What a Drag

Tonight was a blast. Hit up the Annual High Heel Race on 17th Street with a few friends. What a fun night! Not too much to say other than that, so here are a random spattering of photos from the evening.

Most of the photos from before the race started are really bad because there was pretty much no light on the street and the flash wasn't remotely powerful enough to help me out.


I just like the composition on this one.



Nice ass.



The Washington Monument guy.



Ugly Betty.



You can't see it, but this salt bottle has legs. Of all my friends (and the people around me), I was the first one to figure out just what this costume meant. 'Cause I'm smart like that.



This is a very elaborate headdress. I was trying to get a shot of the guy along with the headdress, but he moved.


?


Gorgeous.


Not sure what this was.


Judy Jetson (we think).


Good times, good times. My friend Laura wants me to be in the race next year. I might actually consider it.

It's a Small World After All

I am often amazed at how small the world can be sometimes. Sometimes this is a good thing; more often, it's a somewhat awkward thing; from time to unfortunate time, it's a metaphorical herpes outbreak that just won't go away.

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Picture this, Washington, 1999. I'm in my mid-20s and in what I now realize to be the prime of my life. I have long come out of the closet and am comfortable with having gay friends and frequenting gay venues.

Meeting gay people is difficult for me, mostly because meeting people in general is difficult for me. I'm not naturally outgoing, and making lifelong friends with guys who just happen to be standing next to me in a bar just never seems to click for me. So in whatever diverse ways I meet people (usually on line or through friends), I end up developing several small networks for friends, none of whom I have ever introduced to the other.

And for (relatively) good reason: in the context that I meet these people, I am a different person at different times. Sometimes I feel like a social chameleon: I can be a party animal with one set of friends, and the quiet, brunch-and-International Coffee kinda guy with another group of friends. I can be pretty comfortable in both worlds. I think that as a result I developed several sets of friends, each one catering to one of my moods. Call me Sybil. "I ain't no slut!"

One night, I and some of my friends decided we were going to hit Nation, the warehouse dance club which was such a hit among The Gays in the '90s. I was looking forward to dancing, hanging out, staying up to all hours with this crew of friends...

... and as we were in the bar area waiting for the main dance hall to open, I bumped into another, complete distinct, set of friends. "Hi!" we greeted each other happily. I felt so popular, knowing so many people without even planning it that way.

Being the polite guy that I am, I (however grudgingly) introduced my one set of friends to the other): "Blah Blah, this is Blah Blah."

And, of course, they already knew each other. In fact, they were pretty good friends.

Here I was, thinking that I had given myself so many different options for my own personal gay posse, only to realize that really I was just cherry-picking from the same large group of friends.

<><><>

On Thanksgiving Weekend of 2004, I visited some friends from high school who have now moved to Seattle. Joining us was C.W.T., another high school friend. Sometime during the course of that weekend, C.W.T. -- who until then I had considered a friend, if only one who made cameo appearances in the screenplay of my life -- referred to me as "the most superficial person [he] know[s]," in absolute seriousness. In fact, when I made clear how taken aback I was at the characterization, he took pains to defend it.

I reflected on the situation for a long time after it happened, and I decided that I didn't want to remain friends with C.W.T. any longer. I was, and am, perfectly comfortable with the decision to voluntarily remove myself from the life of someone who thinks so little of me. I generally don't think of him much anymore. Were I to visit the metropolis that he lives in, I would not really be inclined to look him up.

We take you now to Provincetown, July 2007. I am standing outside of the Paramount Video bar with my friends trying to figure out our plans for evening when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I find that the finger belongs to none other than C.W.T.

How, oh how, is it that of all the times and places for us to end up vacationing, we end up vacationing in the same place at the same time? Oh strange Fate!

We exchanged various pleasantries -- oh everything's good, I'm having a great vacation, there are my friends, we're going to go find more drinks now, bye! -- and I departed the scene. C.W.T. suggested that we catch up, but I definitely knew we would be doing no such thing, not if I could help it.

I flash you ahead now again to the events of these past two weeks. I had been itching to go see a play, so I contacted my friend David, with whom I have developed a theater-buddy relationship. It had been a while, so I just sent him an email rather than bug him on the phone.

He was too busy to respond to my email promptly (my bad anyway), but when he did, he included this P.S.:

P.S. I met two friends and former classmates of yours in New York
recently. One was Blah Blah,* who has been a friend of mine for years; the other was another gay Asian guy who was a classmate of yours (but I'm blanking on his name right now).

* It's shocking how many friends I have named Blah Blah. It's quite a common name. Sometimes I'm surprised I can tell them apart.

Knowing this Blah Blah as I do, there is no doubt in my mind that David is referring to C.W.T.

I feel like my world is becoming smaller and smaller. My worlds are colliding, and it scares me.

<><><>

It is, indeed, a small world after all. And now that damn song is going to be stuck in your head for the next 12 hours. Ha ha!

Wherein I Turn Strangely Catty About a Topic on Which I Know Nothing

Dear Fellow Metro Traveller Who Happens to be Waiting Next to Me the Platform This Evening:

OH HONEY. Those pants are atrocious. I mean, really. Is that flannel? Whatever the material is, it most certainly doesn't look comfortable. More importantly, though -- the stripes. What. The. Hell. Multicolor thin vertical stripes all the down the leg? Did I blink and miss my trip back to the 70s? Because if I have, it's terribly unfair that I somehow missed my opportunity to drop acid to see that. If I'm going to be subjected to those colors, I kinda want to be on a mind trip when it happens.

But wait... are those SNEAKERS? RED sneakers? Woah, those pants don't look good to begin with, and you pair them with THAT? They're not even remotely stylish! Ugh. Oh Lord I wish I could take a picture, but my phone has horrible resolution and the lighting in here sucks. It would be horribly rude of me to try to use an actual camera camera.

But... well, wow.

At least, I suppose, your pants (and shoes) aren't half as bad as this guy I snapped a shot of in Amsterdam last May.



Horrific. You lose a sense for it from the back, but take my word for it; they looked HIDEOUS from the front.

A&F Got Pwned!

Okay, I'm not a huge fan of Abercrombie and Fitch to begin with -- it's pretty body fascist, in my opinion.

But apparently in the old-school style of Flash Mobbing, a group called Improv Everywhere put together a little prank on the A&F store in NYC.





Sorry about all the random video posts lately. But come on, it's some funny stuff.

Oh, and hat tip to QueerClick [NSFW!].

Uh... No.

My office rents out part of our office space to a solo practitioner and his assistant (who's also his wife). They're this older Chinese couple, and the woman has basically taken to treating me like a surrogate son because she feels bad that I'm so far removed from my own Chinese family. From time to time she brings me some leftover food, either stuff she's made or stuff they had at some restaurant. She's very traditional Chinese.

One afternoon, my office was having lunch in the conference room when she wandered by. I had made a rather large recipe of pasta and vegetables the night before, so we were all eating my food which I had shared with the others.

"So what are you eating?" Chinese Lady asked.

"It's pasta with vegetables. Dennis! made it," one of my colleagues told her. We have a makeshift kitchen in the office (consisting of a rather large toaster oven and a microwave) so oftentimes there are rather impressive cooking projects going on for lunch. Even salads are a big production sometimes. I usually buy my food, but sometimes I bring leftovers.

"You should cook more often!" Chinese Lady tells me. "See, that looks good!"

"I know, but it's hard when you're single," I tell her.

Chinese Lady stopped for a while... then piped up again: "You know what you need? You need a girlfriend to cook for you." Have I mentioned that she makes her husband his lunch every day?

My colleagues and I each looked up and kinda chortled. Really, how does one respond to something like that tactfully?

Have I mentioned how traditional this woman is? On top of that, she's very religious; her church creates a large part of her social life. Once I remember a number of us sitting around at lunch chatting and the subject veered to same-sex marriage. "What's your opinion?" my boss asked her. I think she was caught off guard, because the first things out of her mouth were words to the effect of how "those people" are "sick." (She then slightly changed her wording but it was clear what her position was on the subject.)

The conversation just got more bizarre after that: You could almost see the light bulb go "ding!" over her head as she suddenly said, "Oh! I know! You should meet my niece! She's in New York now, but I think she's coming down to visit!"

I couldn't hold it back. Almost immediately after she finished, I responded: "Uh, NO."

She persisted though. I'll give her her perseverance. "No pressure, really. Just a relaxed evening. We'll all go to dinner. Really it's just you guys meeting each other."

My boss tried valiantly to extricate me. "I think Dennis! is really quite the happy free-wheeling bachelor...."

And yet she insisted that it would just be dinner, no big deal, no pressure, just a fun night out. She insisted that I give her my cell phone number so that she could set it up.

That was about two weeks ago. I thought it had all blown over, but apparently he niece is coming into town this weekend and she wants me to join them for dinner.

Short of telling her that I'd rather stick an iodine-dipped dinner fork in my eye, I can't imagine politely declining for no reason.

So I'm going to tell her I already have weekend plans. Maybe I'll be going out of town.

To New York.

Color Me Skeptical.

Today's WaPo proclaims:

The U.S. military believes it has dealt devastating and perhaps irreversible blows to al-Qaeda in Iraq in recent months, leading some generals to advocate a declaration of victory over the group, which the Bush administration has long described as the most lethal U.S. adversary in Iraq.

"Devastating" and "irreversible" blows? How convenient, given that public support for our occupation of Iraq has steadily declined for months now. Someone somewhere seems to have decided that the American public needs to be fed some good news out of Iraq as the casualties mount and the stagnation of any progress continues. So they decided to tell us that Al-Qaeda is "crippled."

This strikes me as a demure version of "Mission Accomplished." Instead of a press conference with a huge banner, they'll just let the headlines do the work.



I, for one, am skeptical. With more and more of our citizens coming home in flag-draped coffins, I really don't think the resilient terrorist network has really been "irreversibly" "crippled."

Hand Job

Oh my.

SNL on Craig

I'm stealing this from Scott-O-Rama.



My fave lines:

- "You opposed gay marriage. What, do you think marriage takes the sizzle out of it? Really. Or are you just afraid that if gay marriage is legalized there will be fewer single gay guys trying to have sex in airport bathrooms? Really!"

- "So, in conclusion: You're gay, but a married Republican, you're going to vote for anti-gay legislation but you'll solicit sex in an airport bathroom. Wow, you really do have a wide stance."

Gallon Challenge

While doing an image search for this post, I came across this site which somehow I just had to share. (I decline to share, however, the links for puke sex-fetish sites.)

The Gallon Challenge is apparently some ritual that involves drinking an entire gallon of milk in one hour (2% or greater, it says, and no chocolate milk allowed), and then trying to keep it down for another hour. They say the "keeping it down" part is well-nigh impossible. Hence, the photos. Lots and lots of photos. Of puke. Lots and lots of puke. Very, very white puke.

I have no idea how long that site's been around, so those poor kids in the photos might be professionals in their late 20s by now, but still.

I can't imagine that much regurgitation is good for your body in any way, but I have to admit, I think I'd laugh my ass off if I were around to watch this.

Sloppy

I submit to you that anyone who actually has a strongly negative opinion of this GWU policy is a serious lush in need of some intervention. "It's just a little puke" is just... not a sentence that should ever be uttered.

**Aside: I did a google search on "puking" to find that picture. Never, ever, ever again.

Wish Me Luck

Hopefully my Tuesday night training will get me somewhere this time!

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: 7861445

My Dorkiness is Limitless

Last Monday night, I was walking along 14th Street when I bumped into some friends on the street on their way in to dinner at a nearby restaurant. I was carrying a small Whole Foods bag.

An exchange of pleasantries ensued, and a friend commented on my bag, suggesting that I had my dinner with me.

"No," I sheepishly replied, "this bag has a travel Scrabble board and dictionary. I'm on my way to meet some people to play Scrabble."

And with this, I once again emerged from my Scrabble closet.

A small group gathers at my local coffee shop on a regular basis to play Scrabble. We're pretty hardcore geeks about it; we have the little cheat sheets listing all the two- and three-letter words and we are genuinely excited about bingos and other cool plays (like being able to play a "Z" on a triple letter score that counts twice).

Wow, I am a geek.

***

The very next day, I was at my weekly poker tournament in the 'burbs. As I've mentioned before (I'm too lazy to look up the link), it's generally a very straight affair with a group of people that I've seen around enough that I consider them (and me) to be regulars. And I've never had occasion to discuss my sexuality with them. (Well, I kinda have, but chose not to -- it would have felt forced.) (Again, too lazy to look up that link.)

So after the cheap beer specials ended, I asked our server (female) for my check. She provided it in the obligatory leather sleeve, and I pulled a $10 bill out of my wallet and slipped it in, with an edge of the bill protruding through the top. In due course, she took the sleeve and returned with my change.

Meanwhile, one of my fellow players (who had already been eliminated from the tournament and was watching away from the table) decided to announce, rather loudly, that I had clearly given my number to our server. "Did you see that?" he practically yelled. "This guy gave his number to the waitress? There was writing on that bill! Seriously!"

I just kinda smiled to myself, because I knew what writing he was referring to.

On the edge of the bill I had left was a handwritten notation: "www.wheresgeorge.com".

Where's George? is a site where you can log in your currency, then spend it normally. When other people find the bills, they re-enter the number into the system. This way, one can track particular bills as they venture around the country. It's kinda fascinating.

In a geeky sort of way.

I've started making it a point to enter all my bills into the system. And I try not to spend bills I get back as change until I've had a chance to enter them in. And if I see bills that have the mark on them, I'll try to acquire them so I can re-enter the bill myself.

Because I'm a big geek.

Now That I Think of It...

Dear Sen. Craig:

I understand you're trying to withdraw the guilty plea that you entered in Minneapolis. You know, the one wherein you admitted that you had inappropriately moved your foot under the partition of the guy sitting next to you (more than once, I might add). I understand that you think you should be able to take your case to trial, because, hey, the guilty plea was somehow legally defective.

Okay, I'm no lawyer, but --

Oh wait, I am a lawyer.

First things first: Withdrawing a guilty plea is very very difficult. If the trial judge is worth anything at all, he walked you through a big long colloquy in open court wherein he asked you a very very long series of questions designed to elicit whether you were absolutely, positively, super-de-duper sure that you were okay with waiving the large numbers of constitutional guarantees our criminal justice system offers. You were probably asked, possibly more than once, whether you knew you had a right to a trial by jury, that you had a right to confront witnesses against you, to have counsel appointed for you, etc. etc. You were then asked whether you were ready to waive all those rights. You were asked whether you knowingly and voluntarily and of your own free will waived those rights. And you affirmed each and every time that you knew you had those rights, and that you were willing to waive them.

Dude, judges usually have a script in front of them for when they accept guilty pleas. Judges don't frequently mess up guilty pleas for this very reason.

So, uh, good luck with that.

But I'm more curious about the next step after that. You want to withdraw your guilty plea. If -- if -- you succeed, what do you think will be the next step for you? I'm sure you've thought this through, or if not, your lawyer has told you this: the next step would be that you get to go to trial before a jury of your peers.

It's unlikely that you can get the charges reinstated for the purpose of legally challenging the sting in the first instance, or that you were read your Miranda rights.

The sting was clean: even if you think it wasn't, it's unlikely that the judge will be able to conclude on his own that it was dirty. It would be a swearing contest between you and the cop; that means sitting in front of a jury who will decide just what the facts surrounding your arrest were.

And the Miranda issue? First of all, there's a tape recording of the arresting officer reading you your Miranda rights. But even if you wanted to try to claim you were not told your rights again later, what harm would that entail? It would mean any statements you made during the non-Miranda interview session would be inadmissible. But don't look now, your first post-arrest interview contains some pretty damaging admissions standing all on its own.

So, where does that get us: you'll end up in front of a jury of your peers. You're going to ask a jury of your peers to decide whether or not you were engaged in inappropriate conduct. When you ran your hand under the partition. When you scooted your foot over toward that of your stall-neighbor.

Let me tell you this: no man who has ever used a public restroom will ever buy that you just have a "wide stance." We all know that's not appropriate. We all know it's kind of icky. And once the officer testifies that tapping your foot is what people who want stall sex do... well, you're toast.

So seriously, dude... what are you thinking?

Uh, good luck.

Sincerely,
Dennis!

Overthinking HSM

I just wanted a reason to post this pic. HOT!

Okay, so I saw High School Musical this weekend. Entertaining, to be sure. Who doesn't love a good song-and-dance routine (though the very first number, "Get Your Head in the Game," was a little lame). Even better when there are cute boys involved.

But of course, as I am wont to do, I have some stupid issues about this movie. I overthink things, and here's what I came up with after watching this movie.

Quick synopsis if you haven't seen the movie: Troy is a basketball star, and his friends laugh at him because he found out that he can sing. The same is true for Gabriella, except that she's not an athlete, she's academically talented. (Who would have thought the nerds could be mean to each other like that?) Troy and Gabriella together endure ribbing and taunts to try out for the high school musical. Along the way, they have to beat out brother-and-sister team Sharpay and Ryan Evans (by the way, how much crack do you have to be smoking to name your child Sharpei?), who have dominated (and, somehow, terrorized) the drama club for a long time.

The movie is, of course, set up to make Troy and Gabriella the heroes. You're supposed to want them to try out despite their other commitments and be the musical leads. Sharpay (tee hee!) and Ryan are talented, but their personalities are awful and you're supposed to want terribly to dislike them.

But although I don't like them, I still kinda feel sorry for them. Truly.



Here's my thought: Sharpay and Ryan had nothing going for them besides their stage talents. True, they let it go to their heads in an awful way, but at least they had something to be proud of. It's what they're good at. I suppose, up to that point, they had no reason to expect that anyone else would ever challenge them for the position of on-stage talent.



But then here Troy and Gabriella. Both already have their superstar talents. Troy is universally loved anyway, just because he's the basketball king. Gabriella is clearly academically talented and will probably graduate at the top of her class. (And, inexplicably, this is actually something to be proud of at the school they attend.) They don't need the extra attention and love.

But Sharpay and Ryan kind of do. As I said, that was destined to be the pinnacle of their high school career, the point when everyone watches them and thinks just how great they are. But this moment of glory was taken away from them. Worse yet, it was taken away from them by two people who already had the world on their oyster shells. Troy and Gabriella get to walk away from this not just stars, but now they're well-rounded super-duper-uber stars. Meanwhile, Sharpay and Ryan no longer have anything. Troy gets basketball and dramatic lead on his college applications (an admissions officer's wet dream, I tell ya); Gabriella gets to boast of top academics and dramatic lead; Sharpay and Ryan no longer have that "dramatic lead" line to brag about.

Really, if I were Sharpay and Ryan, I'd hate them too.

... And Zac Efron is hot.

My Quick (or Not-So-Quick) Take on Larry Craig

Larry Craig is a fool and a hypocrite.

Wow, that was fast.

Not so fast. I've got more to share.

***

I'm reading a fascinating exchange on a legal ethics listserve to which I belong. Various experts in the legal field (and I do mean experts -- big names in legal ethics circles) are debating whether there's such a thing as a public-private dichotomy when it comes to legal ethics. Question: does how one acts in private life necessarily mean they are unfit for their (more public) job? If Larry Craig engages in sexual liaisons in bathrooms, does that make him per se unfit as a legislator?

Some say no; that a whole constellation of reasons could exist for the foot bumping and the finger-reaching. (Oh, and the guilty plea.) These are reasons we don't know, the argument goes, and as such, we can't necessarily judge the whole of the person based upon this once incident that may very well be a huge (HUGE!) misunderstanding.

I can't buy it. Not because I necessarily disagree with the principle that one act does not necessarily condemn the entire person, but because I have given some though to what constellation of events may have caused Senator Craig to "accidentally" bump his foot against the foot of the guy next to him (twice!, I think) and to reach under the stall, and I come up empty.

According to the cop, there was no paper on the floor for him to pick up, and if there were, who picks that shit up? Unless it was a piece of legislation that you were reviewing while on the can, or even a newspaper, most people just leave it. (Early reports were that he claimed there was a piece of toilet paper on the floor. Really now, who makes the effort to reach down a pick up a piece of errant toilet tissue in a public bathroom?)

He doesn't deny tapping the cop's foot, he just claims a takes a "wide stance" when taking a crap. Uh, please. Every American male who has ever used a public restroom knows the rules of public toilets: unless absolutely necessary, never stand at a urinal that's right next an occupied one; never talk to anyone; and always look straight ahead while urinating. And never, ever, invade another man's space, for any reason. Memo to Sen. Craig: This generally includes not letting your leg drift into the next guy's stall, no matter how "wide" your "stance." It just doesn't happen. Unless you want to initiate some chicka chicka bow bow. And let's face it, Sen. Craig knew those rules. And he knew the rules on who to solicit sex in a public restroom.

Oh, when you're in a stall an realize there's no toilet tissue there? I would vote for a stage whisper to the guy next to you along the lines of "Hey dude, I seem to be out of paper here. Could you pass me some?" Oh, and doing that before running your hand under the bottom of the stall.

***

In the aftermath (though I suppose it's still continuing, WaPo ran an article about Mike Rogers entitled "The Most Feared Man on the Hill?". Mr. Rogers is the gay activist who spends a good chunk of his time identifying and outing anti-gay lawmakers (those whose legislative activities are homophobic -- including not just voting records, but also campaign-related issues). Sen. Craig was on his list.

I mention this article because there's a wonderful quote in there which needs to be called out. It's on the third web page of the article.

Context: Rogers outed Dan Gurley, a national field director at the Republican National Committee, whom Rogers believed signed off on a flier sent to conservative voting districts which played upon those voters' base fears about gay marriage. Gurley eventually lost his job and moved to North Carolina. But here's his money quote:

[Gurley] adds: "Who does Rogers think he is? God? What gives him the right to bully people around and tell us what to think or how to conduct our lives?"

The hypocrisy is rank. Does he not notice that if you substitute "the Republican Party" where "Rogers" shows up in that quote you come up with the exact reason gay people should reject GOP social conservatism??

***

And, just for fun, Keith Olbermann:

Recent Giveaways

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

Spamity Spam

My spam filter at work sucks.

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

At work, however, my spam filter sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

Technology. Gotta love it.

Crap. (No, Literally.)

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

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

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

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

I have no idea what it means, really.

Here's the IM conversation we had about it:

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

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

A Million Little Pieces, Only Without the Illegal Drugs

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

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

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



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

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



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

And there are indicators above the red button.

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

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

Great, I thought, I bought a defective machine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Need Uglier Friends - Redux

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

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

You back?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I really that completely forgettable?

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

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

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

Return from Paradise

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

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

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

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

But it was all worth it.

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

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

I Had a Dream....

I'm still alive.

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

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

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

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

Provincetown

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

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

It's beautiful up here. More posting later.

Straight People Live in Filth Too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I let it slide again. "Thanks."

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

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

Would It Be Rude of Me?...

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

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

Just now, I got the following text message:

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

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

So I tried to feign stupidity, by responding:

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

He responded:

"Perfect."

Uh, what a bitch.

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

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

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

Pearl

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

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

An open letter.

Dear Random Tourist Guy:

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

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


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


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

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

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

Thank you.

Resign.

[Via]

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

Power Up

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

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

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

Yeah, some of my friends are complete idiots.

Another Year

It's my birthday today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday to me!

Success!

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

-- Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone), Clueless

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

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

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

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

You know what they say about the best laid plans.

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

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

Paula Deen I am not, people!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a Sandwich!

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

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

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

Double-U. T. Hotel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random Update

Okay, so...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delinquency

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

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

And I'll try to update here more often.

Loose Ends

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now it's back to singlehood again. Hoorah.

Posts and pics from Amsterdam to follow soon.

Just Got Back

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

Pat Robertson, Where Are You Now?

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

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

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

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

Derby

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

I'd Like To Thank the Academy

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

.... Dennis!


I gotta do this more often.

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

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



Some of the most choice quotes:

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

"I Will Not Yield!"

TELL IT, Del. Norton!



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

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

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

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

DC Vote.

"I Put You On the Streets"

This girl is sooooo adorable!



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

Corners

To Cho Seung Hui:

Dude, you are such a fucking loser.

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

You are a fucking loser.

Your words:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're A-number-1 loser dumbshit.

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

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

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