer fortuity, the contestants presented a virtual Benetton ad of diversity: a black guy, an Asian guy, and a white guy hit the bar and started strutting their stuff. In my humble opinion, the black guy wasn't as cute or hot as the other two, but okay.

Then it came time to vote. We were told to clap for who we thought was the best amateur of the night. The crowd (not a huge surprise) selected the white boy. (I voted for the Asian boy.) Of course, the host had to act like he couldn't tell who won, making us clap again, and this time some kind of groundswell starting surfacing for the white boy. People started chanting his name, trying to drum up support for him, as if they felt a need to claim, once and for all, that the white boy was the superior one of the three.

I clapped for the Asian boy for several reasons. First, we Asian peeps need to stick together. More importantly, though, I couldn't help thinking that the white boy amateur really wasn't all too different from the white-boy professionals who were working the bar before the amateurs started. I mean, really, after a while, some of these tall skinny (naked) white boys just become fungible. Give me something a little different once in a while. Like, an Asian boy. Oh wait, there was one, but the crowd decided to make damn clear they didn't really care to see him naked.

Of course, the city's overwhelming bias in favor of skinny white boys also explains why I can't get a date to save my life.

3. Beware the Alcoholic.

When you find yourself wandering around the city at 2:30 am in search of a bar that's still open, you may have a problem. Likewise, when you shut down a bar then offer to buy up a part of a friend's alcohol stash from home so you can continue drinking after leaving the bar, that's a bit much.


And that is today's lesson.

Spam. A Lot.

I do not understand spam. Not the canned "food" product (which I LOVE, by the way), but junk email.

Does anyone actually open up a piece of spam email and actually consider buying these things? Potential thoughts that run through a spam recipient's head:

- "Even though this is addressed to the wrong email, has no valid return email address, and clearly is unregulated and unsecure, it would be a great idea for me to send these people my money!"

- "An unregulated drug which could very well cause me disastrous health effects because it's unregulated through a reputable pharmacy for only $13 a pill? Sign me up!"

- "In fact I do need to reduce my mortgage. Let's go ahead and give some random stranger my social security number, full name, and address so he can set that up for me!"

- "Because I am a horny bastard who doesn't get enough attention from my wife, I would love to find some hot sexy vixen to take care of my needs for me!"

(Okay, maybe that last one isn't all that farfetched.)

Today, for example, I got an email entitled "You're Not Big Bone." (I'd give them props for spelling "you're" correctly (such low standards!), then they went ahead and misspelled "big boned.") The opening line for what seems to be an ad for a weight loss product:

"Yay! I have lost 0 pounds this week! It is so much easier to stick to Southbeach (low carb) while I am taking the Hoodia. Thank you so much!" -- Maude G., Miami, FL

Yeah, there's no typo there. Seriously. They're bragging that Maude didn't lose any weight at all. Sure makes me want to reach for my credit card.

What's more confounding to me, though, is how people actually understand what some of these spam messages say. There's so much extra crap in there, undoubtedly put there to defeat spam filters, which renders the message itself completely incomprehensible unless you know exactly what to look for. For example, I don't want to buy "VxIjAbGvRcA" -- in fact, just looking at that string of letters gives me a headache of the highest order. I'm reaching for the AxDyVjIqL as we speak. And no, I don't need to REFINANC3 my house. Unless your market is the 12-year-old geek who happens to own a home, that message is going unread (not that I'd want to read it anyway).

Sadly, of course, in the end spam propagates the internets because it must work. For every few million pieces of junk email that goes out, it literally just takes ONE schmuck to make it cost-effective. Kind of like those Publisher's Clearing House things where some poor old woman invests her life savings in magazine subscriptions because she "already has won a million dollars!"



I have not seen Spamalot, and for this I remain very frustrated, because I really want to see it.

Dance White Boy Dance White Boy Dance

This guy is so cool. I mean, unspeakably cool.





His name is Matt Harding. You can check out his website here.

First, I'm mad jealous that he's gone around the freaking world and seen a helluva lot, I'm sure. I wish I had the balls (and the money) to do something like that.

Second, I absolutely adore that he looks like he's having such a great time everywhere he is. That dance is stupid and geeky, but he in every single shot he's got a goofy happy grin on his face. He's clearly enjoying it, and why shouldn't he?

It's a beautiful world.

Boobies on Parade

This morning I was faced with a minor conundrum while walking to work -- a conundrum which I quickly resolved by burying my head in the figurative sand and walking along my merry way. But, as these things tend to do for me, I started thinking too much about the situation.

As I stood on the corner of a relatively busy downtown DC intersection waiting for the light to change, I noticed a nice young woman out of the corner of my eye. She was about my height, petite and trim, sipping what appeared to be a cup of coffee.

I noticed her because every time she lifted the cup to her lips, I got a rather clear view of her bra, as it supported her right breast, nicely separating it from the left.

I did a subtle (I hope!) double-take just to be sure, and yes, it appears that one of the buttons on her blouse had come undone. But not the top one. So basically she had one button done, the next one undone, then the rest, leading down to her waist where the blouse was then tucked into her dress skirt.

Flummoxed, I tried to figure out how to bring this to the woman's attention. Do I tell her that I just saw her lace-covered right boobie? If so, how? Do I feign some embarrassment? Excitement? Perhaps just saying it matter-of-factly might do the trick?

Eventually, however, I reached one conclusion, and that was that it was too early in the morning for me to get slapped in the face or, worse yet, to have coffee thrown at me. Not having much experience in the field of commenting on women's breasts, I figured I'd err on the side of personal caution and keep my mouth shut.

See, you can never tell how a woman is going to react to the knowledge that a random man has been -- however briefly or accidentally -- staring at her breasts. This woman could possibly have thanked me for pointing it out. Or, this woman could possibly have branded me a perv for even daring to allow my eyes to drift 10 degrees south of the horizontal, missing her eyeline completely.

Sometimes women react this even if when they are wearing clothing designed to draw attention to her breasts, or at least their chest area. By this I mean, for example, tight t-shirts with words on them, like "Everything's Bigger in Texas" or "Juicy". Most people are compelled to read those things, but then some women wearing them get offended that the readers are staring at their chest:

Girl: Are you ogling my chest?
Guy: Uh... well, uh... I was just...
Girl: Man, I hate guys like you. That's so freakin' rude.
Guy: I was just reading what your shirt had to say!
Girl: Yeah, right!
Guy: Don't look now, but there are words running across your chest right now, which kind of invites me to read them.
Girl: Just because there are words on my chest doesn't give you free license to stare at my boobs all day!
Guy: Well if you don't want someone reading your chest, you shouldn't wear a shirt with all those words on them.
Girl: Just go home and masturbate, and leave me alone, perv.

With me (because I seem to attract scary people), the conversation would have continued thusly:

Me: Chill out. Hell, I'm gay, fer cryinoutloud.
Girl: Shyeah, right. "I'm gay" is a cheap and easy get-out-of-jail-free card for sexual harassment, now isn't it?

Just to be sure, for reasons completely outside the realm of sexual harassment, the same analysis applies to men. I can never tell whether to tell a guy his fly is down for fear that they'll wonder why I was staring at their package to begin with. This took a particularly uncomfortable turn when, at a work conference several years ago, a colleague of mine returned from the restroom with part of his shirt, otherwise tucked into his pants, protruding from his wide-open zipper. How was I supposed to tell him? Would that have been better or worse than having him suffer the embarrassment of many many many people seeing it before he noticed it himself? (Aside: he is a rather overweight guy, if you catch my drift, so I'm not sure he would have seen it himself for quite a while.)

So this is why I ended up keeping my eyes straight and, and mouth shut, on that corner this morning.

And for the record, sometimes I do go around just checking out random guys' packages.

Birthday

Today is my brother's birthday. I'd say Happy Birthday to him, but he became a Jehovah's Witness several years ago. They don't celebrate birthdays.

I've always considered my brother to be kind of a Wally Cleaver figure in my life. Not that I was a Beaver, of course (snicker), but Wally was, well, the coolest older brother ever. Well, second only, of course, to my brother.

My brother's the kind of guy who would do anything for me. He's a good part of the reason I'm a spoiled younger brother. When he and his friends hung out, I wanted to go with them, and he let me, even though his friends probably didn't really want me to tag along quite so often. At a very early age, he helped me sate my curiosity with his schoolwork, so that I knew how to do long division way before any of my peers did. (Of course, no one in subsequent generations knows how to do it anymore.) We used to spend all kinds of time together. Lots of guys hate having their younger brother around. Okay, well, maybe brother didn't really like having me around, but he tolerated it well enough.

One year, when we were little, my parents decided to send my brother and me to a summer day care program at the local YMCA. (It's fun to stay there.) It was really just some way to keep us occupied during the day while my parents were still working. As my mother stood there, they began dividing us into our respective "groups" to whom we'd be assigned all summer. They announced my brother's assignment and off he went. As I stood there, with my mother right next to me, I started to cry uncontrollably. I mean I was sobbing. That's what kind of security my brother represented to me. Everything would have been all right had we both been assigned to the same group. (Things turned out perfectly fine after that day, of course, save for my complete embarrassment at melting down like that.)

So anyway, it's my brother's birthday. Happy birthday, bro. I don't say it enough, but I love you.

Crime Central

A recent post from EJ Takes Life (as highlighted on DC Blogs) resurrected, for part of me, a post I wrote back in February.

The part that hit me was what DC Blogs highlighted:

One thing I'm particularly losing patience with is the gentrification blame game. People like me are damned if we do, damned if we don't. Yuppies who live in Northwest and the suburbs get all kinds of crap for fleeing and taking their resources and influence with them, yet are told that because they don't live in the rougher parts of town they don't get to comment on what goes on there. If they, as I do, live in "transitioning" neighborhoods and something bad happens, they get a reaction of "what did you expect? This is a city. If you can't deal, get out." It's a vicious cycle that doesn't go anywhere or help anyone, and I'm sick of it.

The levels of two-faced crap we speak in this country is staggering and astonishing. EJ is spot on in her analysis. On Logan Circle News, for instance, I'm constantly seeing the same old back-and-forth regarding gentification and life in the city (I'm paraphrasing and extrapolating):

Commenter A: Something should be done about the crime in this neighborhood! ["Crime" usually refers to any of the following, among others: muggings, shootings, vagrancy, gang-like activity, vandalism, litter, solicitation of prostitution, overt public sex acts....]
Commenter B: This is an urban area! You can't move here and then whine about the crime. Get over it!
Commenter A: Just because I moved here doesn't mean I should have to put up with clearly illegal activities!
Commenter B: It was here when you got here! It's like moving near the airport then complaining about noise!
Commenter A: So you're saying no one should make any effort to make this place better?
Commenter B: Just quit your yappin'.
Commenter A: Fuck you!
Commenter B: Fuck you!

Most comments anonymous, of course.

Then there's that Annoying Commenter from my previous post, who called me "racist," "privileged," "self-important," and "irresponsible" (among other things) for the sin of going out to eat and not guarding my belongings carefully enough. The implication of his comment, of course, was that I should have expected to be the victim of crime. Strange: I seemingly walk through life oblivious to the potential for crime, but I'm the racist for not expecting my stuff to get stolen when I enter an urban enclave.

I'm only guessing here, but this A.C. would probably also criticize the woman who hugs her purse or child a little more closely and tightly when a black man comes too close to her on the sidewalk. Or what if she crosses the street to avoid him? Is she racist for presuming that the black guy is going to accost her? Or am I racist for failing to acknowledge the potential for crime? You can't have it both ways.

To me, it smacks more of racism to say "(Mostly-minority) inner city = CRIME BY DEFINITION" than to be surprised when it happens. I dunno, maybe that's just me. Like Annoying Commenter, I would like for "mutual respect" to "permeate" all our "interactions," but to me, mutual respect includes not stealing other peoples' stuff.

***

The rash of crimes in the District of Columbia has spurred the declaration of a "crime emergency" status (whatever that means) here.

Then the City Paper ran this story about some poor guy who (1) gets mugged; (2) is mistaken for the mugger and gets arrested after he calls 911; (3) gets mugged AGAIN when the cops wise up and let him go. Day-um. [Aside: I am still in shock over the name of the first officer to arrive on the scene.]

Fun times in the District of Columbia.

I Died Last Night.

This is not an "I'm still in such a funk" post, though it sounds like it, because I think I'm actually emerging from the funk (though part of me is resigned to a life of misery). Be that as it may, I had a dream last night in which I died.

I was with a large group of people, none of whom I knew. I forget the locale, but maybe it was a take-out counter or something. Me and a bunch of strangers. Oh, and one guy with one arm around some woman's neck, holding a gun toward her temple with his other hand.


I don't remember being particularly scared at this point. Maybe I just thought he would never actually fire? I can't even tell if he was robbing the place or just generally insane or sociopathic. I just remember everyone else in the place screaming, and I felt almost detached from the entire situation.

POP!

It sounded more like a cap gun than anything, possibly because I don't know that I've ever actually heard the sound of real gunfire before. The man released his neck-grip on the woman, who now slumped to the floor, a bloodied mess. The room around me erupted in chaos, though strangely enough, not many people bolted for the door (which should, I would surmise, be one's first reaction). People were screaming, but no one was really effectively fleeing, nor was anyone rushing the gunman.

POP! POP! POP!

The gunman just started methodically shooting random people, as if he had only just realized that we were witnesses, and that he could be in serious doo-doo if we were left to live. Each pop corresponded to another person near me dropping to the floor. I didn't run. I didn't do anything. I just stood there.

POP!

I heard the shot, and I knew that the bullet that had just emerged from the chamber had my name on it.

I awoke before I experienced any pain.

Are We Done Yet?

So I hate to dwell on this whole "I'm in a funk" thing -- and honestly, I feel like it's at least starting to lift -- but now the universe is just getting comical with respect to how much it hates me.

Last night is my usual pub poker night. I sent an email to a girlfriend of mine (who sometimes joins me for these games) to ask if she was planning on going:

If I can slip out of here by 6.15, I'm thinking of getting some poker in, despite the fact that I've been in a somewhat bad mood and may therefore suffer a losing streak which will put me in a progressively worse mood. Now that I've totally sold you on the pleasure of my company, were you thinking of going tonight? :)

Luckily for her, she declined.

I steeled myself and went anyway, if for no other reason than to re-establish a routine. Besides, poker is fun, right? And besides the fact that I've been losing like crazy on line, at least this is social, and I get to interface with actual people (one of whom was kinda cute last night).

The game started at 7:00.

I was done by 7:30.

Taking the lion's share of my chips was when my opponent had a pocket pair which tripped up on the board where I hit top two pair. I tell ya, when the universe is unhappy with me, it really makes the effort to let me know. I went all-in in the next hand (it was relatively weak anyway) and promptly lost it all. This was a shame, because one guy I was talking to had flirt potential (and by this all I mean is he had yet to drop a reference to a girlfriend). Perhaps I'll see him next week.

Then I came home and decided I'd do laundry, because, well, I needed to anyway. Well, upon my return from the laundry room I saw the most unmistakeable shadow: I kid you not, there is a rodent in my kitchen. I have no idea how it got up to my floor, but I saw it duck into a vent in stove. There are droppings all over my counter. I was grossed out to an extreme. I started furiously cleaning and getting rid of any trace of actual food product left on my counter. I can only presume that the thing isn't agile enough to make it into my "dry foodstuffs" cabinet, or even to the top of my cheap-ass table where I keep (for example) some boxes of cereal.

I was so grossed out I was on the verge of crying again. Then I resigned myself to my Joe's Apartment lifestyle and started watching tv.

Then I fired up the computer and played a few hands of online poker -- and came in second and third on two different tables. Not great, but still in the (play) money. So perhaps the tide is turning. I can only hope.

Unrecognizable To Myself

Wow, so I'm still in this funk. I hate this. I don't like this at all.

My boss is still on my case about stuff that I have no control over.

Boss: Have you talked to the witness?
Me: She hasn't returned my call.
Boss: Well what are you going to do about it?
Me: Uh, hunt her down, lock her in a small confined space, tie her up and force her to talk to me?

Boss: So have you formulated a plan of attack yet?
Me: I wasn't aware that you wanted me to formulate a plan of attack.
Boss: So that means no, you haven't formulated one.
Me: Uh, I guess that's precisely what it means. In so many words.

I am reaching wit's end with this particular stress patch. I know these things ebb and flow, and I need to ride this out, but the temptation to throw up my hands and announce how I am so done with this is really strong.

After work last night I decided to hit the Green Lantern, a bar behind my office. It's kind of gross (though they're apparently making efforts to put lipstick on the pig), but it's got cheap beers and it's right behind my office and it's not too terribly crowded. A downside is that it's also right next door to the gym (the one I have privileges to, in fact), so that, while sitting there drinking beer at 7:15 pm, one could conceivably make the mistake of looking out the window to see a bunch of less-beer-gutted folk sweating it out on the machines: stairmaster, elliptical, treadmill AND bike, all face out toward this bar. Thankfully, the windows to the bar aren't terribly big.

So I think we can all acknowledge that there's a difference between needing a drink after work and needing a drink after work. The former is all right, the latter can be a problem. Last night, I needed a drink after work.

I recognized the bartender (sort of -- he'd been out sick for an extended period and appears to have lost a lot of weight, though he still looks good) (actually, it reminded me of this conversation I overheard), so I talked with him just a little. Nice guy, though. Unfortunately my bad mood spilled over to him as well, as this conversation ensued:

Bartender: So why are you just sitting there alone? You should talk to these guys [gestures over to a couple of guys talking and laughing] -- they're pretty friendly.
Me: Nah, I'm antisocial.
Bartender: No, you're not.
Me: No, really, I am. Terribly antisocial.
Bartender: You're talking to me.
Me: Yeah, well, that's your fault, not mine.

I laughed at the end of this -- the real-life equivalent of a "LOL" or a smiley-face, to make sure that he knew I wasn't trying to be an asshole. I hope he bought it. Eventually I finished my second beer while he was talking to some other patrons so I slipped out. I would have shot him a goodbye wave, but he never looked my way. (Then again, not many men do.)

I went home and was tempted to sleep. Instead I got sucked into a Dark Angel marathon on SciFi and came to the conclusion that Jessica Alba has a great body but her face isn't consistently hot. (It really does depend on the angle and the lighting.) Michael Weatherly, on the other hand, is indeed, smokin' hot, and I would love to do obscene things to his naked body. (Thank goodness for Navy NCIS, or else I'd never see him.)*

Okay, perhaps the fact that I can still talk about my desire to do unspeakable acts upon hot actors means I'm not necessarily as depressed as I think I am.

* I wanted to come up with some deep, spiritual analogy about why my life is parallel to some character's on the show, but this is all I came up with. Now I disappoint myself too.

Hazy Crazy Days of Summer

I've been in a funk for the past few weeks now. It crept in, well, like a San Francisco fog (coincidentally, it did so at around the same time as my recent trip), took hold and has not let go. For once in my life, though, I know exactly where this funk is coming from. It would make a fantastic blog entry, except that it's way too long and involved and includes metaphors on life and shit like that.

The worst part is that, try as I might to keep my life on an even keel while I ride out these feelings, I feel like the universe is conspiring against me.

My work is (apparently) suffering, as reflected by the fact that my boss has been riding my ass unusually hard for several days now. (I'm not even in the mood to make an anal sex joke here; besides, the fact that it would involve my boss makes that particular joke ew to an extreme.)

Even my luck at trivial pursuits has turned irretrievably on me. My online poker games have met with an incredible losing streak. I lose at board games with friends. I lose online Scrabble games, despite some killer plays.

And the worst part? The other night, while flipping through uninspired television programming, I set upon a four-minute scene from a movie -- one I had already seen before, no less -- that set me on a crying jag that lasted for an hour. (I'm too embarrassed to even mention the title of the movie. Suffice it to say that it was on the friggin' Logo channel.)

My world seems to have been turned upside down as deep fissures develop in the walls I've spent a lifetime so carefully building up around me. I've reached my own Stephen Dedalus moment.* Yet instead of rejoicing at the prospect of liberating myself from the prison which I have so delicately crafted for myself, I find myself frightened, like a puppy dog who is all too used to being smacked upside the head with a rolled-up newspaper.

The last time I reached my own personal epiphany was when I finally decided to stop living my life so deep in the closet. I felt clean, refreshed: I felt a burden taken off my shoulders even before I decided to tell any of my close friends of my long-harbored secret. I was a new person.

Intellectually, I feel like my newfound personal revelation should be resulting in the same feelings of emancipation as my determination to come out did. After all, epiphanies** such as these can only be good for me. They clean out the emotional baggage, they clear the soul, they clean out your aura.

That's not what I'm feeling right now. I'm scared as shit. Far from feeling that all is and/or will be right with the world (and my place in it), I feel a foreboding sense of doom, that the world will never be right again, and my place in it will never be defined, settled, or even pleasant for me.

It's getting harder and harder to deal for some reason. I feel like I'm being some major drama queen,*** yet I can't help it.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

* For the record, I detested Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and yet I'm having substantial high school English class flashbacks right now.

** See what I mean about English class redux?

*** Holy crap! It's made the Merriam-Webster!

She's so cool

I can't explain why I like this video so much.

Could It Be.... Oil?

"Diplomacy must be given a chance to work."

"It's my view that the best way to solve this problem diplomatically is for there to be more than one nation speaking to North Korea, more than America voicing our opinions."

"I view this as an opportunity to remind the international community that we must work together to continue to work hard to convince the North Korean leader to give up any weapons program."

Now that North Korea has launched seven -- SEVEN! -- test missiles, these are the responses our White House has come up with.

Check out this chronology of North Korea's nuclear testing. Frankly, it seems to me that they've been up to this for years.

So let me get this straight: North Korea has some capacity to launch weapons into some of its neighboring countries, though not the U.S. or its territories. It looks like they can wage devastating effects in parts of East Asia. Our response? "You shouldn't do that, North Korea! Bad Kim Jong-Il! Bad!"

Iraq had no weapons of mass destruction. Even if it did, it's unclear that their weapons would have made it all the way to the States or its territories. Our response? We went in and invaded without international support or even concrete evidence of imminent harm.

Oh sure, our goal in Iraq has shifted. Where it was "we don't want the smoking gun to be a mushroom cloud" once, now it's "we had to bring democracy to these people." But that mushroom cloud was a boogeyman in the closet; the North Korean one seems much more imminent. And yet now we act with restraint. With diplomacy. With a desire for international concensus.

Iraq seems more and more like the biggest, costliest lie in recent history.

I did the Macarena with a monster because I can't control myself.

I totally stole this from this guy.


Pick the month you were born:

January--I kicked
February--I loved
March--I smoked
April--I dry humped
May--I choked on
June--I murdered
July--I did the Macarena with
August--I had lunch with
September--I danced with
October--I sang to
November--I yelled at
December--I ran over


Pick the day (number) you were born on:


1-------a birdbath
2-------a monster
3-------a phone
4-------a fork
5-------a Mexican
6-------a gangster
7-------my cell phone
8-------my dog
9-------my best friends boyfriend
10-------my neighbor
11-------my science teacher
12-------a banana
13-------a fireman
14-------a stuffed animal
15-------a goat
16-------a pickle
17-------your mom
18-------a spoon
19-------myself
20-------a baseball bat
21-------a ninja
22-------chuck Norris
23-------a noodle
24-------a squirrel
25-------a football player
26-------my sister
27-------my brother
28-------an ipod
29-------a permanent marker
30-------a llama
31-------A homeless guy


Pick the color of shirt you are wearing:

White------because im cool like that
Black------- because thats how i roll.
Pink--------because I'm NOT a homosexual.
Red---------Because the voices told me to.
Blue--------Because im sexy and i do what i want
Green------Because I hate myself.
Purple------Because Im cool.
Gray--------Because i was drunk
Yellow------Because someone offered me 1,000,000 dollars
Orange ----Because i hate my family.
Brown-----Because i was high.
Other-------Because i'm a ninja.
none------Because i cant control myself.


Random fun on this particular day of the year.

The SF Chronicles, Part III: Billy C.

Who's Billy C.?, you ask.

Picture it, Washington, circa March 2006 (or something). My friend R.N. is in town from San Francisco for a conference and, as we gay men are (kind of unfortunately) predisposed to do, we decide to go barhopping for the evening.

***

Before we walked into our first bar, R.N. related a story about his friend Joe from back home. He and Joe went out to a bar one evening. As is Joe's proclivity, he spent much of the time scanning the room, probably trying not to look too desperate while still looking "available." Eventually, a pair of nice gentlemen starting chatting with the two of them. One of them, it happens, clearly took a shine to my friend, R.N.

R.N. enjoyed the conversation he was having with this gentleman. He would never have considered going home with the guy -- R.N. has had a partner for years now -- but he enjoyed the conversation in part because he enjoyed the attention. It's nice to know that you might still be considered attractive, especially in the youth-obsessed, "next best thing" gay culture we seem to have created for ourselves. It was just conversation after all, and when it came down to it, R.N. would politely end the conversation, bid the guy good night, and head home to his partner. No harm, no foul.

R.N. excused himself to go to the restroom. Upon his return, the gentleman who had been chatting him up abruptly turned to him and said, "We're heading out now. Bye." Rather curt, R.N. thought, until his friend Joe 'fessed up that, during the bathroom break, he had told the guy about R.N.'s partnered status.

R.N. and I think that Joe was just jealous that "the partnered guy" was getting some attention and wanted to end that situation as soon as possible.

***

When R.N. and I began our barhopping evening here in D.C., we made it clear: I would not be a Joe. I recognize that having someone flirt with you can be a nice feeling, and there's nothing wrong with it (if you don't lead the guy on too much). So we made a pact before we started that if someone should hit on him, we would ride that train. (Of course, if someone were to have hit on me, well, I and -- and have -- no shackles tying me to anyone.) There would be no mention of a husband. Heck, there would be no mention of the 2,500 miles separating home bases.

About half an hour after our arrival and as I continued to nurse my beer, a nice young man whom we know now to be named Billy C.* introduced himself. Billy C. was clearly enamored of R.N. He came over to chat with "both of us," but his attentions were clearly not directed at me. Consistent with our pact, I stepped aside and let their conversation take its natural course.

Of course, at some point, R.N. finally tired of the situation and made indications to me that he was ready to go (as was I, especially seeing as I wasn't receiving any attention from, well, anyone). We dutifully bid good night to Billy C., and made our exit.

The night sounds (and was) boring and innocent, and not typical blog fodder, but for the fact that Billy C. has now become our catchphrase for "random guy who strikes up conversation with you in a bar." From that day on, "Billy C." takes on new significance for us. "Maybe you'll get your very own Billy C.," we'll say, as we head out for another night of bar-modelling.

***

R.N. and I made our way out to the Castro a few times in San Francisco during this past week's visit. Being Pride weekend, things were a bit crazy. I had chatted with R.N. a few times about my desire to find my very own Billy C., but I didn't expect that it would happen.

Of all places, Billy C. approached me at a bar called "Twin Peaks," apparently affectionately referred to as the "Glass Coffin."

R.N. and I were sitting next to the jukebox in this relatively quiet bar. It was mostly populated by older gentlemen who didn't seem as into the raucous young bar scene going on just down the street. We were just chatting and sipping our cocktails when this guy approaches us and, with very little introduction or even hint of embarrassment, introduced himself and announced that he wanted to get to know me (and not in a scary, leery sort of way).

R.N. quietly chuckled to himself as we started chatting about our respective musical tastes (the jukebox near us serving as the conversational catalyst). His name was Tito, and he wanted to teach me to salsa. Which would have been fine, except that his place really had no dance floor to speak of, and, well, it would have been obnoxious to try.

Meanwhile, his friend was drunk and tired (which was funny, because apparently the friend was on the one who had begged him to go out in the first instance) and really wanted to go home. "But I want to talk to this guy!" Tito complained, and his friend just plopped himself into a chair nearby.

Because I really would not have wanted to go home with him anyway (I had work stuff to do the next day), not to mention the aforementioned lack of floor space, I politely declined Tito's offer of dance lessons. Besides, even if I were so inclined, I now know what being on the receiving end of a cockblocking wet blanket feels like, and I wanted to give him an escape valve to get rid of Mr. "I Want to Go Home Already."

But there you have it. On the first night of my trip, I met my very own Billy C.

***

Later in the trip, the name "Billy C." found itself supplanted by an entire other name, one which will become the subject of a wholly separate blog post when I'm ready to talk about it more. But right now I'm not.

***

Regular readers will notice that of three posts about my week-long San Francisco work trip, no entry has been about work at all. This is because the conference bored even me (I fell asleep repeatedly -- I hope my snoring wasn't too bad), so I can't imagine what it would have done to you readers if I repeated my conference adventures.


* We actually refer to him by his full name, because he actually told us his full name and even produced a driver's license at some point, but I guess I should maintain some semblance of his privacy here.

The SF Chronicles, Part II: In Which I Become Acquainted with a Delightful Young Woman With a Charming Accent

So as I understand it, it's Pride Week here in San Francisco. Also, I should reiterate my complete and utter inabilty to function in the presence of gay men. (I can flirt and talk when I'm reasonably certain that neither he nor I are interested in anything beyond funny bar banter. But put me in the presence of a guy I might actually be interested in....) It's against this backdrop that I relate the following story.

I flew into Oakland rather than San Francisco International possibly just because it was substantially cheaper. For a good discount airfare, you catch a $2 AirBART which takes you from Oakland into San Francisco proper. Public transport rocks.

I got off the plane and dutifully made my way to the AirBARt stop. As is my wont, I began scanning the other travellers in seaarch of the one (or two, or three, or five) cute guys to fixate upon. Seeing none, I settled on a nice tattoo on one guy's lower calf. Between that and fiddling with my cell phone for no reason whatsoever, I was plenty occupied (snicker).

Not having grabbed a map or anything to help me figure out what was going on, I was basically shooting in the dark with respect to my journey into San Francisco. But I got onto the bus and started hoping for the best.

I took a vacant seat next to a young woman whose backback probably extended over her head in a height equal to her entire torso's length. She'll return to this story later.

At the second stop (there were only two before we made it into the city), three young men (among others) boarded, whom I tagged to be homos from the moment they sashayed through the doors. Okay, they didn't sashay, but let's face it, certain gay men just exude this air of fabulousness that just screams volumes about them.

One man bore a t-shirt that proclaime "This shirt is B-A-N-A-N-A-S." Cute shout-out to Gwen Stafani, I thought. I pegged him to be gay even before I noticed his oh-so-subtle left-ear small hoop earring in rainbow colors. And even before I noticed that his sunglasses were Chanel. I started trying to work up a way to make conversation.

One of his companions was also noteworthy for his awesome smile. I was actually shocked at how perfect and white his teeth were, and his smile was quite fetching. As fascinating to me, though, was a silver stud this guy had in his lower lip. I have never made out with a guy with an oral piercing before, but I can imagine it would be kind of cool. Except that this guy's stud wasn't the usual round. It was pyramidal -- it was sharp. I can't imagine bumping gums with someone while their lips are drawing my blood. Pity, would have been a normal reaction, but I came to grips with the reality that I stood about a snowball's chance in hell of ever having my lips touch his in any context anyway.

So did I speak to any of these cute, obviously gay guys? Of course not. I spoke to the young lady with whom I shared a seat, which is clearly my wont: I make friends with straight chicks and can't even deal with talking to gay boys.

She was backpacking in the city from Quebec. Apparently, although Canada is officially bilingual, she still had a prefernce for French, and her English wasn't perfect (though, of course, it was more than passable). We discussed the BART map; we talked about how to get into the city; we chatted about the difference between Fahrenheit and centigrade; we discussed our plans for the week. We rode public transport into the city together, chatting the entire time. She was very nice, and I feel like I did my part to help welcome a traveller to the country with a friendly, conversational gesture.

Did I ever speak to the cute boys at all? Nope. And it totally wasn't a huge loss.

The SF Chronicles, Part I: The Flight

As is my wont, I didn't really sleep the night before my flight. I usually do this, particularly when I have obscenely early flights, because I am petrified that I will oversleep and miss my flight. Sure enough, I made it to the airport at 5:45 a.m. for my 7:00 a.m. flight on about two hours of sleep.

This usually isn't a big deal because, unlike many people I know, I can sleep on planes. Without a problem (with the exception of those annoying knots in the neck and the uncomfortable tightness in the butt). Sometimes I'll crash out even before the plane has taken off. Especially now that most flights don't pass around food, there's no real reason for me to wait up for anything.

So sleep I did, and thought nothing of it.

I woke up, by sheer coincidence, just as we were preparing to land in Oakland. I made a quick trip the bathroom, then took my seat just as the pilot announced that the flight attendants should prepare for the descent.

Then I had the following conversation with my seatmate:

Him: So, are you from around here?
Me: No, out east. Uh, you?
Him: Louisiana.
Me: Ah, cool.
Him: [...] So are you married?
Me: ... Uh, no.

By this point I'm wondering what the hell is going on. Asking where I'm from is, I guess, standard acceptable conversation when you're talking to a fellow traveller, but this is an odd leap from a perfect stranger.

He pulls out an index card on which he was scribbled a few notes.

Him: You're going to want to see a doctor when you get home.
Me: [groans softly]

His note card contains some observations he had made during my slumber. They included "loud snoring" and "stopped breathing," and the dreaded words "sleep apnea" (which is apparently also known as a gay sleep disorder).

Him: You possibly have sleep apnea.
Me: I know. I've actually been dealing with issue for years now.
Him: Well, at least you know.
Me: Yes. And thanks for your concern. Though now I'm terribly embarrassed to have snored so loudly right next to you. And then to have stopped breathing.

Well, something had to counterbalance the unsolicited and greatly appreciated "upgrade" to a bulkhead seat with its attendant extra legroom.

I Got Some Flowers in My Hair

I'm heading to San Francisco for work for a few days. Well, that and a little pleasure. In a shocking coincidence, it's Pride Weekend in the City by the Bay this weekend. We all know what I think about Pride, but what the heck, it means the city will probably be teeming with gay men even more so than usual. What that means I'm not sure.

I may not be able to blog in during the next few days. Behave in my absence.

Someone is Watching Out For Me.

This post is meant to be a great big shout-out to the people at Discover for saving my ass, and to the awesome people at an outfit called Crutchfield for their likewise awesomeness.

On a recent weekday morning, as I was getting ready to head out of the apartment for work, I heard the phone ringing while I was in the shower. Never one to pick up my land line (it's usually telemarketers), I let the machine get it and went on with my day. Here's the message I got:

Hi, this message is for Dennis! This is Austin, I'm with Crutchfield Corporation. I'm calling about an order that was placed with us. Please give us a call back at 800.XXX.XXXX. The order number is XXXXXXX. We're open until midnight eastern time. Thank you.

Knowing nothing of these people, I blew them off with the intent to listen to the message again when I got home, or during a lull at work. I hadn't heard the message carefully, so I figured it was some kind of sales call or something.

At work, I retrieved my messages again, only to find that I had received yet another new call:

This is the Discover card fraud prevention department. Please call us immediately regarding recent activity on a Discover card account. This is not a sales call. You can reach us at 800.XXX.XXXX. The ability to make future charges on this account may be restricted until we hear from you.

Suddenly things were piecing themselves together. I backed up and listened to the Crutchfield message again, and I'm pretty sure the blood drained from my face.

I called Crutchfield first. Making my way to a live person was easy, and I found myself on the phone with a very nice young lady who asked for my order number. I gave it to her, then asked what it is they sell there. (I'm sure this raised a red flag for her right there: "Here's my order number. Could you tell me what it is I'm supposed to have ordered?").

So we had a very nice discussion wherein I advised this sweet young woman that, in fact, no, unfortunately, I did not order any products from her company. I even made sure that they didn't use any third-party vendors and that I didn't accidentally order from them through amazon or something.

Here's why Crutchfield kicks so much ass: When trying to authorize my card, the card couldn't properly authenticate my billing address, so there was some issue with clearing the card. They actually did a reverse lookup on me to find my home telephone number to contact me. Okay, so maybe they did it just to try to get their money, but in my mind what they ended up doing was providing me first alert service that my credit card number had been compromised.

Crutchfield promptly cancelled my order. I thanked them profusely for alerting me to the problem and not blindly shipping the product off and charging me for it.

Then I called Discover.

The phone number they gave me was a direct line to a fraud prevention hotline, so I was put directly in touch with a specialist who could look up my account and ask me about my most recent purchases.

Most cool? They were calling about purchases that hadn't even posted to my account yet. I was looking at my account online while talking to him and I couldn't even see the Crutchfield charge, because it was still pending. Discover made the effort to call me about a purchase that hadn't even made its way through yet.

So I told the nice young man on the phone that no, I haven't used my card since last Sunday, and that the TWO pending charges he saw on his account could not possibly be mine. I owned up to a few charges on Sunday (though part of me was tempted to tell them that those charges weren't mine either, to save a few bucks), and told him the rest was bad news.

What amazes me most about Discover is that they did this even though I have strange spending habits in the first place. If you look over my charge history on that card, there's all kinds of strange stuff on there: books, drinks/dinner, on line shopping, gym membership, blah blah blah... I use that card for almost everything. There's very little rhyme or reason to my purchases. Yet they were able to identify this one as "anomalous" and took swift and appropriate action. How awesome is that?

The nice young gentleman put a hold on any new charges on the card from Sunday forward, and is issuing me a new card with a new card number (which will arrive in seven to ten days).

So here's to these two places. Even though there's a chance they only called me because there was an obstacle to the actual exchanging of money, I prefer to think that they still cared about consumer safety, took the time to make sure that this particular consumer didn't find his bank account and his credit rating screwed.

Ow Ow Ow Ooooowwwww.

Some people just have too much time on their hands. Then again, if all that time is spent making videos make me laugh so hard I have stomach cramps, it could well be worth it.

First, this video:



has been making the rounds on the Internets for a while now. It's not funny. Really, it's not. No one should derive that much amusement from another person's clear misery.

Though that doesn't stop me from laughing my ass off every frigging time I see it. Someone on youtube commented that she sounds like an orphaned calf. Poor dear.

Then, someone else took the "orphaned calf" noises and ratcheted up the ante by like, a gazillion:



I swear, after watching that, I couldn't breathe for a while. Kudos to you, "roytromlley."

Seriously, though, I do wonder whatever happened to that poor woman.

Music Answers

The answers to the music meme I posted earlier this week have been posted. Songs which no one got are in blue.

Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Just for fun, I've put a Frappr map on my sidebar. Seems like a neat service. Feel free to click on it (somewhere... I'm not exactly sure where) and add yourself to the map. Umm... yeah, that's about it.

Given my low readership, this might not be anywhere near as exciting as it could be. Hahaha.

The Music Meme

I've seen this meme around the blogosphere for a while now (most recently at Kenneth in the (212) and Scott-o-Rama) so I thought I'd go ahead and run it here for shits and giggles. (And because I wanted to post something frilly and fun and less bitchy and whiny.)

Meme rules:

Step 1: Put your iPod/MP3 player or iTunes on random.

Step 2: Post the first line(s) from the first 20 songs that play, no matter how embarrassing the song.

Step 3: Post it on your blog and let everyone guess what song and artist the lines come from. (Instrumental songs removed for obvious reasons.) Yikes! There are 4,301 songs in my library.

Step 4: Update the list with the song title when someone guesses correctly. (I will identify any unguessed songs on Friday.)

Step 5: For those guessing the songs (this is where you come in): You can make your guess by leaving a comment or e-mailing me. I need title and artist! (Though I'm sure some tricky covers will slip through.) Honor system: No Googling or other internet-aided search engine!

Here we go:

1. I thought I'd move to Sydney to get a little piece of city life...
The Waitress, The Waifs (Bebe Lapin)

2. Love, love, love. Love, love, love.
All You Need Is Love, The Beatles (Drew)

3. Look straight in the window. Try not to look below.
When I Fall, Barenaked Ladies

4. What'll you do when you get lonely, and nobody's waiting by your side?
Layla, Eric Clapton (Katie)

5. I can't figure you out. But a heart must be the one thing you were born without.
Save Up All Your Tears, Cher (Will Z.)

6. We got the afternoon. You got this room for two.
Your Body Is a Wonderland, John Mayer (Drew)

7. Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin' for a train...
Me and Bobby McGee, Janis Joplin (among countless others -- I think I have like four versions on my machine) (Drew)

8. He's not a lover. He's not a one-night stand.
Fuck Buddy, Pansy Division (Mango de Mallorca)

9. How do you cool your lips after a summer's kiss?
Insensitive, Jann Arden (Drew)

10. I don't do black music. I don't do white music.
Who Knew, Eminem

11. Red as the roses come. Our love it never was....
Shades of the Past, Debbie Gibson

12. In the corner of the bar there stands a jukebox with the best of country music, old and new.
Please Mister Please, Olivia Newton-John

13. Feels like I'm standing in a timeless dream
I Love You Always Forever, Donna Lewis (Bebe Lapin)

14. Sun breaks over the spritsail yard / Jib sheet's hailing to leeward hard.
Fare Away, The New Main Street Singers (from A Mighty Wind)

15. Am I fooling you? Do you fall for it all or do you just see right through?
Labour of Love, Frente

16. It's these substandard motels on the (lalalalala) corner of 4th and Freemont Street.
Build God, Then We'll Talk, Panic! at the Disco (with an assist from Ryan)

17. Jessie is a friend. He's always been a good friend of mine.
Jessie's Girl, Rick Springfield (Drew)

18. Speak to me of universal laws
The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore, PJ Harvey

19. You may think that I'm talkin' foolish. You've heard that I'm wild and I'm free.
Forever and Ever, Amen, Randy Travis (Drew) (poor, poor Drew... :) )

20. I can't believe what is happening to me, my world is spinning.
Ship of Fools, Erasure

Have fun.

(Post script: Really, I have a better taste in music than this list reflects.)

(Post post script: If this post hasn't completely turned you off from this game, you can also take a gander at Drew's and Sam's musical tastes.)

Pride 2006

About a year ago, during last year's D.C. Pride season, I wrote a post questioning the meaning of Gay Pride in this community.

My thoughts on the matter remain largely unchanged.

Don't get me wrong, I still did the whole out and about thing. The parade was interesting, but not as "affirming" as I somehow remembered it to be. There were a surprising number of politicians in the parade. It started, there was a gay group or two, then -- I am not making this up -- a slew of something like 200 local politicians. Mayoral candidates, city council candidates, Eleanor Holmes Norton. As far as I know, two of these people were gay. It was unclear just how friendly any of these people were to gay causes. Even though it was kinda boring, I thought it was a little neat that these politicians know that gay people are such a huge and influential voting bloc that we cannot be ignored.

(Speaking of, was Carol Schwartz totally absent this year?)

The usual cast of characters was present as always. I shed a small tear of happiness when PFLAG came around, and SMYAL too. I and some friends basically begged for cheap stupid trinkets like beads and candies (even got beaned in the head a few times) and some discount coupons for crap I'll probably never need. The Results float, as usual, didn't impress me. An ideal representation of gay pride? Not particularly.

After the parade I met up with some other people and hit a bar. Thankfully, we picked a not-too-popular one, so we could talk, have a few drinks, and relax. I accidentally flirted with Mr. Mid-Atlantic 2006, who was smokin' hot and very nice to boot, which made him that much sexier. Bodies I can take or leave. Nice personalities attached to those bodies? I swoon.

Today I dragged myself out to the festival for a little bit. I sound bitter and old when I say this, but it was kind of the same tired crew of tents as always. Overpriced foodstuffs in the midst of tent after tent of the same groups I've seen there year in and year out. By now if I haven't joined these affinity groups, I'm probably just not going to. I suppose a part of me only went to the festival because, in the event that someone was actually counting, I wanted to be one of the people "counted" as taking part in the celebration. But in the end I really only stopped at one booth, registered for a drawing for a trip to Barcelona (wish me luck!), stood around with my friends, then bailed to hit a bar.

My friends and I just generally made absolute fools of ourselves for a few hours, during which time I only consumed three beverages (I was feeling cheap). Even flirted with a random guy upstairs. He has my card. I'm not holding my breath. Even if he does contact me, I'm still the Mayor.

And that was my pride weekend. It's odd that I still feel like it was strangely anticlimactic. What more did I expect of it, given my negative-skewing view of the entire affair? I don't know, but a part of me acknowledges that by now it's a tradition that I'm strangely duty-bound to respect: each year I, with the city's cadre of fellow queers and queer-friendlies, proudly and happily take to the streets. And each year I'll probably complain just a little bit more about it.

Uh... Happy Pride. :)

Kickass Videos

I figured this post would do well just before Pride weekend here in DC.

After surfing through various videos on youtube.com, I had to help share these awesome videos. They're generally PSAs about AIDS prevention. The cartoon ones are cool, and the last one is extremely powerful.

*** --- ***



This is a PSA produced in France. It's cute and all, but I can't get over the feeling that this boy lacks self esteem in a major way. He seems to fall into bed with every man who's even remotely nice to him.

*** --- ***



Because gay men aren't the only ones who should be concerned about STDs, including HIV and AIDS. The stuff at the end says "Live long enough to find the right one," like the last video.

*** --- ***



This one is really depressing, but hot damn does it drive home a point.

There are way too many people out there (gay men in particular) who seem to have forgotten -- or taken to willfully ignoring -- the importance of protection when engaging in any sexual behavior.

Chicka bow chicka bow chicka bow-bow

For a substantial chunk of time on Sunday, I somehow found myself viewing my life as a series of porn moments waiting to happen. You know how some movies and TV shows use alternate timelines to establish humor elements (like Ally Mcbeal getting arrows shot through her chest)? Yeah, it's kinda like that.

***


[Photo still from the film Beach Babes 2: Cave Girl Island. Yeah, don't ask, I dunno either.]

I headed out to a grassy park near where I live just to lie out for a bit. The good thing about living where I live is there is no shortage of hot guys. On hot summer days, these hot guys tend to run around shirtless, either playing frisbee or football, or just lying around looking hot. (Actually, while I enjoy looking at them, part of me also thinks they're a bit arrogant. Such is the double standard of my life.)

I sat down on a bench with a book which I barely intended to actually read. Instead, my eyes scanned the park to see if there was anyone to lock on to.

After a few minutes, I noticed someone entering the park from my right. He didn't look around much and sat down on the bench about 10 feet away from me. I have no idea he was doing. He wasn't carrying a book or paper or anything. Unlike me, he made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was just sitting there looking at people.

Eventually, conversation was struck up:

Me: Lazy day today, huh?
Him: Yeah. Nice out.
Me: Kinda hot, but I guess you get used to that in this city.
Him: I just moved here a few months ago.
Me: Oh. I've been here for a quite a few years now.
Him: Is it always this humid?
Me: In the summer? Uh, basically yeah.

And then in my mind the rest of the conversation played out:

Him: So you live around here?
Me: Yeah, a few blocks over. You?
Him: Over in the [name of building].
Me: Ah cool. Nice building.
Him: Yeah... nice views. Wanna see it?
Me: Sure, why not.

Chicka bow, chicka bow, chicka bow bow...

***



I went up to the roof of my building to lounge around in the pool for the little bit after spending a good portion of the day outdoors in oppressive humidity. I donned shorts and a t-shirt, grabbed a towel, and headed upstairs.

I expected to be greeted when I opened the door by at least a handful of other residents who had the same idea I did. I was wrong. The only person I saw on the roof was the lifeguard, who was clearly somewhat bored.

I eased my way into the pool, making the poor lifeguard work for his money (i.e., I made him actually sit there near the pool and watch me, rather than wander around the roof doing ... well, who knows what). Eventually, I decided to talk to him briefly.

Me: So, have you ever had to jump in and save anyone?
Lifeguard: Not yet.
Me: So I guess you've never used that stabilizing board either? [There's one of those boards with foam pads to support both sides of your head sitting in the corner of the pool area.]
Lifeguard: No.
Me: So where are you from?
Lifeguard: Serbia.
Me: Oh, cool.

Keep in mind, my lifeguard isn't as hot as the guy whose picture is up here, and his grasp of the English language isn't perfect.

The rest of the conversation is imagined:

Me: So, if I were drowning, would you jump in and save me?
Lifeguard: Yes.
Me: Would you jump in like that, or are those breakaway sweatpants you're wearing?
Lifeguard: They're breakaway. Want a demonstration?

Chicka bow, chicka bow, chicka bow bow...

***

[Photo still from the movie Adored: Diary of a Male Porn Star.]

I got out of the pool after about half an hour of, well, just sitting around in the water, and made my way back downstairs. Towel wrapped around my waist (covering my wet trunks) and wearing my shirt, I got into the elevator. As the elevator made its way down, it stopped at 9, and a hot young number walked in, dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, and carrying a backpack and iPod.

Him: Hey.
Me: Hey. Going to the lobby?
Him: Oh. Yeah. [I hit "1" for him.]
Him: So I guess you were checking out the pool.
Me: Yeah, it was cool. Like, literally.
Him: I guess so, huh?
Me: Yeah, it's in the shade for a lot of the day. But it's all right when you get used to it.
Him: I should check it out sometime.
Me: Yeah, you should.

The rest of this conversation took place in my head:

Me: Well, I'll head back up and keep you company if you want to go for a dip.
Him: Mmmm... sure, why not. I'd have to get my trunks though.
Me: Yeah, that would help. Want me to meet you up there?
Him: Actually, why don't you come to my place while I get changed into my swim gear?
Me: Okay.

Chicka bow, chicka bow, chicka bow bow...

***

I wonder what's causing me to think like this.

It Was Bound To Happen.

It was bound to happen eventually.

I had mentioned my blog to a girlfriend of mine several times, each time resolutely refusing to disclose the URL. (As we all know, I prefer to blog in some semblance of anonymity.) "I'll tell you the URL if you start up your own blog and we trade info," I told her.

Apparently, that night, she found my blog. Then, only more recently, she revealed herself, having not come back to this blog for a little while afterward. She finally set up her own blog, so the quid pro quo arrangement has been (belatedly) fulfilled.

(I will say this: I was relieved when she revealed herself, because for the past several months I've been living in fear that one of these girls had found me, and, well, that would not be good. Of course, one of them might still have found this site, but it seems less likely now that I know who the 2/11 stalker was.)

This brings to five the number of people I know in real life have read this blog.

I daresay it's a little intimidating, and in a way that's not related to my original concerns about blogging openly to my friends. I'm not so much concerned about what I might write about my newest reader -- because she hasn't ever given me cause to say anything negative about her -- Hi, Lillian! -- but now I feel like I'm pressured to write really high quality stuff (and this post is not one of them).

I suddenly realize that it's easier to write when I don't know who's reading me. Of however many readers I have out there, I've met three (though I'm wholly open to the eventuality of meeting more*). Those three aside, with the anonymity of this blog comes the ability to not give a damn if I'm not consistently producing high-quality posts. I can blow off unseen faces with a "so I'm having a bad blog day/week/month". I can choose whether to justify my opinions/biases/prejudices or just ignore a critical (usually anonymous) commenter.

But with a personal friend actually reading this blog, I feel some pressure. I feel the need to write well. No longer am I writing into the wind to be read by whoever happens to land on this page. I now am writing for at least one person who has ability to pick up the phone and say "I read your blog again today."

Don't get me wrong, it's a good pressure; it's a pressure that usually drives me to do better. I've always done best -- at least in school -- in high pressure situations (well, at least those times when I didn't break down in nervous tears). (Don't get me started on the bar exam. I remain eternally grateful that those things don't involve an oral presentation component.) But it's a pressure nonetheless, and though it's an impetus for improvement, it's still strange and unpleasant and exhilirating all at once.

I'm sure this reaction is just the "newness" of having a friend read my blog. Hopefully, this self-consciousness will wear off over time, and I'll return to my normal blogstyle which I have so carefully cultivated over the last two years.

And eventually, I'm sure, I'll lose all my inhibitions in the first place, and feel free to openly tell people, friends included, that this blog exists and that they're more than free to read it at their leisure.

But until then, I lurk in the shadows of obscurity, pouring my efforts into a mediocre blog which generates rather low daily traffic... and loving every word of it.

So, all that having been said, I'd like to welcome Lillian** to the blogosphere, even though as of this posting she hasn't let loose her wit and style on the world just yet. (Give her time.)

* Yes, I'm talking about you. Email me and we'll have drinks. And if you're not in the DC area, we'll have drinks when next I visit your fair city. Unless you're a Friend of Bill W., in which case we'll skip drinks and have a nice coffee drink instead.

** At her request, I am not linking to her site just yet, as the inaugural post has not even made its way up yet. See, this is also weird to me: being able to consult with the subject of my post!