Strunk & White

I will the first to admit that I'm (too much of) a huge stickler for things like grammar and spelling. I'll also admit that, at times, it's true that I don't proofread my own material well enough, letting some errors slip through. But that doesn't stop me from making fun of the errors I see when I find them.

***

The other day I received an email from someone who used to work as a law clerk in my office. By "law clerk," I mean he graduated from law school and therefore had legal training. The law clerk's job is usually to do research and write memos on various legal issues that come up, and sometimes to work under the supervision of a more experienced attorney to write briefs that eventually get submitted to a court. Because law clerks usually haven't passed the bar yet, they're not considered "attorneys" though they do a good amount of research and writing like a first year associate would.

The former law clerk wrote to say hi, and to remind me that should I ever need help, he was available for a reasonable fee. (My guess is that he still hasn't passed the bar yet.)

He closed the email with: "Hope your doing well."

This doesn't instill in me much confidence that his writing skills have improved.

***

People looking for sex on Craigslist -- that's about 99.99% of the "personals" ads in the "men seeking men" section -- really need to learn the difference between "discreet" and "discrete." It gets annoying seeing people seeking "DISCRETE encounters" (especially when the word is in all caps). I would hope each encounter is discrete.

***

Even my support staff can't seem to get the distinctions right, which drives me batty. I correct things all the time when I'm editing things typed up by my secretary that I feel I shouldn't have to edit. It's even worse when I don't see the document before it gets filed, and there are issues with what actually makes it before a judge.

Usually, it's in the form of the magically appearing apostrophe:

"Defendants' claim that the Act does not apply."

"Defendant, in it's motion, argues that the Act does not apply."

Aaargh!

I Kind of Hate to Ask It, but Do You Have a Basket?

Random conversation with me and my co-worker earlier this week:

Co-worker: I wish this week would end already!
Me: (singing) I wish to go to the FEST-ival!
Co-worker: You are so gay. What is that from? Like, Rent or something?
Me: No! It's from Into the Woods.

[about thirty seconds later]

Co-worker: You know what play I really enjoyed? Into the Woods. Have you seen that?
Me: Uh... it's the play I just brought up like thirty seconds ago.
Co-worker: Wow. Somehow I totally missed that.

"War on Christianity"?

Pardon me while I get serious for a moment.

The WaPo's Religion section recently ran this piece surveying readers' attitudes regarding the existence (or not) of a "War on Christianity." (Related piece.)

The question: "In Today's Culture, Do You See Evidence of a War on Christianity?" Seriously, check out the answers. Most of them are very well thought out and interesting and make great arguments. Some attack the question from an angle I hadn't even considered.

Others, of course, make less sense. Not surprisingly, they tend to be the ones I disagree with. I tried -- really, I tried -- to read the ones that argued that there is, in fact, a war on Christianity brewing out there, but the support used for those people who thought so were rather off base (in my humble opinion).

So before I share what I wrote in response to the question when it was posed, I'd like to comment on some of the other responses.

* Andrew Genszler, Washington, D.C. is spot on. Political conservatives tend to feast on a buffet of "pick and choose" principles, deciding when states' rights are paramount and when they should be ignored, and when the free-market should reign supreme and when it should take a back seat to regulation. I love that Genszler points out that, even in a religious context, the hypocrisy shines through. Diversity of beliefs, people.

* Trisha Marsh Johnson, Athens, Ga., makes sense that persecution of Christians in non-Christian countries receives little media attention in the States. Extremism is really just the latest turn on the maxim "if it bleeds it leads." I would have to disagree with her, of course, on her last question. No one (except maybe the aforementioned extremists) has every really said that Jesus was wrong.

* C. L. Waltemath, Portland, Ore. really packs a punch. I do love his (her? I'll just stick with a gender-neutral "his") last point: if you have to shove your religion down other peoples' throats, your faith isn't all that strong to begin with. Actually, I've made that point before (I'm too lazy to go link to it now).

* Marilyn Goodman, Yaphank, N.Y. rocks it. Right on, sister.

* Frank Mortimer, Foxboro, Mass. takes a fascinating new spin in answering the question. Yes, Mortimer says, there is a war on Christianity, and it is being waged by people who purport to be Christians. People who equate religion and politics are destroying Christianity from within. Excellent argument.

* R. Brandon Edgar, Tampa, Fla. -- well, this guy I don't understand at all. According to the accounts I've read of the "Gospel of Judas," Judas states that Jesus told him to betray him. So Judas's claim is perfectly consistent with Jesus's ability to predict it beforehand. (Was Jesus at all psychic anywhere else in The Book? I don't recall.) The Gospel of Judas purports to prove that Judas was scapegoated and that he was, in fact, Jesus's favorite disciple. From what I've seen (admittedly limited), nothing in there is inconsistent with the Old Testament, except that it turns our conventional understanding of Judas's role in religious history completely upside-down.

Let's face it, most of Christianity wouldn't really amount to a hill of beans without the crucifixion and the resurrection -- absent those dramatic events all you really have is a hippie spouting platitudes. Is it really all that unbelievable to think that maybe the Divine Plan included the betrayal, and Jesus himself had a hand in setting those wheels in motion?

* Amanda K. Maynard, Boonsboro, Md.... Again, amen, sister!

* Yolanda Jurado-Gesswein, Edinburg, Tex. gives me the teensiest glimmer of hope. Her comments show that there are, in fact, at least some deeply religious people in The South who believe that the politicization of Christianity is abhorrent.

* Julie Hughes, Leesburg, Va., unfortunately, completely misses the point, and commits the very error that the other responses highlighted: "my religion is the right one, and the fact that other people are ignoring it means they hate my religion!" Who cares if anyone else exhibits a "resistance to Jesus"? Your life, your religion; my life, mine. What you don't have, lady, is a right to tell me that your values dictate my rights. No one's making you recant your Christian beliefs. No one. (Contrast that to The Crusades, when so-called Christians launched a "convert-or-die" large-scale assault.) You still have your rights. Don't want an abortion? Don't get one.

I started this post thinking I would post my submission (WaPo did actually call me for permission to print it, but I guess in the end I didn't make the cut), but I'm thinking the others that did get printed make the point better than I.

I am Mayor of the Zone

Chandler: You waited too long, and now you're in "The Friend Zone."
Ross: No... no, I am not in the Zone.
Joey: Ross, you are mayor of the Zone.


I've been on a dry dating streak for a long time. Granted, it's most likely because I'm a fat old bitter fag, but in any event, that's the breaks.

Well, except.

In the past several weeks, I've ...

Okay, I'm working on finding the right words for this situation.

In the past several weeks, I've hung out with two charming and single men. On different occasions. And I've flirted with still another.

I spent 8 hours on a Sunday with one very nice man. We talked, we walked, we ate, we drank, we laughed... for eight hours. At 10:00 that night, he dropped me off at my apartment.

I spent 3 hours at the zoo yesterday with a great guy on whom I've had a crush for about six months now. We also had brunch together. We talked, we ate, we laughed. I leaned on him when I managed to skin my toe after slipping on a random grate (who knew flip flops lacked traction that way?).

On Thursday, I flirted with a guy in my building whom I bumped into as he exited a bar I was entering. I threatened to randomly stop by his apartment unannounced with a DVD and a bottle of wine. (I may actually do this sometime this week.)

All that having been said, I may just change my name to "Ross."

At the end of these days with these men -- both of whom would make excellent boyfriends -- we parted with friendly hugs. (This is the reason I hesitate to call any of these events "dates.") Although we keep talking about "next time" we get together, we make no definite plans and there's no indication that they're looking forward to planning the next get-together. There's no "Let's get together again soon" followed by "yeah, I'd like that." Instead, we exchange words to the effect of "Well, I guess I'll see you around" or "See ya when I see ya!".

By the way, no, I haven't actually let my bitter jaded self out in front of these guys. Or maybe it's a pheromone I'm exuding, and they can just "tell."

Perhaps I should just hope that one of the other (maybe both?) of these guys is just as shy as I am, and we're all just taking it painfully slow. The silver lining to this is that I won't actually have to make any kind of choice as to which one I'd want to date date.

Or I can just accept that I've made two new friends, which, in the end, isn't all that bad anyway.

Two Random Idiocy Stories

Some people can be so stupid....

I posted a Missed Connections ad on Craigslist recently. I do this for fun, mostly because I know they're never going to read/respond to it anyway, but it's fun to act like you're sending a signal out to that certain someone, even if you know it's futile.

Strangely enough, I got kind of excited when a message showed up in my Junk Mail folder with a subject line mirroring my ad. When I opened it, I was greeted with this message:

Dude, you are dumb.
Get a life.

Okay, buddy boy, I get your point. I'll now strive to get that fabulous life you apparently have -- you know, because people with lives put reading Craigslist and disparging people who post there at the top of their fascinating lives.



***

Today my office is freakishly empty. One guy who sublets part of our office space from us hasn't shown up at all.

The doorbell rings: it's a client of Absent Guy. She claims to have an appointment. I tell her that he's not here, and that I'm not his secretary so I don't keep track of his comings and goings, but it's not enough for her. But because I'm such a nice guy, I call Absent Guy on his cell phone to tell him someone is here claiming to have an appointment with him.

He asks that she be put on the phone, so I give her the phone. And I hear this:

I came because I live far away and it's hard to get here and I've been calling for the past two hours and no one picks up.

First: Uh, I guess that means you really didn't have an appointment, did you? And second: who the heck decides that, after calling someplace for 2 hours, the best course of action is to drive from "far away" to go to the Office-Where-No-One-Picks-Up-The-Phone? Shouldn't the fact that you've been calling for two hours to no avail send you the message that no one's there?

On Karma, and (Of All Things) Poker

When stuff happens to me, I tend to wonder whether I'm suffering some sort of cosmic payback for something I've done wrong. Likewise, a selfish part of the reason I do nice things is to build up these points for when something goes horribly wrong.

But what sucks worse is when you don't even know what you're being screwed over in response to.

Last night I went to my usual poker game at a local bar. It's a free game, and the crowd is pretty chill, so I usually have a pretty decent time, win or lose. (Usually lose: I've started gauging my success for the night as how many minutes I last before I'm out of the tournament.)

Last night, though, was different. Don't get me wrong, the guys were still having a good time and relatively chill, but I couldn't catch a good hand all night long. By a certain point in time I couldn't tell remember whether I was in a bad mood before the game started, or whether the cards put me there. I do remember that these chill, fun guys talking all kinds of big talk around the table was starting to annoy me, and I remember wondering whether they would have been as annoying if I were actually catching the cards.

I literally folded every single hand I got for the first 45 minutes of the night. Granted, I was playing a little tight (perhaps too tight), folding a K-7 (off suit) at one point and a K-6 (off suit) at another, but most of my cards for the night were 2-4s or 3-6s. It was getting truly infuriating.

But here's where Karma (or whatever you call it) didn't stop at tweaking my nipple and saying "gotcha." Karma actually bent me over and said, "You deserve to be teased BEFORE being fucked." (Not that this is a bad thing in every context....)

So I finally decide to play a hand. (If I had more chips, I would not have, but when you're short-stacked, you'll play whatever's decent.) It was a K-9. My one opponent flips: pocket 4s.

So yeah, I was pretty much beat from the get-go, but I figured it was my time, and my luck wasn't going anywhere anyway. The flop: Q-Q-7. Great. He's got two pair, I got nothing. I need one of my hole cards to pair up.

Then the turn card, well, turns the tide: It's a 7. What this means is that there are two pair on the board, both HIGHER than the pocket 4s my opponent has, which means now my King kicker is prepared to WIN the hand.

Keep in mind that after the flop, I was thinking I had six outs in the deck (three Ks and three 7s), meaning that of 45 cards left "out there," six of them would have given me a win, which is about 13%. I had forgotten about pairing up the board, and my odds were closer to 20%. Odds of me winning: 20%.

With the turn, of course, I had the better hand. And there were only two cards in the deck which would have given my opponent the win: one of the other two fours. That, my friends, is 4.5% chance to suck me out. In addition, if another Q or 7 showed up on the board (making the board a full house), we would split the pot. The odds of that were 13.6%. Odds of me winning: 95.5%.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to guess what the showed up on the river. One of those two remaining 4s in the deck reared its ugly head, and my "wow, I might actually survive this hand" moment proved to be just that -- a moment. He made his full house, 4s full of Qs, and I was reduced to a simpering mass of Jell-O quivering on the floor.

All that was a way of talking about how I have no idea what I did to deserve such a smackdown. I don't think I've done anything so dramatically bad lately that I deserve this kind of payback. I lost some cash in Atlantic City recently; then lost a few bucks at a cash table with friends; and now I can't even do decently at a play money table.

In the immortal words of the Pet Shop Boys:

What have I
What have I
What have I done to deserve this?
What have I
What have I
What have I done to deserve this?

I guess sometimes all you can do is chalk it up to an extreme run of bad luck, and call it a day. Or fortnight.

Smithsonian

This weekend I tried to rekindle my relationship with Washington. Having lived here for 12 years now, I realize I seldom go out and see the "touristy" stuff the city has to offer, instead waiting until my friends come to visit to show them the sites. But the Mall has so much to offer even the natives that, well, I wanted to see it.



What drew me out this time was a desire to go see the Hokusai exhibit at the Sackler. Unfortunately, I wasn't allowed to take photos within the gallery, so all I'm left with is webpublished material. The man was quite talented -- he drew all kinds of subject matter, on different media, over the course of several decades. I was impressed with both his use of negative space as well as his attention to detail. If you're in the DC area, you have to check this exhibit out.

KOB (the man behind DC Blogs) and I wandered around the rest of the Freer, where I snapped this shot of the random courtyard. It reminded me of some of the fountains I've seen in Spain, so I snapped a quick shot. There's a small, potted bonsai tree in the courtyard there too, but my shot of it didn't come out all that well.

Then afterward, we spent the afternoon wandering around the Mall (where I overheard this comment). The weather was positively glorious: just the right amount of heat and very little humidity. And the sky was positively gorgeous, without a single cloud anywhere.

I took this picture more of less just because it's so beautifully framed against the pure blue cloudless sky.













The sprinkler water just looked so refreshing outside the Sackler. Unfortunately, I wasn't in a position to go running around in it to cool off. Not that it was all that hot, but still, it's one of those fun things you wish you could still do. If I were a kid again, I'd've probably loved it. Alas, the joys of youth are far too ephemeral.



As the day wore on, we headed over the Native American museum. Didn't get to see too much on the inside, but the structure itself is quite nice. And, again, there was a nice-looking scene outside.





I don't generally enjoy photoblogging, but these were kinda nice pics, and heck, I've got a decent digicam that I may as well use. Later this week I'll share some random shots from the Zoo, which was my Sunday excursion.

I Was Cheeked!

CHEEKED! Such is the course of my life.

Photo blog to come soon.

Heaven and Hell

One afternoon my mother and I were engaged in rather busy work folding special pieces of paper into shapes symbolising old Chinese money. We would later take them to a Buddhist temple to burn them, sending the ashes of said money to our ancestors. I was maybe in my early teens, probably in middle school. This is generally as close as I got to religion in my childhood: the one ritual at the Buddhist temple my mother actually engaged in from time to time.

In a room cluttered with paper bags filled with faux Chinese money, we heard a knock on the door. Somehow I knew before anyone got up who was there: it would have to be a Jehovah's Witness. We used to get those from time to time. I thought nothing of it, that whoever answered the door (it wasn't me) would just politely brush them off and we'd get back to work.

My father got to the door first. For some reason that still escapes me to ths day, instead of politely saying "no, no, no" like we usually did (I had been known to feign lack of English skills for this purpose), he invited her in. Before I knew it, a proseltyzing Jehovah's Witness was sitting on my couch, near my mother. I shot a quick "what-the-fuck?" glance at my father, but he must have missed it, for he never responded. Perhaps he had expected me to engage her in some deep philosophical religious discussion (especially seeing as I was the one of us in the room with the best command of the English language), but I had internally vowed to remain silent.

"So, what is this you're doing?" the Witness asked. I presume she was trying to be friendly while searching for a segue into a discussion about our salvation or whatever.

I kept mum, and continued to fold my papers. My mother, possibly equally befuddled (but more likely annoying and internally stewing), did the same.

"Folding papers," my father responded in this broken English. "See, papers kind of like money, we send them to ancestors."

Thing is, Jehovah's Witnesses don't subscribe to the concept of afterlife, nor would they do well with the traditional Chinese rituals of paying homage to ancestors. I don't know if my father knew this and told this woman this just to rile her, or if in some fit of exuberance he was just sharing.

"I see..." the Witness responded. I think she was getting up the courage to get into her spiel about the nonexistence of ghosts or ancestors or the corresponding utter lack of need to pay tribute them, but my father just continued.

"We burn them. When ancestors die, they ... go to hell.... So we burn this, the smoke, go to hell too, for ancestors!" He gestured upwards with his hands, indicating, I suppose, rising smoke.

It was at this point I fought hard to suppress what would have been a very audible groan. Yes, my father had just told a random stranger that my ancestors were in hell.

"Uh, I see...." the Witness said again, now looking visibly agitated. I could sense that she was frantically looking for a way to politely excuse herself, but how does one just ignore what my dad had just said? I'm told that spreading The Word is one of the highest callings for a Jehovah's Witness. I imagined an angel on one of this woman's shoulders and a devil on the other:

Angel: If there's any family in need of saving, it's this one. Save them! Turn them to the Path!
Devil: Just get the hell out of this place before they turn all The Hills Have Eyes on you.


Thankfully, my dad stopped talking for long enough for the woman to politely say, "Well, I can see you all are busy, so I won't take up any more of your time. It was ... nice... meeting you." And she stood up to leave.

I burst out laughing the moment she cleared the driveway. My dad's response to me: "What?"

The good thing is, she didn't even offer to leave some of that literature or anything.

Pop Quiz

Okay, Jon started it. I thought I'd have some fun imposing on you, my dear reader. Check out my quiz and let me know how you do!

Take My Quiz - on - QuizYourFriends.com!

Eavesdrop DC

It's not yet as big as Overheard in New York, but someone's finally created a rough equivalent for DC: Eavesdrop DC. I'm guessing the guy who does NY didn't want to relinquish the "Overheard in DC" domain name.

Anyway, it's still pretty funny. DC definitely has a unique flavor, though. Different, but not necessarily better or worse, than New York. Of course, this makes each blog just slightly nuanced.

Anne, I know you've wondered twice why I didn't start something like this up. Answer: I'm just plain lazy. But I'm glad it now exists.

Oh, and something I submitted was posted recently, though they didn't give me credit. As I think of it, though, I didn't ask for any. I suppose I should have.

Views from a Subway

Sometimes – infrequently, but sometimes – I feel like I miss out on things by not having to get onto a Metro every day. Much as I love and enjoy my close-to-nonexistent "commute" of three blocks each way, I wonder what kind of stuff I'm missing out on by not having to join the throngs of sardine-packed subway riders on a regular basis. (At the very least, for example, it means very few people ever see me during rush hour commute time, which means I'm less likely to become the subject of a Craigslist Missed Connection.)

The one time I join the subway crowd is Tuesday nights, when I more-or-less regularly head out to Clarendon to play some poker. Last night's ride netted me a few stories:

Sandwiched in as we were, eavesdropping was absolutely unavoidable. At one point, a nice young woman (literally six inches from me) (go ahead, get the "six inches" jokes out of the way now; I'll wait) mentioned to her companion (a handsome young man who, alas, wore a wedding ring) a birthday lunch she had to go to tomorrow, at which point I let loose an involuntary "D'oh!" and smacked my hand over my mouth. She looked at me funny, obliging me to explain that I had forgotten to email a friend of mine, whose birthday was yesterday.

Later, at a different stop, people tried to jam their way into the doors. As the doors came to a close, I heard the unmistakable gutteral noises of a person who didn't quite make it all the way into the train before the doors hunkered down. I involuntarily laughed; the young woman laughed with me. Or at least I hope she laughed with me, and not at me.

A nice woman was reading to her daughter on the train. This is most welcome sound as compared to other, more obnoxious chatter one could have found on a train. So I got to hear a bit of Amelia Bedelia for a little bit. From what little I heard, that girl never is referred to as "Amelia"; it's always "Amelia Bedelia." What's up with that? By the way, if your last name is "Bedelia," I suggest that it's criminally cruel to name your child "Amelia," and facing a firing squad at sunrise is the only real acceptable punishment. Anyway, I digress: while it was nice that this woman was reading to her (very sweet and kind) child on the subway, man, she was boring at it. Very few vocal inflections, not a lot of animation to the story. And she was reading a bit fast, too. Really, the kid's supposed to enjoy that? I would suggest that the reader slow down and make it more fun for the listener. I know I wasn't terribly excited by her reading style. I could kick ass at reading to kids.

At some point, I managed to grab hold of one of the vertical poles that extends up from a seat back. Bored, I started to tap on it with my nails. I was tapping out a song, really, so I'll admit that this wasn't just some idle tapping. As if enchanted by Mrs. Piggle Wiggle (I'm deeply regressing to children's books now), a woman from the window seat looked up from her book then looked at me. Keep in mind, the train, while not exceedingly noisy, is not pin-drop silent at this point. I made it a point to avoid her gaze, but my peripheral vision picked it up and, well, I could feel her eyeballs descending upon me like a swarm of locusts. After maybe ten agonizing seconds of this game (me tapping the pole and looking away; she glaring at me), my eyes drifted to her. Without any actual sound coming from her mouth, the words "Could you stop that please?" formed on her lips. I made a quizzical face at her and mouthed back, "Huh?" Of course, while I did that, I stopped tapping, and she mouthed, "Thank you." Some people are so sensitive. I still have no idea why she couldn't actually speak the words. Apparently a significant sensitivity to, well, anything with an actual decibel level.

Eventually – because I was nice enough to move toward the center of the train instead of crowding around the doors like a veal before the slaughter – I had to push past about 8 people to get out of the train at my stop. Thankfully, most everyone accommodated my request to excuse me (ah, the power of "please"). Note I said "most" everyone. Because there's always one, isn't there?

And yet, as I checked today, I still don't think I made it into a Missed Connection.

Punch Drunk

My plan hit me on the way to the deli for lunch today. I must admit, I chuckled all the way to and from the deli as the plan played forward in my mind.

After getting my sandwich, I stopped by the Hot Dog Guy on my way back to the office to pick up a can of Hawaiian Punch.

Because I don't usually get Hawaiian Punch for lunch (or any drink for that matter, since my officemates and I appear to be singlehandedly keeping Coke Zero in business), my co-worker T. had to make reference to it as I sat down to eat. "Hawaiian Punch today, huh? Going for something different?" she asked.

"Sorta..." I responded. Then I launched into my insipid plan to plant a stupid and wildy irritating song into T.'s head. "I was on my way to get this sandwich," I told her, "when suddenly this popped into my head --"

And I sang:

I'ma get get get get some punch
Get some punch to drink with lunch.
My lunch my lunch, my lunch my lunch my lunch.
My lunch my lunch, I love Hawaiian Punch!

Check it out!

Okay, much more fun if you have the Black Eyed Peas stuck in your head.

Damn stuff is loaded with high fructose corn syrup, but it was oh so worth it to execute this joke.

Happy Emancipation Day!

Happy DC Emancipation Day!

From the information linked above (for those of you who didn't follow the link):

On [April 16,] 1862, President Abraham Lincoln signed the Compensated Emancipation Act, For the release of certain persons held to service or labor in the District of Columbia. The Act freed about 3,100 enslaved persons in DC nine months before President Lincoln issued his famous Emancipation Proclamation telegraphing the eventual end of slavery to the rest of the nation. The District of Columbia Compensated Emancipation Act represents the only example of compensation by the federal government to free enslaved persons.

I guess this is one instance where federal plenary authority over the District of Columbia wasn't a totally bad thing. But sitting around depending on the benevolence of unelected officials really shouldn't be the way things run in the nation's capital. DC Vote.

Some Clothes Should Not "Fit" Quite So "Well"

To the Two (TWO!) women at the sandwich place getting sandwiches before me today:

Let me start off first by just saying that I, as a not-anorexic gay male, am totally not going to be one to judge you for your weight. No, seriously. Things don't always go swimmingly for us not-skinny people, so I get it.

Oh, you don't think I know what I'm talking about. This is because you think I'm skinny. Let me tell you, though, it's all in how you dress and carry yourself. (There's a reason not many people get to see me naked, but I digress.)

But, see, therein lies my very point: dressing well is key when your body, standing alone, isn't drop-dead fantastic (as opposed to drop-dead-of-a-heart-attack). You, in particular, need someone to tell you that those pants do not look good on you.

First of all, they're white. Every larger-than-life person should know, black is the slimming color. So whenever possible -- even if it's kinda muggy out -- eschew white clothing, and try for a darker color (preferably in breathable fabric, for those summer months).

But most importantly -- oh honey! -- those pants hug way too well, if you know what I mean! (Well, perhaps you don't, because I would hope you did not decide to wear those things out today knowing what I mean.) Cameltoes are classless and out of place even at the beach. You should not be sporting cameltoe on what purports to be an at least semi-professional outfit.

Honestly, I don't even know the solution to this problem besides suggesting a whole new pair of pants. Control top underwear, maybe? Would that work? Maybe a fabric that's less likely to "hug" as much?

But no, seriously, just say "no" to cameltoe.

Sincerely,
Dennis!

** I'd offer up a google search result here, but I think it would be too inflammatory, so I'll leave that off. And I certainly wasn't going to snap a shot of your cameltoe while waiting for my burger.

Whaddya Know?

I suppose it's a matter of human nature. Me, I like to at least act like I know my limitations.

***

We had some computer issues at work recently. The server was acting funny, so my IT guy asked me to disconnect all the users from the server (everyone else had gone home) so that he could safely poke around remotely. I complied. At some point later, I went home.

The next day, everyone in my office was wondering what happened to the computers last night. I told them that I had shut them all down, because the IT guy asked me to. "Well, what did he do?" one of my co-workers asked me.

I have no idea what he did. I didn't ask, because I knew it would take me over my head. And I'm willing to bet that if I had told my co-worker that the IT guy "needed to verify that the WAN address was properly synched up to the PPP node vis-a-vis the antipodes diodes which feed lubricating oils through their sebaceous ducts to each of our monitors," she wouldn't have understood what I meant.

So why did she ask?

***

This morning, the same co-worker popped her head into my office. "If the phone rings more than twice, could you snag it? I'm going to be poke my head around the telephone closet real quick."

Uh, the telephone closet? I've been in there. It's a huge jumble of technicolor wires going from one panel in the wall to another panel in the wall. I have no idea where they start, or where they end, or for what purpose they start and end where they do. If there's a large dangling wire that starts at one panel and leads nowhere... well, hell, that might be because it's supposed to be like that.

I'm willing to bet my co-worker doesn't know anything about those wires either. So why is she checking to make sure everything's all right in the telephone closet? Would she recognize it if something was amiss? (At least, in the absence of a sign that says "Cut here to mess up the phone lines.")

***

Once the above-referenced co-worker asked me to look at another suitemate's computer to investigate why she wasn't getting sound out of her speakers. (For some reason, I'm kind of the office computer guru, which is sad.) I told her that I frankly wouldn't know what to look at, so I wasn't sure I'd be a very big help. She huffed at me and gave me an attitude for the rest of the afternoon.

Her reasoning: The other suitemate has done some very nice things for us over the years, so the least you could do is look into her problem.

My response: But I'm telling you now I won't be able to help. It's like asking me to diagnose her brain trauma. I know I won't be able to. You’re really just asking me to invest some of my time sitting in front of the computer poking around even though I pretty much know I won't get anywhere.

Eventually I gave in and looked that the damn computer. It's archaic. And sure enough, despite my best efforts, I could not get the speakers to work.

Go fig

I'm feeling better than I have for the past two weeks or so. I have no doubt that this is because I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. My body hates me, and is probably laughing at me for the delicious irony. And were I to cancel my appointment for tomorrow, my temperature would spike to 104.3 immediately upon hanging up the phone.

On an unrelated note, I'm bummed because I missed The Amazing Race this week. I did see a TON of commercials advertising the date change ("Good news, America! The Amazing Race has moved to a new day!") because I remember thinking, every single time it came on, "How is that good news? I have to rearrange my TV watching schedule now!"

Alternate Sexuality

I've noticed that some of my recent blogposts are tending toward a common theme: the imminent heterosexualization of Dennis!. It's like there's a toaster oven in it for someone or something if I convert. Like the universe is trying to send me a signal: Check out some boobies.

****

Steven Lynch is hot and funny. I've had this song for a long time, but I just found the video and damn, he's cute to boot! (Lyrics NSFW, btw.)



I suddenly want him.

****


So, because I'm exceedingly bored and because I've nothing better to do with my evening, I came up with my own version of this song. I dedicate this to all my heterosexual female friends. (Strangely, the phrase "heterosexual female friends" is like a huge exercise in redundancy when coming from me.) [WARNING: Wildly inappropriate language ahead.] The following lyrics are much better appreciated after you've heard the Stephen Lynch song above.

Here we are, just you and me.
It's Friday night and we're watching TV.
We really should be on dates with guys,
Instead we're at home sharing some fries.

And if I were straight, we would walk on the beach.
And if I were straight, for your arms I would reach.
If I were straight, we'd be all "Greatest Hits"
But I'm not straight, so I won't be touching your -- hair.

You know that we're good friends, for sure!
You're cute and smart, and so demure.
For some hot guy you'd be quite the catch,
He'd better appreciate that snatch.

And if I were straight, I would make out with you,
And if I were straight, I would tenderly touch you,
If I were straight, you would so do the trick.
But I'm not straight. You suffer from lack of a -- Y chromosome.

We've hugged before.
We've even kissed.
But it's never felt
Quite like this!
I renounce
My gay-boy sins...
Get over here and
Free -- the -- twins!

Decisions, Decisions

You know your life is completely pathetic beyond all redemption when you actually find yourself engaged in a thought process that goes something like this:

"Man, it's been a while.... I need to get off.... I could masturbate.... Okay, let's do that.... Hey, look, an unfinished sudoku!"

I'll leave it to you to guess which activity I ended up engaged in.

Under the Weather

Okay, I just have to whine a bit.

I've been fighting something or another for two weeks now. Two weeks! What the hell? I blame a woman from my office, who took a day off one day, then came back on the second day even though she didn't feel 100%. Though I tried to keep my distance from her, I seem to have nonetheless caught something.

So for the past two weeks, I have managed to alternate between all kinds of medications, some of which seem inconsistent:

- CVS generic Tussin: For cough and congestion. I literally feel like there's a tightness in my chest, and if I cough hard enough, something will emerge. You know that episode of South Park where everyone realizes that if you eat through your ass, you crap out your mouth? Yeah, I feel like at some point I would cough up something resembling a large piece of shit. I wish there were some device a doctor could use (preferably outpatient) for the purpose of shoving something into your throat or nostril and just sucking out all the crap accumulating in your lungs. Unfortunately, I don't think those exist. Anyone have any success with that Mucosamine stuff (the one with those commercials with the talking bog of phlegm)?

- CVS generic decongestant (sudafed type stuff): Despite the fact that the mucous in my chest felt thick (like something from The Blob), my nose was actually running. I've gone through two boxes of tissues already. It's gross the amount of wadded-up tissues randomly placed around my place (such as near my bed, where I hadn't bothered to put a trash receptacle). So while I was trying to loosen up the mucous in my chest, I was trying to dry up the mucous in my nose. This is a tricky balancing act.

- Advil LiquiGels: I took this when I felt like I had a fever. At one point, I took my temperature and found I had a 99.9 degree reading. I was also suffering from the chills. I have to say, Advil is now my fever reducer of choice. Damn, it worked well. Then, I figured, given how thick my chest phlegm was, there must be some element of fever involved, so I kept popping them.

- Asthma medication: All this has, of course, exacerbated my asthma, which makes some things next to impossible -- among them, breathing. A close second, sleeping through the night. The latter is also made difficult by having your nose not function all that well either.

All this is not good at all.

A colleague at my office suggested that I not see a doctor. "You're just suffering from a cold," she told me. "The doctor's going to give you antibiotics and you're just going to end up being resistant to them!" Silly me, I decided to actually listen to her, and did not go to a doctor.

But now it's just too much. It's been too long. I need to get a professional's opinion on this.

And I'm pretty much miserable much of the time.