Recent Giveaways

In an ongoing (painfully slow) process of trying to de-clutter my life and thereby get my apartment a little cleaner, I advertised on freecycle.org recently to give away a hair dryer.

My ad was very honest: I gave the model number for the dryer, and described it as being from my college days (though I didn't mention specifically just how many years I've been out of college). Also, immediately afterward I posted an ad giving away law books, which also could conceivably tip my hand as to my age and, thus, the age of the hair dryer.

I got a response very quickly and handed it off that night. Very handy.

One woman who responded asked: "Does this hair dryer have hair comb attachments?"

Lady, do you really think a 19-year-old male really cared about comb attachments?

***

It's wonderful the kind of things you can give away on the internet nowadays. I had to get rid of my old desktop computer (same ongoing painfully slow effort) and, again, was incredibly blunt about it. I described it as:

- old
- running a slow processor
- possessing an old memory card

I also mentioned that it's slow. As a final straw, I told my audience that because I don't have shredding software, I was simply going to remove the hard drive too, so really the machine was going to come without a hard drive or operating system either. Who wants it?

I managed to give it away the next day to a woman whose son's PC had recently blew up. She intended to use the shell and transfer necessary components to my machine. It was quite a fortuitous matchup.

***

Somehow I have failed to give small random assortment of shot glasses that I have on one of my shelves. I just don't want them anymore. Not that no one showed any interest; at least seven people emailed to say they wanted to pick them up. But none of them followed through, and now I still have the damn glasses. Grrrr. I'll report that ad soon.

***

I'm looking around my apartment, trying desperately to decide what else I could give away or sell. At some point I'll also need to place a bunch of old clothes in a bag and give those away too. I have far too many.

Spamity Spam

My spam filter at work sucks.

My gmail filter is remarkably good. It captures spam wonderfully, and lets through all kinds of non-spam. On this account in particular, I get tons of spam. And I know I don't expect much mail here. Even on my other gmail account, I rarely get spam, and when I do, it's in the Spam filter.

At work, however, my spam filter sucks.

At the beginning of each day, I open Outlook, which then downloads all the mail that's accumulated through the night. Not usually a big event, except that usually there are at least 50 items of junk email in there along with the legitimate stuff. Heck, I'm even being generous by defining email from vendors who legitimately have my address as "not spam."

Then my spam filter kicks in, and tells me it's "working." It tells me it's scanning new mail for spam. And at the end, it brags to me that it's quarantined 5 spam messages!

Except that there are like 45 more spam messages still in my inbox.

How many unnamed persons have to send me e-postcards before this damn filter system will recognize that to be spam? I've had friends, and family members, and neighbours [sic], and school mates, and acquaintances, and business associates, and even worshippers send me e-postcards. Poor dears will never get in touch with me at this rate.

The stupidest thing is, when I click on those emails and then hit "Is Spam," the software is supposed to, somehow, learn what spam looks like and start blocking these things on their own for a while. Indeed, the damn software will hold up my computer for a while with a damn window that says "Learning... Please wait." as if it could figure out cues about what is spam. As these postcards show, though, clearly it isn't working. The word "postcard", by the way, has never shown up in a legitimate email of mine yet. At least not in my work email.

Technology. Gotta love it.

Crap. (No, Literally.)

I am notorious among my friends for overpopulating the "Missed Connections" section of Craigslist. My friends all know this, and one, in particular, now takes delight in trying to spot which ones are mine.

Recently, he sent me this one, which I am reproducing here because CL posts can expire:

mens bathroom kramers - m4m
Reply to: pers-402262572@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-08-21, 10:51AM EDT

I saw you popping a squat. You stole my heart with the sounds you were making, I know that you could never clog a toilet. Lets meet for some lunch!!!

I have no idea what it means, really.

Here's the IM conversation we had about it:

Him: OMG is this you?!? [link]
Me: Uh, yes.
Him: Shut up.
Me: What?!? He was hot.
Me: Don't judge.
Him: OMG, I was just kidding. Please tell me that's not really you.
Me: Uh, checking, checking... nope, you're still judging.

I wonder how long I can string him along like this.

A Million Little Pieces, Only Without the Illegal Drugs

So I bought a new shredder the other day. Just for my personal home use. Cute little model, comes with a basket, does a diamond shred of up to eight pages at a time. Good enough for what I need it for.

I brought it home and plugged it in, anxious to start using it. I had managed to accumulate a huge stack of bills and other documents that needed to be shredded before discard so I wanted to go ahead and get started.

Okay, so before I go on, here's a snapshot of the top of the shredder:



You see there's a slot for the paper. Under it is a special slot for credit cards. Look closely and you can see where you can feed CDs too, in the event you should want to shred a CD.

I call special attention to the part of the shredder beneath the feed slots. Here's a closer view:



That little red button is marked "Emergency Stop." Notice the light next to it; you can tell it's green, but it's not lit up.

And there are indicators above the red button.

I plugged my machine in, ready to get started with my shredding, when I noticed the little green light was not on. So I thought perhaps it's one of those machines that starts working automatically upon the introduction of paper, but putting paper into the slot didn't start it either.

Repeatedly pushing the red button -- the only thing I could think of to do -- didn't get the machine to start either.

Great, I thought, I bought a defective machine.

There's a toll free number on the machine you can call for tech support, so I did. After holding for a bit, I finally got an operator on the phone.

"Hi, I bought this shredder, model number XXXXX, and, well, it just doesn't seem to work."

Her response made me feel like the biggest idiot of all time: "See that red button? Okay, yeah, why don't you push it all the way over to the right and see what happens...."

The freaking red button is the power switch. The green light turned on once I pushed it over and my paper then came out in a gazillion little diamond-shaped pieces.

I burst out laughing with the tech support lady. "Oh my goodness, I feel so completely retarded now!"

"Well," she very politely reassured me, "from what I can tell the instructions aren't that well written."

"I'll say," I told her, "the damn instructions don't even tell me how to turn the damn machine on!" (Really. They don't. They talk about shredder maintenance and shredder safety, but not how to operate your shredder.)

We laughed together for a while -- I really was laughing so hysterically at how stupid I felt that I suppose it was a little contagious -- and I thanked her and hung up.

Then I filled up two large kitchen bags with shredded paper and discarded a large part of my past.

I Need Uglier Friends - Redux

Okay, so the more I reminisce about my wonderful trip to Provincetown, the more I think I just need to shut up about it. I mean, really, I had a great time while I was there, but the more I analyze it, the more I realize things may not have been as great as I presently remember.

Remember this post? I'll give you a chance to go back and read it if you need to.

You back?

Some of my friends are exceedingly good-looking. I didn't choose them because they're good-looking. It's just the way they are. And only "some" of them are very attractive. Others are pretty average, kinda like me (I guess).

I'm getting sick of having good-looking friends.

I'm getting sick of having friends who get hit on at the drop of a hat.

I'm getting sick of being invisible when I'm standing next to my friends. I'm sick of having random guys walk right past me to hit on my friends.

I want someone to notice me once in a while, dammit!

I'm realizing that my Provincetown trip last week just highlights this fact for me. My friend Brian got hit on left and right. I am not exaggerating. All he had to do was look at one guy on the boat and suddenly he showed up near us and randomly introduced himself. (This guy later on hung out with at the clubs.) I hit on guys left and right, and got nothing. (I secretly think these guys excused themselves and ran off to the bathroom to puke after I hit on them.) Didn't even get any numbers or anything out of the deal. No one wants a piece of this. I think the guys I did hang out with stayed with me because it was a way of getting closer to Brian.

All of us who went up there hung out a lot and met a bunch of people. And all that was fun. But now that I'm back, I'm realizing this: I haven't managed to keep in touch with many of them since we split up. Everyone else seems to have exchanged numbers and emails and are corresponding with people. No one seems to care to return my emails.

Am I really that completely forgettable?

One night during our trip, we invited a couple over to our place for a cookout dinner. The couple is from DC too, so we figured we'd see them again back in town. Keith suggested that he and his friends put together a happy hour once a month and that he'd invite us. True to his word, he did that, by sending an email to one of the seven of us in the house. And his email -- I am not exaggerating -- said, "Here's the info. Please pass it along to (names five other people in our house) -- did I miss anyone?" The one person in the house he missed was me! I thought I was pretty friendly, at that dinner and when we hung out at the bars... but apparently when naming off the seven people who shared my house last week, I was the one who was forgettable.

It kind of hurts in a stupid way to be so completely and totally overlooked.

So... how the hell do I find uglier friends?

Return from Paradise

Never in my life have I been this depressed upon returning from vacation. This trip to Provincetown has been probably the most relaxing vacation I've ever experienced.

In that way, this trip was substantially different from any other trip I've taken just because it was so relaxing. Usually I'm running off to places where you have to see things: Paris, Madrid, Amsterdam, Rome. When you shell out the bucks to go to places like that, it's absolutely stupid to sleep in, relax, read, and not occupy as much of your waking time as possible to seeing the sights and, well, being a tourist.

But in Provincetown, it really truly was all about letting the world go by without you for a while. Sleeping in is a perfectly acceptable way to spend your day. Doing absolutely nothing productive while lying on the beach (perpetratin' a tan) is not only acceptable, it's encouraged. Shopping for hours on end -- even if you don't spend anything -- is great. Unabashedly people-watching. Drinking. Eating nasty pizza. Drinking still more. It's all good.

I spent the entire week drifting in and out of sobriety. I don't think I've spent that many consecutive nights out drinking and dancing since I was 25. I don't think I've awakened to that many hangovers in one week before either.

But it was all worth it.

We met some fun people, many of whom I will probably never see again.

One thing I do know for sure, though: We are definitely going back next year. Maybe even for two weeks!

I Had a Dream....

I'm still alive.

It's so beautiful here it's easy to let shit roll off your back, and that's the most important part of any vacation. Well, it's easy to let a lot of stuff roll off your back -- I won't say everything.

One of my housemates is posing something of a challenge; it's somewhat annoying me. I'm trying not to let it bug me too much, but for God's sake. Details later.

I've met several fun and interesting people here. Of course, one meets people here at bars and fast food places. There's not too much room for substantive conversation sometimes. I'm trying to get phone numbers and, well, some action, but so far I haven't sealed any deals. This disappoints me, but then again it shouldn't seeing as I really shouldn't have expected myself to magically become more attractive just because I'm five hours away.

Anyway, I'm on someone else's computer so I'm going to bounce off now. (He just sat down next to me.) Later, gators.

Provincetown

I'm taking a week in Provincetown, Cape Cod. This is the gayest vacation I have ever taken.

I and five gay friends have taken a house in the city. This trip is a welcome and refreshing change from the many times I've been to "Rehoboth" in the past. I put "Rehoboth" in quotes because the last many times I've been to Rehoboth, it's been with straight girlfriends and we end up in Dewey Beach amongst the frat boys and their bustily gifted counterparts. For once I am at a "gay beach" area where I can happily go out to gay bars and meet gay boys and even, if everything goes well, exchange numbers or something. I have not been given any opportunity to meet a gay person in Rehoboth in years.

It's beautiful up here. More posting later.

Straight People Live in Filth Too.

I ordered DVR service recently. Yay! It's on some kind of promotion, so paradoxically, this upgrade is actually going to cost me less for the next year than the service I previously had.

After an aborted attempt to meet with the technician on Friday, I rescheduled her to meet me in my apartment today. Just now, in fact. She just left.

She was a trip. And my apartment is, as I have said before, absolutely inexcusable.

"Come in," I told her, holding the door open for her. "Pardon the mess."

"No problem," she says as she makes her way to the living room. She was an affable, polite woman, friendly and just the right amount of gregarious.

Eventually, it apparently got to her. "What happened here?" She glanced around at the random piles of dust and crap scattered variously across the floor. Thankfully she noticed neither the rat traps laid out by the central air grate (that's a whole separate blog post right there) nor the gay porn lying around near my television.

"Uh... you know what, I can't even explain it."

"What, your girlfriend move out or something?" She smiled.

I laughed, the same way I always do when someone mistakens me for being straight. Then I started stammering. "Moved... it's... let's just say things in the apartment have not been going well for a little while now."

"Men, I tell ya," she throws out. I laugh again.

After having set up my DVR, she tells me she's also taking my cable modem and replacing it with a wireless cable modem. (I hadn't even realized that this was part of the upgrade plan I purchased. I really just wanted the DVR.) I am typing this from a wireless connection now -- yay for me, because somehow I could never get a wireless to work when I had the actual cable modem. That woman performed miracles. Now I can surf from my bedroom!

"So," I ask her, "it's secure, right?"

"Yes," she tells me. "Your password is XXXXXXXXX."

"But I don't need to type in that password every time I log in, right? I just have to turn on the machine and it'll find the connection, right?"

"Yep," she says again. "Now if you're girlfriend were to come over though..."

"No girlfriend is going to come over..." I start.

"If your girlfriend is coming over," she repeats with a sly smile on her face, "she'll need your password to connect to the wireless."

I let it slide again. "Thanks."

I debated the thought of coming out to her ("No girlfriend will ever come over, but maybe a boyfriend or two") but didn't think it was really going to worth the effort. So I just let it go, and let her believe that at some point a girlfriend may come over and try to connect to my wireless internet.

On her way out, she asked just how I slept (the bedroom's a mess too). "Very badly," I told her. I presume she thinks it's because I'm lonely without my girlfriend next to me anymore.

Would It Be Rude of Me?...

So my birthday was a few weeks ago. Usually I don't make a big deal of it, as I don't really care for being the center of attention, and I feel this strange sense of modesty from receiving gifts. So usually I just let it subtly slip by, people don't give me anything or usually remember my birthday, then I silently sulk in my personal self-created prison that no one remembered. Usually small sets of friends do remember, though, and that's sweet and kind of good enough for me.

This morning, some friends took me out for brunch as a belated birthday treat, seeing as we were all quite busy around the time of my real birthday. They also presented me with quite a handsome gift, too -- a rather nice leather briefcase from Kenneth Cole Reaction. (Retail price, $200, though I'm certain they got it on some kind of sale.) I thanked everyone for the gift once I opened it, then we proceeded to dine, then eventually got back (gift in tow) and relaxed for the afternoon.

Just now, I got the following text message:

"Uh, thanks for the thank you email for your birthday gift."

Wow. I think I was kind of floored. I've never actually been called out for failing to send out a thank-you email before. Especially less than TWO HOURS after receiving the gift itself.

So I tried to feign stupidity, by responding:

"Huh?"

I really don't know what I expected to result from that particular response, but here's what I actually did get:

"Send Joe and Bob a thank you email for gift."

At least, I suppose, the sender didn't demand a thank-you note for himself. (The three of them chipped in for the item.) But I was still flabbergasted. I truthfully responded:

"Uh, does it have to be an email? Because I was planning on writing out a note-note tomorrow."

Okay, see what I intended? Pretty much I intended to convey the message that I know enough to thank people when they give me a gift, and (hopefully) that the subtext of the message would have included that it's fucking rude to call someone out for not sending out a thank-you.

He responded:

"Perfect."

Uh, what a bitch.

I'm tempted to respond with the following which references a factually accurate circumstance:

"So, uh, when can I expect a thank-you note for the gift I got you for your birthday three weeks ago?"

Would that be bitchy? Unfortunately, I suppose Miss Manners would frown on that particular response.

Pearl

Oh my God, this little girl is just too freaking adorable for words. I know I posted "The Landlord" before, but she's back!

If I Had a Camera I'd've Taken a Pic of You

An open letter.

Dear Random Tourist Guy:

I know you're visiting our fair city, and I'm glad for it. Really, I'm trying really hard to like tourists, because I recognize how much you non-residents contribute to the economy in this city. And it's necessary that way. And, well, this is the nation's capital, so it does attract a fair number of people for nice little visits.

I do, however, only have one question for you. You look pretty young, so I don't think you even know what it used to feel like when the only option you had for photography on vacations was large and clunky. My parents had this really big Nikon when I was growing up. It had 35 mm film. It was huge. The only way to carry it around if you wanted to sightsee and take photographs was to pop a strap on it (hehehe -- I said "strap on") and wear it around you neck.


This is not the guy I'm referring to. At least he has a big... camera.


You, however, are young. You're (comparatively) hip (I suppose). You have a digital camera. And your digital camera is something like 4" x 3" x 1.5" or something like that. It's tiny.

So why the hell would you wear something that small around your neck?

Dude, it's that small so you can shove the damn thing in your pocket. You look like a fucking moron.

Thank you.

Resign.

[Via]

It's a shame his last few words got cut off. And it's a damn shame it took this long for us to get this fed up. But I do love this video.

Power Up

I thought I'd share the following funny conversation I had with a friend of mine tonight.

Backdrop: I was visiting my friend and wanted to hop on to his computer, a laptop, for a bit. I kept hitting the power button, but it would only do a half-boot before sputtering and dying on me.

Me: Dude, I think your computer needs to be plugged in. Like, it needs a charge.
Him: Just hit the space bar. It'll start up.
Me: [hits the space bar, knowing full well it won't start up] Uh, no.
Him: Then press the power button. It's probably off.
Me: Uh, I've hit the power button twice now. It starts the startup process but then goes poof halfway through.
Him: Oh. Then I guess it needs to be plugged in.
Me: Uh, just where did this conversation begin again?

Yeah, some of my friends are complete idiots.

Another Year

It's my birthday today.

I should have taken the day off from work. It's a dreary day in the office already. Couple that with the fact that it's quite pretty outside, and my thoughts are not with me here in the office. On my birthday.

My birthday kind of stinks because it always falls two days before a major national holiday -- a major national holiday on which most of the rest of the country (or at least my friends nearby) usually decides to take off and hit the beach. So either no one remembers, or no one is around to hang out with me. Over the years, I've really come to not really care about my birthday that way anyway.

So instead, I spent a bit of time reflecting on the past 365 days. Unfortunately, my memory isn't that good, so really only the huge highlights pop up. I realize that I have an amazing corps of friends now, possibly better than any set of friends I've had before in my life, even though I've only known some of these people for less than a year. I know my older group of friends is still a great bunch, even if they have their substantial annoying quirks about them. And I've come to a still greater self-realization me in the context of a dating life.

I'm proud to say that I've passed my "early 30s" and have hit my "mid 30s" and I am in no way ashamed of the number. Every single year that passes grants me more wisdom and life experience which I would trade for no other.

I'm living a great life. I'm embracing it. I'm embracing me.

I'm getting ridiculously self-helpy so I'll stop now.

Happy birthday to me!

Success!

The party was a smashing success. Either everyone lied to me, and did a great job of it, or the food was a huge hit.

The salad course was a standard mixed salad (boxed from Costco), topped with Granny Smith Green Apple wedges and drizzled with a red wine vinaigrette (made with red wine vinegar and olive oil). I failed to take a picture of this.

While the salad was being consumed, I prepared two courses of salmon. One was a Maple Salmon, created by marinating the salmon fillets in a maple syrup/soy sauce/garlic confection then baking them. The second was a simple Magic Salmon, made by rubbing a store-bought mixture of spices and herbs and baking them at the same time as the Maple Salmon.

I then served the salmon with a side of roaster garlic rice, accented with chopped asparagus (I tossed it into the pot while it was cooking to help infuse the flavor) and sprinkled with the juice of one lemon. Also served on the side were some asparagus spears. And, just for effect, I garnished with a lemon slice.





Cooking for nine people is NOT easy. I have to say, though, in the end it was rather worth it. My friends were duly impressed. And I do have to say, I do make a mean salmon.

All in all, I'm quite proud of my efforts.

"It Does Not Say RSVP on the Statue of Liberty!"

So, like right now, for example. The Haiti-ans need to come to America. But some people are all, "What about the strain on our resources?" Well it's like when I had this garden party for my father's birthday, right? I put R.S.V.P. 'cause it was a sit-down dinner. But some people came that like did not R.S.V.P. I was like totally buggin'. I had to haul ass to the kitchen, redistribute the food, and squish in extra place settings. But by the end of the day it was, like, the more the merrier. And so if the government could just get to the kitchen, rearrange some things, we could certainly party with the Haiti-ans. And in conclusion may I please remind you it does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty. Thank you very much.

-- Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone), Clueless

James (the boyfriend of my friend Roger) has a wonderful talent for cooking some great meals. Okay, wait, maybe he just has a talent for cooking better than I can cook, which isn't saying a hell of a lot, so I just think his stuff is fabulous when it's really just normal, but I digress. The point is, he's been really generous with sharing the fruits of his kitchen, inviting me over to their place for dinners quite frequently. Usually, he'll invite a slew of other people (and make a night out of it -- we'll all sit around (there's like 8 of us), eat, and watch stupid television shows like So You Think You Can Dance or American Idol. Some nights he'll just randomly make an extra helping of food for me when he's cooking dinner for the two of them, then call me to let me know I can pick up some "leftovers" at my leisure. (They're not really "leftovers" since they never intended to eat them in the first place!)

Me being me, of course, after a while I feel bad that I'm mooching all these free meals off these guys so I feel the need to reciprocate. Miss Manners would be proud; I'm pretty sure that's her rule: when you attend a social occasion, it's polite to extend a reciprocal invitation.

I got my chance this weekend when, while out to dinner one night (lots of food involved in this post), James mentioned that he didn't feel like cooking this week, and he and Roger would probably be having dinners out all week. I leapt at the opportunity to suggest that I cook them dinner one night to make up for him having cooked for me so many times. Small wrinkle: my place is tiny, so I'd have to do the actual cooking at their place, probably using their cookware. But never mind that, the point was, I offered to supply the edibles and put in the kitchen time.

They happily accepted by invitation, and I was underway to making my friends a nice dinner. I had previously purchased a nice set of individually vacuum-wrapped salmon fillets at Costco, so I figured that's what I'd do: make a nice salmon dinner for the three of us, plus maybe one other guest.

You know what they say about the best laid plans.

Because James is used to having many people over for these dinner nights, what started off small escalated quickly. "Should we also invite A? and B and his boyfriend C? What about D?" Before I knew it, a dinner that I had envisioned for four ballooned to nine.

Cher, however, was lucky that all she had to do was re-arrange some food on a plate. The Costco salmon that I bought comes in a package of seven fillets. This is, of course, not enough to serve nine people without splitting a nice single-serving of fish. On top of that, I now had to get more of the rice side dish I was planning on making, as well as the salad and the appetizers.

Paula Deen I am not, people!

I made an emergency run to Costco last night. Picked up extra salmon. A large box of salad. Some grape tomatoes for the salad. Plus some green apples for the salad. Couldn't find asparagus for the side, so I got green beans instead. (Then ended up at Safeway later, where voila! they had asparagrus. Got some of that there.) Got home only to realize that I do not have enough of the rice dish (Near East brand rice pilaf -- love that stuff) in my cabinet -- will shop for that at lunch today.

I never thought I'd be the type to obsess so much over food, but I guess when it comes to impressing other people, it kind of is a big deal. You want to make a decent food that people will like. And when it's a full-on spread, well, it could win you quite the accolade among your friends.

And maybe this will actually lead me to cook just a little bit more.

Anyway, the dinner is tonight. Maybe I'll try to take some pictures and post them here later. Wish me luck!

Among Other Unfortunate Results, Bong Hits Also Have the Power to Erode the First Amendment.

This week, the United States Supreme Court ruled that suspending a high school senior for holding up a "Bong Hits 4 Jesus" sign at a school-sponsored function was not a violation of the kid's First Amendment rights. The case was Morse v. Frederick.

In 1969, students wore black armbands to school protesting the Vietnam War. In Tinker v. Des Moines Indep. Comm. Sch. Dist., the Supreme Court held that punishing these students based on some generalized fear that school disruption would occur was simply not enough of a reason to deny the kids their First Amendment rights.

The difference between that case and the Frederick case makes the outcome of the Frederick case that much more astounding. The black armbands actually were intended to convey a message; they made a statement by those who wore them. As Justice Abe Fortas noted in Tinker, the armbands were banned "based upon an urgent wish to avoid the controversy which might result from the expression, even by the silent symbol of armbands, of opposition to this Nation's part in the conflagration in Vietnam." Translation: The school board wanted to avoid the awkwardness and discomfort from having people openly debate whether the Vietnam War was a Good Idea.

The sign in Frederick is more vague: "Bong Hits 4 Jesus." True, it doesn't really stimulate a hell of a lot of discussion about the "hot topic" of drugs and drug laws.

Really, the school in Alaska just wildly overreacted to a stupid gag. Kids do that. And under Tinker, the school's generalized fear that its event would be disrupted by the sign is not enough for the school to ban the sign altogether.

But now, the Supreme Court has changed that landscape, and in a markedly broad way. The sweeping language of the decision suggests that a school may discipline students for speech which "they reasonably regard as promoting illegal drug use." The problem: On its face, the sign doesn't "promote" using illegal drugs. It's meant to be funny. Lots of people make reference to bong hits even if they don't use drugs. Should a kid be punished for saying in school "Are you on crack?" to a friend who just said something remarkably stupid?

Worse yet, the standard vests that determination purely in the hands of the school board. If they just say "I reasonably believed it promoted drug use," that's the end of the analysis, and they have a right to censor the kid. Where's the checks-and-balances on this? Shouldn't someone else -- i.e., an objective reasonable person -- have to agree with this assessment?

This case turns First Amendment jurisprudence on its head. Really serious speech -- like expressions meant to protest the Vietnam War -- are protected. But silly, frivolous speech -- like a sign linking marijuana use to Jesus -- is not protected. One would have thought that Tinker set a floor for First Amendment protection: everything up to an including the really serious stuff is protected. Not so, this Court says. The super-serious stuff is protected, but if it's not so serious (maybe semi-serious?) watch out. You could get nabbed.

This ruling is a huge setback to the free speech rights of students and represents just why this country messed up big time when it "elected" W. to the White House. Twice, no less.

Oh, and one last bit of food for thought: What would the conservative justices who voted in the majority in this case have done if a kid had been disciplined for holding up a sign that said "Abortion is Murder"? I submit to you that, strangely, that kid would have had the full backing of the First Amendment behind him.

Have a Sandwich!

Okay, I really don't want to blog too much about Paris Hilton, but this blurb from WaPo caught my eye:

According to jailhouse phone interviews, Hilton is looking forward to sleeping with her own pillows and having a good meal.

And my first thought was: "Wow, the bitch actually eats?"

Double-U. T. Hotel.

If my travels abroad have taught me nothing at all, it's taught me to love my fellow man, including those tourists whom I used to loathe. They're everywhere in DC, especially during the summer months when people bring their summer break-ing kids with them. And growing up in Hawai'i, tourists were a part of the landscape. Hated 'em.

But now having been a tourist several times now -- a few times in cities where I don't speak the language well -- I have come to appreciate the kindness of strangers and feel the need to reciprocate if and when at all possible.

Every so often I'll see a random hapless person on a street corner in DC poring over a map. I try nowadays to take the time to stop and ask them if they need help finding something. God knows I've been lost before.

Tonight, as I walked back from the Metro, I was approached by a random man. At first I was a little wary -- was he going to ask for money? Or worse yet, was he just going to rob me? -- but then this conversation ensued:

Guy: Ex-cyooze.
Me: Yes? You need something? [I am still poised to bolt if necessary.]
Guy: Where is 15th Street? [He has an accent.]
Me: This is 15th Street. What are you looking for?
Guy: 1515.
Me: 1515 15th Street? [I seriously don't know where that would be.]
Guy: 15.
Me: Huh?

Clearly, English is not his first language, and he's not doing too well. And I take it he's lost. So I engage my good Samaritan nature and continue the conversation:

Guy: 15.
Me: Uh, what are you looking for? Maybe I can help you. Do you know a cross street? [This phrase is totally lost on him, of course.]
Guy: W hotel. 1515.
Me: The W?
Guy: Double-U. T.


I gotta tell you, I don't even know if a W hotel even exists in DC. And I know most of downtown DC like the back of my hand, so I would know if there was a W somewhere.

"You know what? Let me see what I can do." I pull out my cell phone and dial 411, looking to ask for the number to the W hotel for purposes of finding directions for him. Then suddenly the last thing he said hit me.

Me: Wait, what did you say?
Guy: Double-U. T.

I hung up the phone and instead opened up a text editor. I typed in a word and showed it to him. "Is this what you're talking about?"

"Yes!" the guy responds. I had typed the word "Doubletree." Which is located at 1515 Rhode Island Avenue, NW.

"Oh, good. You're heading in the wrong direction. Just come with me."

At which point, because it's well on my way, I walk him to within a block of the hotel. Along the way, I tried to engage him in conversation, but his English was so severely limited that it simply wasn't working. I even asked him if he spoke Spanish or French, but that didn't take either. We ended up walking about three blocks in complete silence.

At my corner, one can see the hotel. I stop at my corner and point it out to him. "It's right there," I tell him. "Cross the street here, then cross the street to there. Then turn that way, and the hotel is right there."

He thanked me (if there's only so many words you know in a foreign tongue, I would suggest that "thank you" must be at the top of your list for words to know), we shook hands, and he went off on his merry way. I presume he found what he was looking for.

And now I hope I'm getting karma points off of this effort.

Random Update

Okay, so...

No blogging about Amsterdam. Which is unfortunate, because it was a great trip. But stuff like that has to be timely, I think, and writing about it now would, unfortunately, bore me. (And I'm all that matters. Ha!) As with the other times I've ever been to Europe, I come back thinking how much I'd love to return there sometime -- and that conflicts with my desire to see as much of the world (or at least Europe) as possible. Of course, the euro is way too strong right now (and I's po') so I'm thinking that the next time I hop an international flight, it'll be to Mexico.

My erstwhile boyfriend is no more, and I am still a complete pussy. I haven't called him since I got back from Amsterdam. On the flip side, he never called me. We effectively "drifted apart." Unfortunately, he made friends with my friends and has their numbers. Now I've gone and put my friends in a strange position, since he called one of them the other day just to see what he was up to. I'd feel weird if they hung out together.

Work is kicking my ass. I've come to the conclusion that my boss, whom I had been admiring and looking up to for the better part of five years, is a technically competent litigator, but not a very good one. He talks funny, has strange mannerisms, and sometimes goes into strange lines of questions with witnesses. In the "silver lining" file, I feel a little bit better because I now find myself thinking things like "Damn, dude, I can do a better job than you at this."

It's hot as balls here. Mostly because it's about to rain, I think.

Okay, I think that's it for now. Thanks again to you readers out there for bearing with me during this lull in posting.

PS: I've also noticed that during this lull in my posting schedule, the spam that tends to accumulate in my email box rapidly dropped. Guess spammers know where their spam is useless.

Delinquency

I've been horribly delinquent in updating this blog lately. If anyone's still reading this, I apologize. I make no excuses for my failure to post here more. In truth, I have no reason for it. I do, however, still find myself, from time to time, doing something and thinking, "Wow, that would make a fun blog entry," then failing to actually compose the entry itself. I'm so lazy.

But I'm still alive, and everything is still going well enough, and life is generally good.

And I'll try to update here more often.

Loose Ends

... since I got back from my trip and I'm still reeling. My sleep patterns haven't yet re-adjusted themselves and I find myself sleepy all the time. Meanwhile, I caught what appears to be a 24-hour bug on my second night back, sending me home from work with chills. (I think I'm better now.) I'm also totally unmotivated to do anything at work, but then again, that's no different from usual.

I'm trying desperately to break up with this guy I'd been seeing for about three months, but I'm being a total pussy and avoiding him completely instead. It's totally uncool, and I know it, but it's just easier this way. I keep planning on calling him; I keep rehearsing the speech; but in the end, I end up just sitting at home doing what I had always done before meeting him, and not picking up the damn phone to call him.

I realize that this announcement comes as something of a bolt from the blue given that I haven't much discussed a dating life on here. I don't like to jinx things like that, so, with the exception of one cryptic post, I didn't blog much about how happy I was, blah blah blah. And it was fun, while it lasted. But in the end, there was just too much about him that I didn't see myself tolerating in the long term. And since those traits were things about him that cut to the core of who he is, there was no way I could either overlook them or ignore them.

Besides, I don't want to be the guy who gets into a relationship with someone then tells them the many ways they must change to suit me. It may be simplistic, but I'd much rather I fall in love with someone whom I like (more or less) as they are. It's simply not fair of me to ask someone to change for me. So it's better I let this one go now.

And now I'm continuing to be a total dick because I've announced to the world what I haven't yet told the one person who really matters.

Still, it was nice while it lasted. Because I'm not some serial monogamist -- and heck, I have a hard enough time getting any dates at all -- it was definitely an exciting feeling to be liked at all by a romantic interest.

Now it's back to singlehood again. Hoorah.

Posts and pics from Amsterdam to follow soon.

Just Got Back

... from a several-day trip to Amsterdam. Very tired, but wow, it was so much fun! Will blog more about it later. Going to bed now.

Pat Robertson, Where Are You Now?

In September 2005, in the wakes of both Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, I blogged about the Right Wing Fanaticos' penchant for blaming all natural disasters on "God's Wrath," but only when those disasters hit "gay" areas or "Democratic" precincts -- because God hates people like that.

Well, now I'm back to once again challenge Pat Robertson and other RWFs to tell me just what "God's Wrath" hath intended when a tornado wiped out most of Greensburg, Kansas. I presume Greensburg is a fairly Republican voting bloc right around now, with the city having elected Sam "Attending a Gay Marriage Means You Can't Be a Federal Judge" Brownback.

So? Pat Robertson? Who precisely does God hate now, having destroyed a tiny little city in Kansas that leans right? Huh? Who?

And I hate the fact that this is the fourth time I've mentioned Pat Robertson in this blog. He really does not deserve my attention.

Derby

Is it just me, or is the Kentucky Derby really just a high-fallutin' version of NASCAR? They're both races involving lots and lots of left turns.

I'd Like To Thank the Academy

And the Award for the best performance as a newbie who has no clue what he's doing when in fact he's a lot more experienced than he let on goes to....

.... Dennis!


I gotta do this more often.

There's Rough Sex, and There's Rough Sex

In my never-ending attempts to post videos in lieu of posting anything substantive (very very busy lately), I bring you Alexyss K. Tylor, a quasi-celebrity in Atlanta, courtesy of public access television. Apparently she's all about the vagina power. Listening to her speak, though, I think she's much more into dick.



Some of the most choice quotes:

- "If you are in a sexual relationship, the man should be comin', if he ain't gon' be comin', then the man gon' be goin', somewhere else, puttin' his penis in something else or somebody else."

- "The ultimate goal for a man is to have an orgasm, to have a large, earthshaking ejaculation."

- "A lot of women will laugh and talk about men if his penis is small, or if he's not performing the way she's used to."

- "Because he's in love with your vagina, does not mean he's in love with you."

- "She said his dick was so good, as she started rockin', she got into it and something just hit her and BAM! all upside the head. Dick'll make you slap somebody!"



- "The penis is a very powerful organ. It's a very deep, spiritual, sexual heat-seeking missile."

- "Dick'll make you lose control. Dick'll make you pull out a gun and shoot somebody in the face."

"I Will Not Yield!"

TELL IT, Del. Norton!



It's about freaking time the District of Columbia got a vote somewhere in Congress. Sure, the White House is opposed to it and may veto the bill -- why would the Administration break from its neverending train of anti-freedom initiatives and principles? -- but it's a step in the right direction.

I do emphasize, it is but a step in the right direction. Delegate Norton's one vote in a 435-seat chamber of Congress is really just a drop in the bucket. It's far from true "representation." But it's a start.

Me, I'd like to see true self-governance, including the removal of Senate oversight for District laws. If we in the District want to pass medical marijuana laws, no freaking Republican Senator from Oklahoma -- or anyone whose name does not actually appear on a District of Columbia ballot -- should have a right to smack us down.

As tax-paying citizens of the United States of America, it truly is our right.

DC Vote.

"I Put You On the Streets"

This girl is sooooo adorable!



And no, I'm not referring to Will Farrell.

Corners

To Cho Seung Hui:

Dude, you are such a fucking loser.

No, seriously. I totally wish you were still alive so you could re-read that sentence and let the sentiment set in. I mean really sink in.

You are a fucking loser.

Your words:

"You had a hundred billion chances and ways to have avoided today. But you decided to spill my blood. You forced me into a corner and gave me only one option. The decision was yours. Now you have blood on your hands that will never wash off.

That, my dear, is what those of us in the real world call "fucking bullshit."

You had no choice? Give me a break. Everyone has a choice. And most everyone selects the option that doesn't involve killing more than 30 innocent victims.

Just what severe wrong do you think was inflicted upon you that made your actions somehow justifiable? Never mind, don't bother answering that: no matter what your answer, it'll still be a hollow excuse. Because nothing could justify what you did.

Worse yet, you were too fucking chickenshit to face the judgment of history and of the criminal justice system. You killed yourself. You weren't even man enough to stand up and say that you did it. You killed thirty innocent people and couldn't take the heat afterward.

Ooooh, you're such a big tough man with your guns, aren't you? Don't look now, but you were a freak without those things. Maybe if you made some kind of an effort you could have better fit in to general society. But no, you somehow couldn't, and somehow you felt like the world owed you one. You know what? The world didn't owe you shit.

And seriously? It's no one's fault but your own that your writing skills suck. I mean, woah, seriously. I read "Richard McBeef." I swear to you I have never read a piece of pablum that stank worse. It smelled worse than cousin's hamster when we got back from a week-long vacation and only to realize that he had forgotten to make arrangements to feed it. How could you possibly blame someone else for the dreck? Gads, words can't describe how completely talentless you are. Thank goodness you killed yourself, because if Virginia Tech had had to issue you a degree in English, given that drivel, it would have cheapened every other degree that school has ever handed out.

Whatever your issues were, you had a choice. The fact that you even took the effort to reach out from beyond the grave you knew you were putting yourself into for the purpose of blaming some nebulous "others" for your actions just highlights your utter lack of anything resembling humanity.

Yeah, you've gone down in history. You're the shit now.

You're A-number-1 loser dumbshit.

You could have just taken your own life and been done with it. You had to be a big man and take others with you.

I'm sure you're burning in hell now. Hope you enjoy it. Even John Wayne Gacy seems to have had more balls than you. You're probably his bitch now. How do you like that?

We mourn your victims. I don't plan on wasting any more time on you. Perhaps the best result now would be for us to deny you the immortality you so clearly sought. Even if that immortality comes in the form of utter disdain and contempt.

Storm Before the Calm

I am going to blame stress.

How is it that every time I have something worth looking forward to -- in this case a rather long-anticipated vacation -- everything has to pile on for the weeks before then to make my life miserable up until the release point?

I've got a great vacation lined up starting in early May. Yes, it's less than a month away. I'm spending close to a week in Amsterdam and very very VERY much looking forward to it. I've never been to Amsterdam and this ought to be a huge treat.

Since then, my life here has heaped on stress upon stress which will not make this lead-up time even remotely enjoyable.

We have two trials scheduled for two successive Mondays between now and then. They're time consuming and tricky and definitely ulcer-inducing. On top of that, I have to respond to discovery requests for a complicated disability case. Then, to still further pile on, I have to respond to a summary judgment motion the day before I leave.

Why can't everything just be easy? Man, I wish I could just cruise through the next few weeks and happily hop on to the plane and relax for a week. But then my life never seems to function that way.

Malaise

On what can I blame my current funk?

- That I had sinus issues (almost literally) up the wazoo last week? (I suppose that depends on how you define the word "wazoo.")

- Maybe the meds I'm taking to combat the ubiquitous sinus issues has contributed to a depressed mindstate.

- The nagging doubts I have that my current romantic interest may actually share absolutely nothing in common with me outside of being a really nice guy. (I must blog about this at some point.)

- The stress of a work week going crazy with no real end in the near future.

- Some strange urge compelling me to do things I probably know I shouldn't do.

- Alcohol withdrawal.

- Hunger. I've been trying to cut back on all portions of all meals. We'll see when I finally collapse in a Nicole-Ritchie-simulation event.

- Seasonal affective disorder.

I've got to get over this. Maybe I just need to get laid.

Now Blow.

One of the joys -- admittedly a very small one, but I do take pleasure in the little things -- of going to a gay-centric doctor's office is that you can have cute little conversations with your doctor which may be somewhat inappropriate in a more "straight"-laced office (pun intended).

Having experienced a substantial increase in sinus activity over the weekend, I hunted down my doctor on Monday and demanded an appointment for that same day. (I'm all butch that way.) And by "demanded," I mean "begged and pleaded," as in "I was wondering if there was any possible way I could pleeeeeease see a doctor today? I'm miserable!" Well, it worked, because they squeezed me in at 3:15.

During the course of describing my symptoms to my (really cute) "doctor" (who's actually a P.A., but I don't care), I mentioned that it was so bad I was getting a sinus headache, which I normally never get at all. Then this exchange occurred:

Him: Yeah, so you probably feel compression too, right? Like when during takeoff and landing in a plane?
Me: Yes! Especially when I blow.... Uh, my nose, I mean.

We both got a pretty fun laugh out of that one.

So, Uh, Just Where IS China?

I've seen this commercial on a few times now.



Here's my question: I may just be totally retarded, but didn't the guy hit China the first time around? I know it's a very small target and all -- being the country of largest geographic mass in the world -- but I'm pretty sure his first pushpin hit pretty well into the middle of China.

If I Were Mr. Potato Head

... my nose would be removed from my face by now.

I think I caught something during this most recent cold snap (or maybe it was during the warm snap) that has rendered my nose useless for its intended purposes. Instead, it now serves as a bottomless repository of airway-clogging goop. I'm temporarily changing my name to Rudolph because my nose is so ridiculously crimson at the moment.



My dad used to get irritated at me when my nose would run like this. I'd sit there doing my thing, then get up to blow my nose... then I'd go back to what I was doing, then a few minutes later get up again to blow my nose... then repeat the cycle. My dad eventually would get annoyed at this cycle, apparently completely failing to understand why I couldn't just, once and for all, get up, blow everything out of my nose, and have it all done once and for all. I don't think he understood the concept that my body actually replaced all the mucous I had just cleared out, and that I actually had to do a new blow job (tee hee hee!) to get rid of this new batch. Nor do I think he actually appreciated the fact that it bugged me as much, if not more, than it did him that I had to do that.

In any event, it's kinda funny to think back to my dad when I'm sick for such a stupid proposition. It's like bailing out a leaky boat, dad. "Just clean it out already!" Sounds more like douching before sex, personally. (Or taking an enema, I guess. I wouldn't know.)

But Dad, if I could, I would shove a vacuum tube up my nostrils right now, suck it all up, and leave it there until it was all cleared up. Because frankly, I'm pretty miserable right around now.

Stranger in a Not-So-Strange Land

Scene: Me, walking from the Metro to Whitlow's on Wilson, to meet some friends for brunch.

Players: Me, and some random African-American girl no older than 14. We are walking in opposite directions, toward each other.

[Dialogue]

She: Excuse me, hey.
Me: [Looks up from cell phone, a text message having caught my attention]
She: Hey... hey, you speak English, right?
Me: Uh, NO. [Rolls eyes]

[End.]

***

It's not like we were in Seven Corners or something, where you could go the entire day and conduct your entire business without ever speaking English. And it's not like I look like I just stepped off the boat.

I think the scene could have been better if I had actually answered the question with a long English response to the effect of "no." Maybe something like "Nah, never quite picked it up in school. My English skills are pretty bad. Diction, grammar, enunciation, all never caught on. Sorry... bitch."

But then brunch was delightful.

A Friend in Need

"A good friend tells you these things," Steve told me. I was still nervously laughing, weighing just how I was supposed to respond to his last comment.

He led me over to where Michael was standing and virtually commanded of him to pull something out of his pocket. They were Listerine strips.

"You have bad breath," Steve repeated. "Pop one of these."



I popped one, still nervously laughing and still not having had the presence of mind to actually articulate any witty retort. Steve popped one too.

"Now," he said, "do this." He exhaled like Zeus expelling a new child, showing off his new clean, fresh Listerine breath.

I declined. Steve just laughed at me and repeated: "Really, you had to be told. Friends tell each other these things."

I guess that means that I was supposed to tell him that the smell of his breath telling me I had halitosis was pretty damn bad too. But I didn't.

We Love Tara Reid

We here at MTML (I'm using the royal "we" now -- cool, huh?) love Tara Reid.

Is It Wrong....

... to want to pinch a priest's butt?

I went out for drinks tonight with some people whose common bond was that they all attended the same Catholic church. "Father" made an appearance to wish two of his congregants a happy birthday.

At one point in the night, he was standing talking to some people while I was seated on a couch right behind him. He was much cuter than I would ever have expected from a Catholic priest.

The temptation to pinch his butt was incredible.

But I resisted. Go me.

Marriage vs. Voting

So the White House has spoken on the recent momentum toward giving the District of Columbia a vote in Congress: it think such a vote would be unconstitutional. Uh, okay.

Putting aside the question of whether the law will actually be unconstitutional -- that is a debate for far wiser legal minds than mine -- here's my solution: Amend the freaking Constitution, if need be.

Seriously, this administration has clamored for constitutional amendments geared toward nothing but denying gay men and lesbians equal access to state (secular) marriage laws. They would love to make flag-burning unconstitutional.

But grant 500,000 taxpaying American citizens the right to voting representation in Congress? Heaven forbid! The Constitution would be highly offended!

The battles these people choose to pick is absolutely staggering.

Woke Up, Got Out of Bed, Hung Up On a Telemarketer

Dear Campaign Telemarketer Person:

Do you remember our phone call this morning? I'm sure you don't, because I'm sure you make tons of calls like this every single day. It's not your fault, but you called me just around the time I was getting ready for work (I start later than most). I don't blame you; I do blame myself for answering the phone at all (I usually don't).

But what happened after I answered the phone intrigues me. You identified me by name and started speaking to me. That's great. You're excited about your candidate. Also great. You wanted to explain to me why you're so ecstatic that your candidate has tossed his hat into the White House 2008 race. I'm happy for you.

You told me all this in about one and a half breaths. You told me all of this in approximately 45 seconds of non-stop talking. At this point I had literally uttered two syllables since picking up the phone. But again, I figured it was partly my fault, so I waited for a reasonable break in your stride, a logical stopping point in your speech, a place where I could my word in edgewise.

As you'll recall, once you took your break in breath, I pounced -- and I pounced politely. I told you very nicely, without raised voice or hint of aggravation, that while I appreciated your enthusiasm, you caught me at a bad time; that I was busy; that I had work to do. You know: a job. Note that I did not disparage your candidate, call you a bad name (some people do that with unsolicited telephone calls), or even get upset. I politely told you that I have no time to listen to you, and that was all.

As I prepared for a cordial ending to this call, though, you piped back up in your cheery falsetto and continued into your script (I can only assume you had a printed script in front of you). You paid no attention whatsoever to what I had just told you: that I was busy and that there were others things I needed to be doing with my time. Well, either that or you just didn't care about my time.

You may or may not realize it (since you were apparently talking without regard to me, the person on the end of the phone, by this point), but it was at this point that I hung up on you.

Let me be clear: I do not rudely hang up on telemarketers. Nor do I verbally abuse them. That's just not my thing. You have a job to do, and much as it's a job which inconveniences those people who answer their phones, it's your job and I won't begrudge your doing it. But when I've tried to politely get your off the phone and you prove yourself un-receptive to these efforts -- well, it's at that point that I feel justified in rudely ceasing our "conversation," to the extent that what you and I had was a "conversation."

So, uh, sorry. Kinda. But I think you're used to being hung up on by now.

Oh, and for the record: You are promoting a politician. You are not selling timeshares or home air purifiers or vacuum cleaners (although I know politicians have a lot of hot air). Your job is to get people to vote for your candidate. And a pretty important step to getting people to vote for your candidate is getting people to like your candidate. Helpful hint: not letting people get off the phone with you when they've clearly expressed a desire to do so does not endear you to the hearts and minds of potential voters. Also, when someone tries to disengage from you by telling you they're going to work, you're not helping your case with the common worker when you effectively suggest to them that they can put their job on hold while you ask for money -- money that they're trying to get out the door to go earn.

Just some thoughts. Carry on.

Sincerely,
Dennis!

Random News Items

From the Department of Unsurprising Headlines ("DUH"), the Washington Post brings us this: "Bush Iraq Strategy Has No Option for Failure." You don't say. Seriously, though, what they also don't say is precisely what defines "victory" either.

---

This article is just heartbreaking in its ignorance and stupidity. A man who had been performing his job competently for 14 years suddenly becomes wholly incapable of doing his job -- just because decided to become a woman. Seriously, as a guy he was great for the job. As a woman, she's suddenly untrustworthy. Do her opponents at all figure that their reaction is the exact reason she didn't say anything sooner? You can't argue "untrustworthy" when it's you who inspires people to keep secrets.

I Kissed a Boy

... and I'd do it again.

Tennis Parity

So famed tennis tournament Wimbledon has finally made the decision that it will pay its female champions the same as it pays its male champions. Sounds great.

I'm looking forward to seeing Martina Hingis play a five-set match against Maria Sharpova. That would be hot.

Seriously, I support equal pay for equal work, but the fact is, the women are asked to play less. They therefore exert less effort. How does that merit equal pay?

As the article points out, proponents of equal pay note that it was Wimbledon, not the players, who chose to set women's matches as three-set affairs. This is true. All I'm saying, then, is that in order to justify the equal pay, Wimbledon organizers should require that women play to five sets.

Proponents also lament that paying women less had always "sent the message" that that women's tennis was inferior to men's. Somehow, though, I didn't see anyone arguing that women should be required to play five games, because limiting their court time "sent the message" that women's tennis wasn't as great as men's tennis.

There's really only so many ways one can swing the word "equality."

Because I'm Old and Crotchety

At the risk of sounding like complete curmudgeon, what is up with the rash of me-centric behavior I've seen lately?

***

This weekend I was at a Dunkin' Donuts which included a seating area. I had purchased a breakfast sandwich (the fact that it was 12:30 pm notwithstanding) and a coffee, and settled in to enjoy my coffee while doing some reading.

Two tables away from me and in my direct line of sight was a man enjoy lunch of his own: Chinese takeout from the place across the street. Trust me, one can't mistaken the styrofoam box with rice and broccoli in it for anything whatsoever that Dunkin Donuts sells.

Note to the guy: Do really think that Dunkin Donuts is in the business of renting out property just for the purpose of letting you come in with whatever food you want to use those facilities? It's a business. It exists to make money. The tables there are meant for people who actually spend money in the joint. Why don't you just waltz on up with a checkered tablecloth and personal picnic lunch as long as you're at it? You're probably also the guy who goes to dinner parties at friends' houses empty-handed, because you wouldn't even think that the guy spending money to have you over deserves the respect of at least a gesture of reciprocity.

This doesn't just happen at Dunkin Donuts. I walk past an Au Bon Pain in downtown almost every day at lunch and consistently see people on the tables set up outside there with non-ABP food sitting there enjoying their lunches. My same thoughts apply to you too, morons. And to anyone who thinks that just because a place without wait service puts out tables they're inviting you to sit there whether you've purchased anything there or not.

***

I've recently joined a mailing list in DC for people who have items they wish to get rid of. The point of the group is to reduce waste by trying to get people to give away stuff they'd otherwise trash (one man's trash and all that). You put up posts saying you have stuff you'd like to get rid of, and other people respond by saying they'd like to get them. It's a great idea in principle, one which I support.

But some people on this list annoy me to pieces. Recently, I offered up several items for pick up. One would think that, given that I'm offering to give away, free of charge, these items that you normally would have to spend at least some amount of money to buy new, you'd do me the courtesy of letting me know if you'll be late in picking them up, or if you decide you don't want the item.

Apparently this is not the case. I had at least two people express interest in my items and not bother to tell me that they were either no longer interested or that they logistically couldn't figure a way to come get the stuff from me. (As the donee, I figure I shouldn't have to be the one to make the effort to deliver the damn things.)

Likewise, every so often you see a post from people who want things from the listserv members: "I need a XXXX. Does anyone have one they're not using?" This is fine and dandy too, but for the love of Pete, do you want to PLEASE try to make these messages sound less like a freebie grab? One person recently posted that they wanted a "vacume" (yeah, really, I had to make fun of that by spelling it the way it was typed -- TWICE) and who actually asked that any people responding to her to "respect [her] time and make sure it works." Okay, seriously, you're asking for a freebie handout. While I agree that it's rather uncool to deliberately hand off a product that doesn't work, it's seriously presumptuous to chastise people in advance for that, and to phrase in that way. Take what you get and if it doesn't work, it was worth every penny you paid to get it, buster.

***

I could make all kinds of declarations about the state of civility and personal interaction in our society today, but really that would make me come across as even more cantankerous that I really am. So I'll just leave this post at that. There's more examples out there, I'm sure. Supplements to come.

Quiznos, aka The Sandwich Nazis

Too lazy to make a real choice as to what to have for lunch today, I found my feet wandering over the Quiznos, figuring that it would be a decent, and cheap, option. I had no idea what I was in for.

I got in and stood in a relatively short line -- and I soon came to find out why it was so short. Everyone -- and I mean everyone -- behind the counter was Speedy Gonzalez on crack. Everyone before me placed their orders quickly, seemingly afraid that if they didn't act in time their sandwiches would be snatched from them. It was often difficult to get a word in edgewise that wasn't a direct response to a question, even if it was relevant.

Counter lady: Can I take your order?
Customer: Roast beef sandwich please?
Counter lady: Size?
Customer: Oh, uh, small please.
Counter lady: Lettuce tomato?
Customer: Sure. Oh, could I...
Counter lady: NEXT!

Okay, so that customer was me. I had wanted to specify wheat bread, but apparently when you're ordering a small sandwich, you have no choice in the matter. Either that, or she just didn't care to give me a choice.

Counter lady, as it turns out, was in charge of the first half of sandwich construction only. She passed the sandwich to the guy next to her, whose job it was to add the meats and run the item through the "toasty" machine. So he diligently weighed my roast beef and put my sandwich on the grill... all before I could open my mouth to blurt out "CouldIGetCheeseOnThat?"

He didn't seem to hear me, and indeed, he had already turned his attention to the next sandwich waiting to be made in front of him. The woman in line behind me was nice enough to try to help. "I don't think he heard you," she said, and piped up on my behalf: "EXCUSE ME SIR, COULD HE GET CHEESE ON HIS ROAST BEEF?"

This broke the flow of traffic rather abruptly for the well-oiled Quiznos machine. Both Counter Lady and Counter Guy stopped and consulted with each other for a second before reaching their almost Dolby-stereo conclusion: "that doesn't come with cheese."

Never mind that I would have been willing to pay for it, but oh well. I just sighed and said, "Never mind." I turned to the woman behind me and said, "Really, I'm just not in the mindframe to fight for it." She agreed: "You gotta pick your battles."

We got to the other side of the toast machine where yet another employee was standing there waiting. "Lettuce," he said as he slapped some lettuce on my sandwich, "Here or to go?" he added. The two phrases blended together in one smooth breath.

"To go please," I said. Looking down at the assortment of sandwich add-ons he had in front of him, I noticed some extra stuff ("They got a pepper bar!") and before I opened my mouth say "Could you toss some pickles on there too?" my sandwich was already wrapped up and halfway down the counter.

The woman behind me noticed what happened and chuckled. "Quite efficient here, aren't they?" I asked rhetorically. She smiled.

For some reason I found the entire situation insanely funny, so that by the time I got to the cashier, I couldn't even tell the guy what I had. I had burst out into laughter at how comical the whole event had come.

"What?" Cashier Man asked. "What's so funny?"

But I couldn't stop laughing. I was literally shaking.

Eventually I let it out. "Small roast beef." And I kept laughing.

"Everything okay? If anything's wrong, I need to know," he tried to help. I imagine he saw at least some of my aborted attempts to add stuff to my sandwich.

"It's all good," I responded. "It's all good."

It was a small sandwich, and not terribly filling, but at least it was cheap.

Some Advice on How to Be Insensitive (Without Really Trying)

He wishes he could do something. He wishes he knew what to do.

The woman down the hall is sobbing. It's the most awful sound he's heard in a long time. It's the sound of a woman's heart actually breaking.

It's the sound of a woman whose burdens have finally taken their toll. No matter how strong her back was before, she would be hard pressed to continue to survive this load.

He knows the woman. They've interacted on many an occasion and are friendly with one another. But their relationship lingers in that shapeless nebula between friend and acquaintance.

She's still sobbing. He's still pained by it.

It has long been common knowledge -- unspoken but for soft, dirty whispers that suggest juicy gossip but in fact betray sadness -- that her husband is a philandering cad. Word quickly and quietly has spread that this jag has been brought about by her discovery that he has taken a week-long cruise with his girlfriend -- while his wife is left to tend some books in the office, and to sob uncontrollably upon the discovery.

She is of a certain age, a certain generation and culture and background for which divorce is simply not an option. She has on many occasions shared her frustrations, her sadness, her fear, her anxiety with people that her husband is cheating on her. For some with whom she shares this information, their patience has begun to run thin; for them, her is unwillingness to take control of the situation and leave him causes endless frustration in the midst of her vulnerability.

She's on the phone, crying bitter tears and speaking in another tongue to an unknown confidant. She's packing up her things from the office she and her husband share. It's unclear where everything is going, but by the time she leaves her office, the walls will be bare, save for the picture hooks. Most of the paperwork will have made its way into one of many boxes, but the computer, printer, and lamp will likely remain where they are. She will probably not return to retrieve them, ever.

He sits down the hall, his heart quietly aching at the sound of so much suffering. In the movies, it's easy to disassociate oneself with a sobbing woman's trauma by letting oneself just think about what a phenomenal acting job she's doing. When an actual real-life acquaintance is cut to the quick, though -- stepping outside oneself takes substantial effort.

He steels himself. Closing the door would appear rude, even if his intentions were noble: she'd probably want to know, somewhere in the back of her mind, that her wailing wasn't necessarily absorbed by everyone around her. But then it would also appear as if he just couldn't be bothered with her problem, and so he shut the door on her. Either way, it's a cruel and heartless gesture, so the status quo wins out, and his door remains open.

He'd love to go to her and hug her, because he knows she needs it. He'd love to take the phone from her and tell whoever it is on the other end to just drop whatever s/he's doing and get over here pronto because Good God, man, can't you hear the pain in her voice? She needs you!

He sits alone, in his office, awkwardly trying to act as though nothing is happening.

He wishes he could do something. He wishes he knew what to do.

He wishes he had the balls to be a man.

I am Fanning the Flames of My Faggotry*

I was walking home from having some drinks with some friends this evening (yes, it's a relatively early night) when I starting thinking to myself what I would do when I got home. Despite the fact that I have all three of my Netflix movies waiting for me, I had the hankering to pop in one of my own DVDs instead.

My internal monologue took me to Steel Magnolias, which I haven't seen all the way through in ages that which is always a fun movie (and by fun, I mean great catty lines as well as "sob like a baby" material). I figured I'd dig it out and pop it in when I got home.



When I got home, I realized that I had forgotten to turn the TV off when I left. It was set to ABC Family (Stepmom was on when I left). And what's on the boob tube?

Steel Magnolias.

I swear I'm psychic.


*Bonus points if you get this reference.

Out of the Locker Room, Out of the Closet

I read this morning that ex-Utah Jazz play John Amaechi has come out of the closet. That's some pretty cool news.

What's sad is that he is only the sixth former professional male athlete to do so, and that he still continues the trend that only former professional athletes feel comfortable acknowledging their homosexuality to their teammates.

Reading through the article, it's clear that all the interviews are meant to reflect a "eh, it's no big deal", laissez-faire, live-and-let-live attitude on the part of the reacting players. But I don't think it worked.

Check out Michael Wilborn's take on the reactions of other basketball players. I think he's got some great points. If I can, I'd like to try to add to them:

While LeBron James's response is spun as a trust issue, he places the burden squarely upon the wrong shoulders. Says James:

With teammates you have to be trustworthy, and if you're gay and you're not admitting that you are, then you are not trustworthy. So that's like the No. 1 thing as teammates -- we all trust each other. You've heard of the in-room, locker room code. What happens in the locker room stays in there. It's a trust factor, honestly. A big trust factor.

Wow. James does a great job of blaming-the-homo there. "I can't trust you if you're hiding something like that from me," he effectively says. Never mind that it's wholly unclear whether Amaechi could have trusted him (or any other player) to not let any prejudices interfere with the game upon such a revelation. (I speak as if they were on the same team; it's just easier that way. I'm referring to any hypothetical gay player on the same team as James.)

And why would any pro player think that it wouldn't change the dynamic and affect the game and the team? Shavik Rudolph's comment -- "As long as you don't bring your gayness on me I'm fine" -- may seem innocuous, but buried in that comment is a mistrust in and of itself. What, precisely, constitutes "bring[ing] your gayness on" someone else? The mind boggles at all the tiny little things that Amaechi would do from then on which would be tagged as "bring[ing] your gayness on" him. And the "awkwardness" in the locker room? That's your problem, not his.

Comments like this are rooted in the popular misconception that gay men will screw anything with a penis between their legs. Get over yourself, Rudolph. You ain't that hot. I wouldn't do you. I have no sexual desire for you whatsoever. There, does that help alleviate the awkwardness in the locker room?*

By the way, thought patterns like that have also generally formed the basis for many a hate-crime. Remember Matthew Shepard and the "gay panic" defense? Quick refresher: "Gay panic" is a "defense" (I use the term loosely) against hate crimes that says, basically, "the defendant did what he did because a gay guy may have hit on him, and he's not gay." (I say "may have" because sometimes it's based the mere perception of being hit on. "The faggot looked at me the wrong way, so I beat him up.") Yeah. So when Rudolph is saying to keep your "gayness" away from him -- well, it's just puts the edge on. Watch your step, Gay Man, because everything you do from now on will be filtered through the "You're Gay" lens.

Besides, if someone were to keep their "gayness" to themselves, what the hell is the point of coming out of the closet at all? Would this mean that Amaechi wouldn't even be permitted to talk about his dating life in the locker room? I can imagine the conversation:

"What are you doing tonight?"
"Nothing, me and my boy are just chilling at home."
"Dude, why'd you have to mention 'your boy'? Don't go bringing your gayness on me!"

If that's the case, hell, it might be easier just staying closeted.

And what's up with Steven Hunter's comments?:

As long as he don't make any advances toward me I'm fine with it. As long as he came to play basketball like a man and conducted himself like a good person, I'd be fine with it."

Okay, I've already addressed the whole "don't make any advances toward me" line of "reasoning." (By the way, you ain't all that either, Hunter.) Your criterion is that he play basketball "like a man"? What, because gay men are sissy queens?** Here's a hint: a really good trey usually requires a limp wrist. Look at your hand after you've tossed your last free throw. You'll see what I mean. Besides, if you're worried about someone prancing around the court in high heels and a dress, you needn't -- the NBA actually does have some standards in terms of ability to play.

And "conducting yourself like a good person" is, I would hope, a standard you attribute to all players, not just the gay ones. And yet it doesn't appear that you've bent over backward to condemn any of your fellow players who have had repeated run-ins with the law, nor have you really said much about on-court bench-clearing scuffles that involve sucker-punches.

Orlando's Grant Hill probably had the best response, recognizing the significance of Amaechi's decision and reflecting on its impact: "The fact that John has done this, maybe it will give others the comfort or confidence to come out as well, whether they are playing or retiring."

* Comments like this echo the military's "Don't Ask/Don't Tell" policy, which suggests that openly gay people can't effectively serve in the armed forces because it would affect morale. Again, though, the burden is placed on the homosexual: stay in the closet, because we can't expect your colleagues to get over their irrational prejudices and we'd just as soon let them cling to those prejudices than let you serve openly as any other soldier would.

** Though I have to admit that, if the straight world's knowledge of gay life is limited to what they see during news coverage of gay pride parades, I can somewhat understand this unfortunate stereotype.

Not So Smart.

So I had Jeopardy! on in the background tonight -- well, the first part of it, the part that comes before the lame contestant interviews -- and I found myself answering a bunch of the questions. Wow, I thought, this is easy. I can be on this show.

Then I realized they're in the middle of the Teen Tournament, and suddenly I felt all stupid again.

He Also Had Perfect SAT Scores.

I was sitting around at Caribou Coffee this afternoon, reading and listening to my jukie (read: people watching and looking for cute boys). Even though there was music being piped directly into my ears, I could totally overhear the conversation taking place two tables away from me. Evidently, it was a college interview: sprite, peppy, cute little 17 year old was busy telling a nice young professional woman about his interests and goals so that the nice young professional woman could decide whether he and Princeton University were a nice fit. (Yeah, I really did hear quite a bit.)

The nice young man was, of course, quite academically talented, with his interests skewed toward science. Advanced education was definitely in his future -- like, an M.D. or a Ph.D. -- in a science-related field.

Then the following exchange took place:

Lady: So tell me more about your coursework and your interests.
Kid: Well, while I'm interested in science, I like to keep myself well-rounded, so I take a variety of classes [couldn't hear rest of this sentence, but I presume it was the standard bullshit about "I'm totally well-rounded and multidimensional and perfect and not a completely one-dimensional science geek" stuff]
Lady: Oh, well that's cool. What instrument do you play? [Okay, clearly he just mentioned his musical talents.]
Kid: Violin.
Lady: Of course. [Interview continues.]

Here's my question: Would the lady's "of course" have sounded just a little less racist if the high school kid wasn't a little Asian boy?