"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.