Chicka bow chicka bow chicka bow-bow

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

***


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

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

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

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

Eventually, conversation was struck up:

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

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

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

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

***



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

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

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

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

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

The rest of the conversation is imagined:

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

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

***

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

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

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

The rest of this conversation took place in my head:

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

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

***

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

It Was Bound To Happen.

It was bound to happen eventually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom and the Chicks

Time magazine recently dubbed the Dixie Chicks "Radical" on its cover. I'm particularly fond of the narrative inside, which proclaimed that the "three Texas women have the biggest balls in American music."

Lead singer Natalie Maines, by (perhaps improvidently) speaking her mind about the then-looming Iraq war, turned the Dixie Chicks into a polarizing force in the American landscape. Country music fans turned on them. (A recent Country Music Awards broadcast contained at least one reference to The Chicks which wasn't all that positive. I only saw that one because, well, I didn't watch the full broadcast.) Their albums fell off the charts. They received death threats. Radio stations refused to play their music -- and some continue to refuse. They got into a very public feud with Toby Keith.

Battle lines were drawn over Maines's words. Depending on which side of political divide you were on, she was either the ultimate patriot, willing to risk her career by voicing unhappiness at the president on such a large-scale platform, or she was a modern-day Benedict Arnold, for voicing unhappiness at the president on such a large-scale platform.

Longtime readers of this blog will not be surprised that I totally agree with Maines, and with Time's assessment of these ladies' testicular fortitude. (I don't know if Maines's cohorts knew what she was going to do before she did it, but the fact that they've stuck by her and the kept the band together since pretty much ratifies her position.) While rabidly right-wing country music fans were burning Chicks CDs and issuing American fatwas on the women, I went out and bought three of their albums (which I love, by the way). I recently placed an order for their latest from amazon.com.

PS: Mad props to Duane for hooking me up with the concert presale code for the Dixie Chicks concert. Got a pair of pretty decent tickets for their upcoming show in town. Sing out, girls!

***




















It's difficult to believe, but it's been over a year since Tom Cruise (seriously -- check out that link -- it's hilarious!) pulled his "so-in-love-I'm-going-all-orangutan-on-your-ass" stunt on Oprah. Let's not forget the Matt Lauer episode and the Brooke Shields to-do. And the strange birthing rituals of the rich and brainwashed.

Meanwhile, worldwide receipts for Cruise's latest release, MI3, do not appear to have suffered, even if box office receipts in the US and Canada were a little lower than anticipated.

I personally can't bring myself to watch the movie, or any other Tom Cruise vehicle, since all of this started. Not so much because of the utter strangeness of the Oprah moment and the public displays that followed, but more because his position on medication for psychological disorders is really literally harmful to those people who agree with him and refuse pharmaceutical treatment of their problems. When, precisely, did this man obtain his medical degree? Between movie premieres?

***

When the Dixie Chicks controversy was at full throttle, we found ourselves in what appeared to be a massive First Amendment controversy. Maines had a right to speak out, one side argued. Yes, but when she does, she must realize and accept that there will be consequences, came the response. The response included depressed sales and the symbolic destruction of Chicks CDs. (Thankfully, most people, including all but the most rabid right-wingers, do not condone the death threats which were sent to the Chicks.)

Maines was entitled to speak her mind. And the country was entitled to react. And boy, did it ever react.

Cruise, meanwhile, generated no such constitutional controversy. (Granted, he didn't speak out on something as volatile as politics, but he did basically say that anyone on psychiatric medication was weak and should just get over their head problems.) Instead, the world (unlike me) appears to have been perfectly capable of separating his wierdness from his career.

Cruise was entitled to speak his mind. And the country was entitled to react. And the country yawned.

I really wanted to write this post about how similar Cruise and Maines were with respect to the price they paid for their beliefs, but it looks like Maines struck much more of a nerve and paid a bigger price.

America -- be it the embodied by the Administration or by its consumer spending habits -- gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "picking your battles."

Hateful Math

I had the strangest dream recently.

I was transported back to high school. oddly, it was to a class which I did fairly well in: calculus.

Stranger still, even my dream I realized that I had taken the class before. For some reason, though, I wholly accepted the fact that I was taking it again and likely would not do as well at it as before.

Then the teacher walked in (played in my dream by none other than my actual high school calculus teacher), and the dream took a dramatic turn of events far different from real life events.

The teacher -- I'll call her "Rev" -- walked in and announced (quite explicitly) that she didn't particularly like our class, and that there was a distinct possibility that she would be quitting teaching in order to avoid having to deal with us.

Obviously, this came as quick a shock to me, as usually calculus students were among the more better-behaved ones in my high school. (You didn't usually get to taking a calculus class by goofing off in your studies.) She told us she needed to think about it, but that she would quite soon get in touch with us about whether we would, in fact, be taking the class from her that year.

In the next part of my dream, we sat before yet another of my high school math teachers (this one, "Mas," was my Algebra II teacher). I can't explain why we were in a different math class while still not knowing what happened with Rev and the calculus class, but there we were, kind of biding time, when Rev walked in and announced that, in fact, she would not be teaching our class. In fact, she hated us and wanted nothing to do with us.

This is, of course, what many high school kids dream of: having a particularly challenging class cancelled. But calc is usually an elective, so those of us signed up for it probably wanted to take it, and as such, my dream permeated with the counterintuitive situation wherein a class full of math geeks was upset at not being able to study math.

At one point, she turned to Mas, and complained to him along the lines of, "I just can't do it. These kids need too much help. I had to review Reeve's theorem with them, for goodness sake!" and Mas gasped a response, "they didn't already know Reeve's theorem? Good heavens!"

(To my knowledge, the Reeve's theorem, in fact, does not exist. And I certainly don't remember Rev trying to review it with us in my dream. Which is just as well, because, as I said, I don't know that one exists. It would have been difficult for me to have a dream where a teacher reviews with me a theorem I don't even know.)

Somehow, this dream has left me feeling remarkably dissed (because I actually enjoyed my high school calculus experience) and a little disoriented.

Happy Memorial Day

In between the sleeping in, the barbecuing, the drinking, the sunning, the drinking, the swimming, and the drinking, let's slip in some time to remember those who have died for this country over the years.


Photo is of the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, in Honolulu, Hawai'i, better known as the "Punchbowl National Cemetery."

I Might Just Be Addicted

I have registered to play in the PokerStars World Blogger Championship of Online Poker!

This Online Poker Tournament is a No Limit Texas Holdem event exclusive to Bloggers.

Registration code: 7330476

Wish me luck!

The Measure of a Man

Hallmark hates men.

My father's birthday is in a few days. As usual, I forgot until just recently. Luckily, I've established a track record over the several decades of my life that I don't tend to buy much for birthdays, so there was no issue about any last-minute gift to get him.

My mind ran through the various places I could look for a card. Part of me said that any card will do. But of course, it had to be decent. I suddenly realized -- somehow for the first time -- that most of the places I frequent to buy birthday cards carry cards designed for the younger, hipper set. They're fun, irreverent, cartoonish, jokey -- and definitely not of the type my father would ever understand or appreciate.

I was definitely not going to buy a birthday card for my father at Pulp. Assuming I could have swung it, Lambda Rising would not have made for a good choice either.

I swung into a CVS on my way home from dinner. I was on the phone with my brother, talking about something or another, scanning row after row after row of cards. At first, I thought my conversation with my brother was just distracting me, but I eventually I realized that was not the case. The truth of the matter was that there were literally no "father's birthday" cards available at this CVS. None.

I found husband's birthday; I found brother's birthday; I found mother's and sister's and best friend's and in-law's and grandchild's and grandmother's and grandfather's and stepsibling's. There were no father's birthday cards there.

What the heck?



My determination to find an appropriate card increased exponentially after this dismal failure. I left the CVS and headed up the street to -- of all places -- Safeway. Yes, Safeway. Why? I don't know. It was the only other place I could think of that had cards available and that was open at that hour.

The security guard's gaze fixed upon me as I stood there and staring at the rack of cards. The first thing that caught my eye was the selection of Father's Day cards (which I somehow also missed at the CVS). Dammit, I thought, is that coming up too? Gads. I decided I may as well buy both at the same time. At least they had a selection that didn't all involve trite cartoons of power tools, golf, or "old man" jokes. I picked a sensible-looking one with a decent "I love you" message in it and moved over to where the birthday cards were.

Of course, I was met with a shocking lack of father's birthday cards at the Safeway too. What the heck does one do for their fathers when their birthdays come around? Do people just not care about their father's special days?

Finally, I found one card addressed to Dad. It had a cartoon duck on it who exclaimed how Daddy always had right "tools" for every occasion. Opening it up you see the duck wearing a tool belt, and everything attached to it had some lame "father figure" type turn of phrase attached to it -- stuff like "hammering home life lessons" or crap like that. Does anyone over the age of 12 actually think this is a decent card to get their father?

One card looked promising, except that upon pulling it out I found that it was for Mom. Another card for father wasn't quite for "dad" so much as it was for "Papi." Another card would have been good, except that it was already designated as "from both of us." Because my brother has recently decided to eschew birthday celebrations (that's a whole 'nother blog post), this would be wildly inappropriate. (Is there a huge market for birthday cards from two people? I know my parents had two kids, but seriously, how hard is it to just buy a regular "happy birthday" card and attach two signatures to it?)

Finally, I found one card that looked nice enough, contained a sentiment that wasn't about stereotyped "manly" interests, and did the trick. I bought it, knowing full well that I'd have to hope that my dad didn't examine the card too carefully.

The card I finally settled on was one put out by Mahogany, the division of Hallmark marketed for African-American families. The picture of a nice black man with his son on the front is rather small and a little fuzzy, so I'm hoping that's enough to render the scene a "generic" one.

Uh... in any event, happy birthday, Dad.

Solo Invitation

I recently received the invitation for a cousin's upcoming wedding.




In case you can't read that, it's the RSVP card enclosed in the invite (and a lovely view of my thumb holding it up). There are three lines under the blank for my name:

___ seat(s) reserved in your name(s)
___ number attending
___ will not attend

... and in the first line, the number "1" is already written in.

Now, my random questions: Seeing as this cousin hasn't done a very good job of keeping up with me, how the hell does he know I won't have someone to bring with me to the wedding?

The bigger question, is this a common thing now, where brides/grooms tell you explicitly what how much space you're allowed to take up? Did another cousin, married with her two children, get an invite with "4" written in? (Did she get one with "2" written in?)

I yearn for the "back in the day" times when one telegraphed how much space was avaiable at a wedding using a more genteel and subtle form: when the invitation was extended to a particular person and his/her guest (preferably by name, if the partner's name was known). And if you were known to be single and a guest was not welcome, you'd just get the invite for you. That way was subtle and did not grind any hints into you. It's kind of like having to ask for condoms instead of just taking them and paying for them: you know what's going on, you just don't want to have to proclaim it in such an obvious way.

I would have preferred that sub silencio method to be told not to bring a guest. I read Miss Manners; I can play by the rules. Had the invite come for me without "and Guest" I would have graciously taken the hint. But having someone affirmatively write the number "1" on your invite -- "I'm just holding a seat for you, thankyouverymuch" -- is a little annoying.

Abenteuer in Deutschland

A few girlfriends of mine ran off to Germany and Austria for a trip. I was invited (kind of), but given my experiences last time I went travelling with these girls, I decided to take a pass. (Well, that and I'm just plain broke.)

I'm glad I took that pass.

Here's a few email exchanges I've had with one the girls. Names and overly specific events changed, just in case someone's reading this blog who shouldn't be. Links are mine. Typos, however, remain intact.

From Emily to me:

hez there, we are all still alive. (note, the y and the z are mixed up on the kezboard, but i tzpe much faster if i ignore that=. anzwaz, i think laura is driving kristin crayz, but kristin isnät complaining. the problem is that kristin and i are much more on the same plane on scheduling and shopping issues, and we dont want to hang with laura while she spends 40 minutes picking out postcards!! but no major issues just zet, but there is still time.

Then later:

ok, this is truly classic.

laura orders a pasta dish with cheese sause that comes with peas and ham. she tells them NO PEAS. we wait 40 minutes for our food, and of course it comes with the peas. i saz laura, we waited all this time, just pick the peas out, its not like thez change the flavor. but no, she sends it back and tells them no peas. so kristin and i are just finishing our meals 15 minutes later and her dish comes back -- completelz plain pasta with ham and a lot of peas. laura looks totallz dismazed and the waitress goes, this is right, zah? no cheese? and laura goes no, no, no!!! i said hold the PEAS, not the CHEESE!!! i was terrified laura would send it back again, but the waitress just dumped a whole bowl of parmesan cheese on it, and laura just picked out the peas. except... she puts a forkful in her mouth and i see that one of the offending green suckers managed to sneak in, so i saz, laura, there is a pea in there... and then she just spit her whole mouthful right back on the plate!!!!!! kristin and i were dzing.... it was absolutelz hzsterical.

i swear i am not making this up... as if i could!

***

My girlfriends are picky eaters, persnickity about sleep, single-minded with respect to travel destinations, and sometimes a little on the inflexible side. I've pretty much decided that the next vacation I take, I'm going solo.

*** Title of this post courtesy of freetranslation.com.

Cold Hard Cash

A recent topical IM conversation:

M.: lol. William Jefferson has $100K in his freezer.
Dennis!: "cold hard cash"?
M.: indeed.
M.: although it was hot. bribery money.
Dennis!: perhaps he needed to cool it down.
Dennis!: he was getting ready to throw it in the machine -- you know, to "launder" it.
M.: he had it in ziploc containers.
M.: to keep it fresh.
M.: you know how greens spoil.
Dennis!: they get all wilty and suffer from freezer burn.
M.: You'd think someone so good at cooking the books would know that.

Yuk yuk yuk.

** Update: Thanks again, Wonkette!

In Other News...

I just noticed that Wonkette linked to me a few days ago! Woo hoo!

Unfortunately, I noticed too late to be able to go back to my stat counter to see how many hits it generated.

Now maybe if Gawker or Defamer would just notice me....

But the Astrodome was Still a Step Up for "Them."

So I see that the woman whose "Let them eat cake" response to victims of Hurricane Katrina received an honorary doctorate of public service from George Washington University.

I hear Bush 43, Condi, and Rummy are in the running for the Nobel Peace Prize, too.

I have no more words.

I'm Not Talking About Celery Here

I'm turning into a stalker.

***

I bumped into Cute Neighbor Guy recently as he was exiting a bar and I was entering. We've been doing this flirty dance for a while now, chatting each other up when we see each other in the hallways. We've exchanged names and apartment numbers on numerous occasions, but rarely have we done anything beyond that. (And, truth be told, I don't think he even remembers my name or apartment number for more than 30 seconds.)

So we said hi to each other on the street yet again, continuing our little virtual dance:

Him: Hey! How are you?
Me: Fine, I can't believe you're leaving just as I'm heading in!
Him: Well, I'm already buzzed and I have to get up early tomorrow....
Me: I think you're just trying to avoid me. We keep talking about getting together for dinner or something, but it never happens....
Him: I am not trying to avoid you!
Me: What apartment you in again?
Him: [gives apartment number] And you are ... [guesses completely wrong number]?
Me: No. [gives correct apartment number]
Him: Okay, yeah, so we should get together!
Me: You know now I'm just gonna stalk you right? Show up at your door unexpected and just say "Hey! What are you doing tonight?"
Him: Yeah, yeah, sure!
Me: You think I'm kidding....
Him: No, really. Bring paper though and leave me a note with your number in case I'm not there.
Me: Okay... don't say I didn't warn you.

Several angst-filled days later ("should I or shouldn't I??"), I went up to his apartment armed with a note that said "How about Wednesday or Sunday?" and leaving my phone number.

A normal person would have just slipped the note under the door and run. I knocked.

As luck would have it, he was home. I tried to be cheerful and non-stalker-y, but let's face it, I showed up unannounced to his apartment. There was a very low chance that the conversation would not be awkward.

So we made tentative plans to get together on Sunday. He called on Sunday to cancel, by the way.

Now I'll have to go back up there and try again.

***

The spectacular view from my office window is of the building next to mine. A thin alley separates my building from this one. That building is quite stark; along the facade facing me there are windows to the far left and windows to the far right, but none in between, making most my view one of solid ... well, whatever this material is. Thankfully, though, I'm not too far from the coveted corner office so I can see into the window bank at the rear of the building.

There's a guy in a tiny little office -- probably comparable to mine, now that I think of it -- who generally works with his shades pulled open. From the back/profile of his head, and the rest of his body, he seems reasonably attractive. At the very least, he's a Monet.

From time to time I catch myself looking out my window at him as he types, as he talks on the phone, and he reads some random document open in front of him. Earlier today I saw him in a suit and tie (unusual for him) and with a colleague (also in a suit and tie) -- I presume they had some important meeting to attend together.

What bums me out now is that, having seen him in his white dress shirt and yellow tie earlier today, I notice now that he's dressed in a brown or black tee shirt. What this means, of course, is that there was a possibility that he changed out of his suit in the office, and I missed it.

This upsets me greatly.

***

Perhaps I am in need of help.

Time Marches On

When I was 23 and barely out of the closet, gay bars seemed to be the most logical place to meet other gay men. Not having spent college or law school in any significantly gay environment, the only place I could think of that would provide a venue wherein strangers wouldn't judge you for your inclinations (hell, they'd embrace you (sometimes literally) for it) was the gay bar.

At 23, though, I remember getting weird vibes sometimes. In fact, there were certain bars I couldn't go to because of the lecherous, eerie feeling you got when you walked in. I'm referring to bars that seemed to cater to "older" clientele.

At 23, the last thing I wanted was to be noticed by a 40-something man. It was skeevy, icky. Sometimes just leery looks in their eyes was enough to make you feel unclean. If I was going to be hit on, or even leered at, I wanted the guy to be somewhat close to my age. I wanted him to be young.

And it scared me when the only attention I'd ever receive was from the distinctly older crowd.

As karma is often a bitch (even when you don't know what it's paying you back for), I've recently come to notice that I have joined the ranks of the older crowd I used to avoid. To be fair, I never used to think 30 was "old" old. But others do and did, and now I'm one of "them."

Recently, my friend Bill and I were enjoying some gorgeous weather sitting in an outdoor patio area having pretentious (overpriced) beers and calamari when a group of four young men sat down at the table next to us. And by young men, I do mean young -- probably no more than 23 or so each.

And I found myself thinking to how totally cute the one to my immediate left was.

And that's when it hit me: If I say a single word to these boys -- for whatever reason -- I will instantly come across as the Scary Old Guy. To be sure, by no means do I look geriatric, but let's face it, I don't look 22 anymore. (And thank heavens for that. Getting carded gets old. (No pun intended.))

If I had said anything to them, they, like the 23-year-old version of me, would have felt weirded out. They, like 23-year-old me, would have politely tried to steer themselves away from any conversations by only quickly answering any question I had asked and not soliciting or encouraging further exchanges. They, like 23-year-old me, later in the night after securing a safe distance, would comment to their friends about the creepy guy who dared to try to talk to them (read: hit on them) on the patio.

I'm proud of who I am and who I've become over the years. I'm comfortable in my skin (well, metaphorically at least). And I am blessed (or cursed) with the ability to find people all kinds of "types" attractive without limiting my range of options to "tall blond twinks" (for example) the way so many other gay men do. And I can find men in their 30s, 40s, and 50s hot.

I don't know those kids who sat down next to me that night. Heck, I may have even given them a bad rap by assuming they would do what I think they would. But the point of this post isn't them, it's me. (It's ALWAYS all about ME.)

I guess a better appreciation of others is another one of those things that comes along ... with age.

Random Thoughts

Thoughts that ran through my head tonight as I rode the Metro into NoVa to play poker:

- We're packed like sardines in here, yet it's dead quiet for some reason.
- Why is it the cutest guy in here is not facing me so that I can only see the back of his head?
- This guy's belly literally extends to where the tandem doors meet. Of course, given that, it would make perfect sense that he'd be the one standing in the doorway and not moving out of the cab when we pull into a station. Thankfully, that was the last stop on his side for a while.
- Something smells funny all of a sudden. I don't know for certain, but I'm going to blame Big Fat Guy, because I notice that he has now raised his arm to hold on to the overhead handle bar.
- Then of course, Big Fat Guy would get annoying and rude when it came time for him to get off the train.


Thoughts from tonight's poker game:
- The guy sitting next to me? I swear, I'm going to call him Napoleon from now on. He is Napoleon Dynamite jumped off the screen.











- The guy sitting two seats from him? Cleveland Brown from Family Guy. Just because of the way he talks, not the way he looks.












- Whenever I'm dominating the pockets (e.g., A-Q vs. A-9), the low card will always pair up, sucking me out. Always. In contrast, whenever I have the dominated hand (e.g., Q-Q vs. K-K), I will never get my suckout card, and I will lose.

Curse You, New York Times

I am amazed at how expensive it is becoming to read The New York Times. Particularly in an age when The Washington Post remains at 35 cents for a hard copy ($1.50 on Sundays) and almost completely free on line in addition to a free Express version, I am stunned that the NYT charges for any portion of its content.

I suppose it remains true that most of the "news" stories remain free on the NYT website, but really, that's the kind of news you can get from almost any other source. Anything that's even remotely unique to the paper comes at a price.

The Op-Ed page -- probably one of the best out there -- costs money to read. Pundits and academics inevitably discuss their concepts and ideas for days after publication, but us plebians aren't allowed to read them without paying for the privilege.

My greater concern is the Metropolitan Diary column. (Hey, I never claimed to be a deep political thinker.) For a while, I had bookmarked the "NY Region" page of the NYT web page so that I could read the new Diary columns when they appeared every Monday.

See, the Diary is kind of blog-like, which is why I enjoy reading it. It's just a compilation of sweet, sour, and in-between observations of New York City life, the kind of stuff that makes me miss my one summer there. I always looked forward to reading it.

About three weeks ago, I noticed that the Diary was no longer updating. I think the last one I read was from April 22. At first I thought perhaps the column was on a brief hiatus and waited for the next week's installment, but a week later, still nothing.

I was just about to lament that NYT had clearly discontinued to column when I noticed that the date on top of my bookmarked page had not changed since April. I decided to double-check by going through the main NYT page and charging forward from there, instead of going just through my bookmark.

Sure enough, I found the latest Metropolitan Diary (but only after running a search within their "NY/Region" page). So, for today, I got my Diary fix.

But wait! What about the several weeks that I didn't get to read them? I decided to check for the past weeks' installments, because previously, I had always been able to read up to a three previous Diary columns without charge.

No longer. Having read the May 15 column, I found that the May 8 column had already been captured by the webmaster gods and sold into a life once only seen in Times Square (before Rudy Guiliani "cleaned it up"): you have to pay to see these bad boys, sucker. Yes, like some cheap hooker offering to flash her mammaries in my face, the New York Times expected me to fork over a few bucks before I could read a column that was, in fact, less than a week old.

So, from now on, I must be exceedingly diligent in my NYT reading. Before long, if I don't get to the Diary within an hour after posting, they'll be charging for it.

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.

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.