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.

John Basedow is a Marketing Genius

If you watch any amount of cable television at all, you know who John Basedow is.* He's the "celebrity fitness" guy who is all over basic cable networks with commercials hawking exercise videos. He's been around for a while, but I've noticed that recently (that is, up to maybe a year ago) he's really truly stepped it up. New bits in his commercials (I don't think he's actually done a full-scale infomercial yet) are:

- an annoying yet mildly catchy "theme song"
- a new icon/logo for his "Fitness Made Simple" programs
- new spokespeople ("it worked for me!")
- live appearances ("You too can meet John Basedow in person!")

But what really sets his new commercials apart -- and why I think he's such a marketing genius -- is the substance of some of his latest commercials. (All quotes from the commercials are paraphrased from memory.)

"I've lost weight using the program," one woman gushes, "and now I have even higher goals, because I know I can do anything." Basedow responds, "Because that is what it's all about, isn't it? Once you take control of your body, you take control of your life."

Indeed, his website proclaims: "Anything is possible once you believe in yourself and have the knowledge and determination to accomplish your goals."

This, my friends, is absolute genius. This is John Basedow latching on to the obnoxious popularity of self-help claptrap which has reached fever pitch under people like Dr. Phil. Basedow goes beyond just talking about losing weight and looking good. The physical body is now just an outward manifestation of something else for him (and therefore, for you). Focus on that, and you treat a deeper, psychological yearning which will affect the rest of your life as well.

Lose weight, and you'll be able to get a better job! Lose weight, and you'll get a raise! Lose weight, and suddenly you'll be able to speak four new languages! Lose weight, and master integral calculus!

Those other commercials -- for diet pills (like the one with that "new doctor") and even for Jenny Craig (starring Kirstie Alley) -- no longer hold a candle to John Basedow. Those commercials are so superficial. There's no chicken soup for the soul; all they do is pander to your outer looks. Basedow wants you to set your goals beyond your physical body.

Basedow cares.

"You definitely care. . . . You obviously care about helping as many people as you can at any point in time," another woman tells him in a commercial.

Because, of course, Basedow isn't trying make money. Hellz no! He cares. His goal is to make people feel good. The profit he makes off of selling these exercise regimens? Gravy, pure and simple.

Me, I think the lady must have misspoken. I think instead of saying Basedow wanted to help as many people as he can, she actually meant to say he cares about selling his product to as many people as possible. I know, there's a lot of verbal ledgerdemain involved in his slip of the tongue, but she apparently slipped up quite badly. You should hear her when she wants to order a Caesar salad and instead accidentally asks for a bacon double cheeseburger with the works and a side order of chili cheese fries.

There's a strange Richard Simmons-esque quality to Basedow's new advertising regime. Poor dear, both Richard and John tell their overweight viewers. It's not your fault. But if you get motivated, you can lose weight and love yourself again! And with that self-love, you can set new goals for yourself. I'm going to teach you how. Because I care.

(Richard Simmons was, of course, much, MUCH gayer about it.)

Even Basedow's theme song hints at this theme:

Here's John Basedow
He's gonna show you how
To reach your potential
And turn your whole life around!

Note the complete lack of anything referring to getting in shape. There's nothing in there about losing weight. Weight loss is a secondary by-product of the "reaching your potential" goal. If you knew nothing about Basedow and heard that song, you might think he was some sort of inspirational speaker, sort of like a present-day Norman Vincent Peale.

So, if I were wearing a hat, I'd take it off to John Basedow. Marketing genius, that one. I won't be buying his product, but I'm sure he's managed to get a huge number of the sheep of this country to go ahead and do just that. Dr. Phil would be proud too.


* I would link to him, but I don't want to drive any traffic to his site. Frankly, I think he's kind of freaky. And, for a "fitness celebrity," he's kind of ugly. But I will admit, some of "success stories" on his website are kinda hot. One guy, Jason, looks good, but then again, the idiocy of it all is, he looked good in his "before" picture too!

Butchy Day

This morning in the space of less than half an hour my wife came up in conversation twice.

Twice. What are the odds? Granted, neither person who made the comment knew me, and it's not unreasonable to just assume heterosexuality, but twice. Wow. I think the universe is trying to send me a signal.

The first reference took place as I was going through the metal detector at the courthouse. I was admonished to remove everything from my pockets, including my wallet. (I usually don't remove my wallet just because I don't think there's anything in there that should set off a metal detector.) Heeding the security guard's instruction, though, I removed my wallet and placed it in a plastic tub.

"Take your money back," the guy told me. I guess there was a fear that someone the other end would make off with my cash, which was visible, seeing as my wallet is actually a money clip. So I removed the lone one-dollar bill from the clip and put it in my pocket. (The rest of my money, change from the $20 I spent buying some breakfast, was in my pocket already.)

"Wife keeping you on a short leash there, huh?" the guard joked with me. I guess one sign of a wife's control over her husband is her not doling out an adequate sum for lunch money. I laughed with him and continued on my way.

I met my boss and our client in the cafeteria and talked briefly about the case. I had never met this client before; my boss is the lead on her matter, so today was the first time we were introduced. The client, within three questions, asked whether I was married.

"Uh, excuse me?" I asked, now thrown by the second reference to my wife following so quickly on the heels of the first.

She explained that she was under the impression that "the other attorney" (the one not my boss) was married. We explained that for a little bit, our other associate worked on her matter, and that other associate was a married woman.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I were straight. Then I realize it wouldn't be terribly different from what it is now: seeing as I can't seem to get a date with a guy, there's no real reason to believe my luck would be any better with a woman.

Still, I think I'll take my newfound heterosexuality and hit a strip club this weekend. I can use those singles from my money clip.

Tomorrow Never Dies

I rented Tomorrow Never Dies over the weekend. I'd already seen it -- in the theaters as well as on FX over the weekend -- but I had forgotten to take it out of my queue at Netflix.

Besides, Michelle Yeoh was in it. She's hot in martial-arts style sequences. I love that stuff.

I do believe Ms. Yeoh was the first Asian Bond girl. (About frigging time.) And, though I cannot purport to be an expert on the subject, she's the first one I've seen in a long time who was on the "Good Guys'" side who could hold her own (i.e., kick some ass). The last woman I an recall who kicked ass in a Bond film was Grace Jones in A View to a Kill (and let's face it, she was somewhat freaky). All the other Bond chicks seem to have made their careers out of standing around going, "James! Help!" or "Ow! James!" Then they'd coo, "Ooooh, James!"

(Don't get me wrong, a lot of Bond chicks were smart. Like Dr. Goodhead (ahem) in Moonraker, just for one example. But generally... helpless tarts. Smart, but helpless.)

Anyway, back to Tomorrow Never Dies: there's just one scene I have got to vent about.

So Michelle Yeoh demonsrates in this movie her talent at movie martial arts repeatedly, and it's great to watch. Then at some point about three-quarters of the way through the movie, she gets caught by Bad Guy's minions, who then take her to him. So she's standing there with two goons holding her arms and two other goons with automatic weapons pointing at her. Then Bad Guy says something annoying and Michelle lashes out by trying to kick him (which we know would have hurt had she succeeded).

Then Bad Guy launches of this mock-martial arts tirade, complete with old-style Bruce Lee sound effects and exaggerated arm movements, ending with one word: "Pathetic." Now keep in mind, this is while Michelle Yeoh is being held in place with guns pointed at her.

So my one comment to the writers is this: Why could she not have said, at this point, "Get these goons to let me go and get these guns off of me and let's see just how pathetic I am, White Boy"? Please? Because Bad Guy was just such a racist asshole in that scene.

Cinderella

Congrats to George Mason University for making it to the Final Four in the NCAA Tourney!

I'm not really following the tournament much this year -- not that I usually do -- but with so many local teams playing this year I couldn't help hearing buzzes around town about our teams. I was sorry that GWU took such an early departure, and Georgetown's defeat was relatively hard fought, but at least Mason's in the Final Four.

We caught the last few seconds of the Mason game while I was at a friend's house. While no one in the room really had any connection to Mason, a few of us were rooting for them just because we wanted a good Cinderella story (bonus points for involving a local school). Besides, almost everyone's brackets got screwed up when Kansas and Carolina lost anyway.

Watching some of the news reports on the match-up tonight, I heard two things that disturbed me about the U-Conn team. First, they made some arrogant prediction last night that they would win the entire tournament. Me personally, I like a little bit of modesty in athletes, especially collegiate athletes. You don't just "win." You have to work at it. There are others involved (they're called your "opponents"); acknowledge it's not necesssarily automatic that you'll beat them.

Second -- good grief! -- after the national anthem, U-Conn actually declined to shake hands with the Mason team. That's wildly unsportsmanlike and definitely uncool to an extreme. Again, these guys are people and, whether you take them seriously or not, they will be playing against you. Does it take too much to treat them like human beings? They're as excited to be there as you are -- maybe even more so, since they've rarely made an appearance in the tournament at all, let alone make it to the Sweet Sixteen -- just be gentlemen and acknowledge them.

If for no other reason, after that kind of arrogant show I'm glad U-Conn didn't beat Mason. I'll just make it a good secondary reason (after the great Cinderella story) that I'm pretty happy for Mason right around now.

"Check It Out!"

Could there possibly be anything more annoying than having "My Humps," by the Black Eyed Peas, totally stuck in your head? Worse yet is that I only know the opening lyrics; the rest are a blur to me. And yet I hear this damn song all the freaking time, and now it's stuck my head.

And who in the name of all that is holy has ever been known to refer to their backside as "lovely lady lumps"? I'm gonna wager a quick guess here: no one.

Hockey and Wings

Overheard between two gay men, in Hooters of all places:

Guy 1: I love Dave and Buster's! Have you ever been?
Guy 2: No.
Guy 1: It's a lot of fun... but it's kinda dangerous. You can totally blow a wad there. Uh, of cash, I mean.


Okay, one of those guys was me. I'll leave you to figure out which one.

***

So Monday night was even straighter than my usual nights. I swear, if I don't watch out, I'm going to start finding boobies irresistably attractive.

It started with a hockey game. Watching it, not playing it. I love watching hockey games... it strikes me as such graceful savagery. I mean, one minute these guys are gliding across the ice, smooth as silk, the next, WHAM!, they're slammed up against a divider. I mean, hey, a legal way to stop a guy advancing with the puck is to body slam him, what can I say? Loads of fun. Also, it's one of the few sports where a fist fight is more exciting than the play of game itself.

During half time, they had these little tykes come out. Four of 'em, two goalies, two shooters. It was so cute watching them try to skate, let alone also maneuver the puck toward the goal (and to defend the goal). I think I cheered more for these kids than I did for any of the pro players. They were just so adorable! Although a part of me also feels bad, because when there's a six-year-old shooting a puck and a six-year-old defending, well, one of them is going to fail in their endeavor. You cheer for the kid who succeeds, but then at the same time you end up making the poor other kid feel bad.

After the game, my companion and I stepped out for food and ended up at Hooters. I've always wanted to go to check out their wings, but none of my friends ever wants to go with me. In truth, the place is pretty decent. The food is reasonably priced in comparison to any other bar/pub in the area, and the wings aren't half bad. Oh, and friendly chicks with huge boobs who make it point to bend over at the waist when taking your order -- classic.

Thing is, after this past weekend at the beach, I had told my friends that I really need to get my gay on after all that time at Starboard. And what do I do upon my return? Hit a live sporting event followed by dinner at Hooters. Niiiiice.

Just Beachy

I spent this weekend at a friend's place in Rehoboth/Dewey Beach. It's Dewey Beach's "opening weekend," so we hopped over to hit the bars. Well, a bar. And have a party of sorts.

First, let me take a moment to bitch about office machines. By office machines, I'm referring to my work computer, as well as the one belonging to my boss and the receptionist. I'm also referring to the office copier, which doubles as a printer at times. Why is it that when I'm in a rush all these things choose to freeze up on me en masse? There's a word for this: resistentialism. (Check out the definitions here and here.) I wasn't so much running up against deadlines, but I of course wanted to get things done in order to leave the office just a tad early. And wouldn't you know, just as my friends are calling to tell me they're on their way to pick me up, my machine will no longer print. Nor will my document print from a different machine. Suddenly I'm frustrated and rushed and stressed and blah. Thankfully, eventually everything got taken care of and I grabbed my stuff and ran down to get the hell out of Dodge.

We stayed at my friend Chris's house. He lives just a few miles from the popular Dewey Beaches and we insisted on hitting up the Starboard to "start off" the beach season. This despite the fact that it was still well under 40 degrees out and we were all wearing long sleeves and jeans. (There were, of course, the handful of idiots wearing shorts and short sleeves and even flip-flops, but they were clearly, well, out of their minds.)

Completely apropos of my last post on this subject, every time I walk into the Starboard I have to ask myself why I'm there at all. Aren't I too old for this?, I wonder. Twenty-something frat boys and their corresponding Tri-Delt sisters getting drunk, engaging in sexual banter, and making fools of themselves surrounded me. Do I really need that?

I always think that, then I always look around and come to realize that, in fact, many of the people around me aren't twenty-something. There are thirty-somethings and even forty-somethings here. This is a beach community where time, and the maturity it usually brings, stands still. People who probably hold down perfectly respectable jobs and who earn quite good livings doing what they do reacquaint themselves with the part of their brains that still clamor to get shit-faced in public for the fun of it:

Too-tight t-shirts (on both men and women)? Check.
Far too much visible cleavage (on both men and women)? Check.
Dry humping on the dance floor? Check.
Adults who should know better barely able to stay on their feet at 12:30 a.m.? Check.
Public emitus? Check, and check. (Watch where you walk.)

Compounding this question is the fact that the environment at all the Dewey Beach bars is insanely heterosexual. Sexual tension pervades the air, sometimes to predatory levels. The men here have one thing on their minds, and it's not scintillating conversation. No one is looking for "Ms. Right," just "Ms. Right Now." This dynamic would suffer from an immense imbalance were it not for the fact that the women here more or less seek the same thing. The words of Toby Keith apply to everyone here:

I'm not talkin' 'bout locking down forever, baby that would be too demanding.
I'm just talkin' 'bout two lonely people who might reach a little understanding.
I'm not talkin' 'bout knockin' out heaven with whether we're wrong or we're right.
I'm not talkin' 'bout hookin' up, and hangin' out,
I'm just talkin' 'bout tonight.

One girlfriend of mine actually had the following "exchange" with a mildly attractive guy after a not-insignificant amount of time together dancing:

Guy: So would you be offended if I asked you to come back to my beach house?
Friend: I'm not offended, but the answer would be 'no.'
Guy: [Wordlessly walks off into the crowd, and is later spotted dancing with another good-looking woman.]

Don't get me wrong, there's usually some decent eye candy at these places. I swear, when you're 23 years old and remotely virile and masculine, sometimes it's not hard not to look totally doable. It doesn't take much (or maybe my standards are dropping the less sex I actually get). But these are straight boys we're talking about; much as I'd love to see them naked, I'm sure it's just not going to happen, and that's all for the best. I'd happily head over to the somewhat more gay-friendly Rehoboth Beach and hit the bar scene there, but the logistics of getting there and back to Chris's house is a bit more effort that I'm willing to coordinate.

Thankfully, at least one friend of mine this year agrees with me with respect to questioning why we keep going back to the Starboard over and over again despite our advancing years. Maybe next time she'll be willing to come with me to hang out at the gay bar(s).

On the flip side of that is my question about why my girlfriends still love going to the beach so much. They're usually not the type to really enjoy the hookup scene or the search for beach boys. By now they're really more interested in longer-term potential; why do they insist on continuing to go to a meat market set against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean? The mind kinda boggles.

In the end, though, the weekend for me was all about being with my friends, away from the city, in an environment that's bit more relaxing and away from the stress of city life. There wasn't much to worry about; we just hung out, enjoyed each others' company, ate a hell of a lot, had (quite) a few drinks, and relaxed. We'll be doing this again a few times this summer, I'm sure. Right now, though, I'm in it more for Chris's hot tub than the Starboard. I only wish he'd be willing to join me in it -- he's kinda cute.