Whoops! (0-3)

I'm not the most charismatic person on the planet. I have a tendency to put my foot in my mouth, and while I'd like to attribute that to my off-beat sense of humor or disdain for patriarchal societal norms, the fact of the matter is even accounting for those considerations, I sometimes say the wrong things without really thinking about it.

Tonight, though? Wow. It's rare that I say three straight things that are so poorly received.

It started after closing time at Ozzies. I had lingered to finish some free alcohol provided to me by Lawyer Lady, and I wanted to talk to her a bit before she bolted. That meant that my crew (TM 2000, Flowers, Thor, and JY) had bolted by the time I exited the establishment, and rather than go home straightaway I lingered outside.

Lingering outside a bar after closing is often entertaining. Seeing dudes get shot down and/or chicks stumble into cabs with their friends is funny, and listening to conversations can be interesting. I txted with a couple friends in other locations as I took the entire scene in.

One of the final groups of people were three chicks. Two of them were relatively cute, and there was one lingering guy and a male interloper. The lingerer lured the third chick into a cab and they sped away, leaving the two women to fend off the other guy.

One of them complained that she had lost money in the bar. The guy asked what she was talking about, and she stated that she had lost a Sephora gift card. She was pretty choked up about it. I felt bad for her, but didn't think much of it.

I started to wander home... slightly impaired because of the free beer that Lawyer Lady had provided as well as the free shot of Patron that had appeared within gulping distance of me. I txted TM 2000 to see where people were at, and they were at Dick's, so I changed course and made my way there.

A couple of blocks later, I was entering the parking lot when I saw a tall guy get out of his car. I knew this guy. I didn't know his name, but I had a conversation with him right before Thanksgiving. He almost got into a fight outside of Dick's because some random jackass was going after him, and we'd had a chat at the Rainbow Park (or whatever it's called) a few blocks away about how he was a MMA instructor and had been in like 11 fights.

As I recognized the guy, this is how the conversation went:

Me: Hey! Don't get in a fight!
MMA guy: What?
Me (continuing to walk towards Dick's, because I really had to urinate): Don't get into a fight outside of Dick's. Remember last time?
MMAG: Yeah, I remember. Why?
Me (feeling a bit odd that he didn't recognize me, but continuing to walk): We talked about it afterwards.
MMAG: ...
Me (seeing him get confused and thinking about how he could pound me into a red mist): And we talked about the near-fight and how you are a MMA instructor afterwards? At the Rainbow Park?
MMAG: So what you're saying is that you want to fight me?
Me (entering the restaurant): No ...

*gulp*

He was so nice the previous time I'd talked to him. I blame the mustache and my superior memory.

After I entered the place, I turned a hard left to go to the little boys' room. I heard someone call my name, so I reversed course back away from the restrooms and TM 2000 was there, with a very short chick I didn't recognize. He had two burgers in his hand, and I (trying to be funny) initiated this conversation:

Me (in a mock stern tone of voice): Is there a problem here?
Short Chick: What?
Me (to TM 2000): Are you OK?
SC: What?
Me (to SC): Are you stealing his food, miss?
SC (pissed off beyond all reason): No.
Me (shrinking back from the irrational hatred): Oh. OK. I was kidding.

I am used to making people uncomfortable. Or confusing them a bit. But two people in a row were totally not picking up what I was laying down. It was weird.

We rolled from Dick's six deep. We picked up Sir Thick and were walking back towards Flowers' and my apartments. As we turned left on Mercer, four of the guys kinda drunkenly hooted at three women walking our way.

I recognized two of them, and I thought it would be fun to be friendly and play a joke.

The three women took a wide path around the six of us, and while we (as a group; I certainly did not) had made the initial inappropriate catcalls, we were being respectful as they passed about 20 feet to our left in the Kid Valley parking lot.

And then I opened my mouth.

"Hey," I said, "I [mumble mumble] Sephora Gift Card."

That did it. One of the chicks totally took a right turn to her left and made a bee-line towards me. I actually had expected some reaction, but what I got was too much. She approached me and the following conversation commenced.

Chick (advancing on me): What did you say?
Me: Uh, what?
Chick: You mentioned the Sephora card.
Me: Yeah, but...
Sir Thick (taking a few steps towards the Chick): Don't listen to him.
Chick (confused, as Sir Thick and I talked at the same time): What?
Me: I just mentioned it as a joke.
Sir Thick: He's crazy. He says stuff that doesn't make sense. Don't listen.
Chick (backing up from the advancing Sir Thick): But he mentioned Sephora!
Me: Yes, I did. I heard you mention it outside of Ozzie's.
Sir Thick (talking at the same time as me): Don't worry. He's harmless. He's full of shit. He doesn't know what he's saying.
Chick (looking right at me, with tears in her eyes): Why would you say that?
Me (Sir Thick fell silent): I, uh. I thought it'd be funny. You're cute and I wanted to get your attention.
Chick 2 (about 15 feet away): Punch him in the mustache!
Chick (tears in her eyes): ...
Me: Uh. I'm sorry.
Chick 2: Kick him right in his beautiful mustache!
Me (to Chick 2): You think it's beautiful?

The first chick retreated, confused. I walked back to the group of guys, feeling both amused that I was able to trigger such a big reaction with such a random comment (entertaining my guys in a seemingly magical way) but also a bit bad that I messed with someone's emotions and she was totally unhelped by my comments.

It was an odd 15 minutes. I blame the Patron.

Taking Sides on a Bus Ride

I was doing some work in Belltown today, and I took the bus back to LQA before going to the gym. It was markedly warmer today, but still sub-40, which is cold for us Seattle folk. I was waiting at the bus stop at about 1:30 PM in the wind and slush, waiting for the bus to arrive.

There were about seven or eight other people waiting, as well. Most are irrelevant (in life, and more specifically to this blog) but there was a couple with a baby stroller who were central to the reason d'etre of this entry.

To wrap up the introduction and to give you an idea of what I'm going to do, this couple gets involved in a dispute on the bus. I interject my opinion into the matter, and I will keep track, based on what this couple did, whether I chose the correct side to back up. It will be revealed at the end which side I chose as well as what I said. Points will be awarded for or against the couple.

As I said, we were all standing there, waiting. It was cold (but not freezing) and sort of drizzling and really slushy. The couple made their first mistake when they started getting frisy with one another... they were, like, pretending like they were going to kiss and then licked at each other's faces, instead.

I'm all for PDA. But not in public. One point against the couple. (-1)

The bus eventually pulled up, and I decided to enter in the read (heh) door (hehe) while the couple waited for the front. After people filed off, some old dude shot ahead of me in line and then took, like, 15 seconds to ascend two steps. One point against the universe, or at least the old man. But that doesn't much matter here.

Eventually I entered and there was a person who was using a walker or something who was leaving through the front door. I took a seat in the rather crowded bus. I was about two rows back, facing the front, in the aise. The first third of the bus or so are bench-like seats that face towards the inside of the bus.

The exit of the special needs person took a while. The bus driver had to use a lift to lower the bus and the exit platform so the person could leave. While this is happening, I'm struggling with whether I should skip the gym and go straight home or not. I also am feeling a bit impatient.

Back to the couple. Everyone else had entered the bus, and the only people outside were the man and woman and baby stroller. People had moved back on the bus to make space for them in the front third, and I was wondering why it was taking so long so I set aside my introspection on indolence and paid attention.

The bus driver was not letting them on the bus immediately. The stroller needed to be folded up, he was saying. The couple lost a point because they were wasting my time. (-2) Eventually, and inexplicably, the bus driver let them on without removing the child and folding up the stroller, although the woman entered independently of her husband, near the back of the bus, and sat alone.

The guy was rearranging the stroller when the bus driver explained that he should fold it up because it would block the walkway. I am a stickler for rules, in general, so the couple lost another point (-3). He immediately won a point back, though, with his dismissal of the requirement by stating simply, "It's OK." (-2)

It reminded me of the "Don't worry about it" reply whenever someone voices a concern. So funny and so asshole-ish. Props to the guy.

He had the stroller pretty closely nestled to his seat. It wasn't sticking much past where one's knees would be if one were a large man, and it seemed that the "excitement" (quotes indicate no actual excitement was involved) was over.

Of course, though, there are busybodies. A woman who was standing as if to exit at the next stop turned and looked down at the man and the child in the stroller and said, "The stroller is blocking the aisle, sir. That is why the bus driver told you to fold it up, sir."

I wish there was a font for "snooty". She wasn't being polite. She wasn't being helpful. She was being a know-it-all and acting superior. Another point in favor of the couple when he didn't reply. (-1)

The woman exited and, again, I thought it was going to be over. But, again, I misunderestimated the level of busibodiness/know-it-allity of Metro riders.

A really fat guy who was sitting with his cane right next to the front door turned and spoke, into the silence of the bus, in a belligerent tone, "How the hell are people supposed to get past you now?" Another point for the couple. (0)

It was at this point that I chimed in. What I said will wait until the end to see what it was.

The woman wandered from the back of the bus and sat by her man. Silence had fallen once again. The guy, though, couldn't let it go. He looked at the fat man across the aisle from him, sitting about 3 feet from the exit of the bus, and inquired, "Is ze stroller in your way?" and the man looked startled and said, "What?"... he was probably thrown off by the French accent.

I am not a fan of French people, as a general rule. It's odd because I have a French last name and I have recently become a bit fascinated by the French Revolution, but even French women sound bitchy and snobby. Just not a fan. Deduct one from the couple. (-1)

The Frenchie continued, "Can you not exit ze bus? You clearly can, zo why iz it a problem to you?"

The fat guy answered resignedly, "I am not going to argue. I'm too old for this shit."

And the French coup de grâce was, "You are too old, yes."

Score one for the couple. (0)

So what had I said? I guess maybe I should have just put it in the body of the story and saved us all the trouble of the Mad Magazine-like paper folding, but after the man and his baby were lectured by the second Metro regular (because they clearly were exactly that), I said something like this:

"Oh come, on. There are over two feet of room for someone to get by. That's (a). And (b), there's no one who needs to leave at this moment. I'm sure he can scoot the stroller over even more if it's necessary. Leave it alone."

Maybe it was the mustache that shut the guy up. Maybe it was the shocking reality that someone had SPOKEN to him on the bus. Or maybe it was because my points were excellent and my diction impeccable. In any case, he shut up until the Frenchman (or Belgian, or Korean, or whatever he was) took a shot.

Happy Christmas, Frenchies.

I Have No Voice & I Must Sing

Some nights you've got it. Even if you don't know what 'it' is, you know you've got it. Your hair is right. You've got a bounce to your step. Your baby's mamas aren't hassling you. When you're hot you're hot.

Some nights you know you don't have it.

Of course, knowing you don't have it and actually not having it are different things, but since we tend to let subjectivity (slightly) influence our perception of the world, confidence matters. By observing we influence, and by believing we succeed.

I rarely apologize on this blog, but I have to say I'm sorry for that last sentence. It's a mea culpa with a caveat, however.

The caveat is that the reason I'm waxing philisophical (today, at least) in the blog is because I can't really talk.

It started Wednesday night, I think. One too many loud bars, or one too many karaoke songs, or one too many cries of 'rape'. Oh, wait. I wasn't the screamer on that last one.

Anyway, Thursday night one of those things (or the cold I've recently recovered from) caught up to me and my voice was scratchy. Fortunately, the snowed-in LQA are didn't offer karaoke and I was able to merely speak too loudly, rather than speak too loudly and sing drunkenly.

Friday night I thought I might have to host karaoke, and I was particularly willing to do it (rather than sing) because my voice had gotten no better. I woke up all scratchy and it didn't really improve over the course of the day. After it was revealed, though, that I was not needed (I'm used to that on a variety of levels, for the record) I knew I'd end up at Ozzies.

It was a solid prefunk. The booze hit me just right and we were all in a great mood as we ice skated the couple of blocks to the bar. Flowers, in particular, was in a very convivial mood, and it was infectious. He might have been infectious in other ways, too... that's why I wear gloves.

While walking (literally) arm-in-arm with Flowers to ensure he didn't slip on the ice, I boldly proclaimed, 'I'm going to talk to girls tonight!'

That sounds like it might not be a big deal, but while I can appear comfortable doing it, I still am... not. And I usually get distracted, or allow myself to get distracted to avoid car wrecks (although not Car Wreck).

I'm not even sure that they heard me... we were all (locked elbows excepted) sort of in our own little world as we approached. When we entered, they made a beeline upstairs but I, trying to walk the walk since I talked the talk (could I have just said, 'walk the talk'? I'd like to think so... oh, missed opportunities!) approached a young woman sitting with another young woman in a booth... sort of on the way to the stairs, so I had an easy means of egress.

I don't know if I stumbled up towards their booth or if I self-assuredly sauntered (or self-assuredly stumbled) but I approached and they both looked up, clearly wrestling with two things.

The first was, 'Who the hell is this guy?' Not that girls aren't used to being approached by strange/random guys in a bar, but I (at least would like to think) that I was approaching them as if I knew them. Familiarity (even verisimilitudinous) breeds contempt. They didn't know me, and they weren't eager to.

The second (and I don't know which one was the overwhelming factor in their cold shoulder response) was, 'What the FUCK is that guy thinking, wearing a mustache?'

I forgot to mention that I was sporting a 'stache. I hadn't shaved in a while and I ... bah. There's no excuse nor explanation. I just had a mustache. I knew said facial hair looked (or 'looks', as I sit here, typing this) pretty bad, but it's fun and I think that making anything ironic makes it funny (see: the 'rape joke' earlier in this entry, as well as my 2006 kidnapping attempt of Jules Verne's granddaughter).

Of course, even an ironic mustache is not the best thing for one's ego. This is particularly true for women sporting actual mustaches (ironic or not), but it applies to me, as well.

Fortunately, my voice didn't fail. Of course, that's like praising the technological prowess of the printing press that spat out Mein Kampf with clock-like precision. Meaning? Meaning my voice worked but what came out wasn't good.

Me (confidently, in spite of it all, to the cute blond girl on my left): You gonna sing tonight?
Her (disgusted): I don't sing.
Me: So... what are you gonna sing tonight?
Her (looking at the brunette across the table from her): ...
Me (confidence instantly crumbling like the Seahawks O-line): It was a ... joke. Bye!

Thank goodness for my rapid means of egress. I high-tailed it upstairs for a bit to sing.

The upstairs is normally a happening place at 10:30. People are happening. Singing is happening. Drinking is happening.

Last night? It was Roller Girl, who bartends there, Krazy Karaoke Host and the friends I rolled with (TM2000, Flowers, Thor, and Steve). I tried a song. Butchered it. Could barely make noise in my standard singing range. It was horrible, and yet it was kinda funny because of my lack of sobriety.

I headed downstairs and talked to another bartender, and Marriage Material came up and said hello. She's super-cool and it had been a while since I'd talked to her, so I pledged to stop by her table and creep out her friends at my earliest convenience.

Heading back upstairs, it was still dead, and I still couldn't sing. After a second song butchering, one might think that I would give up. Fuck that. It was Friday night and LQA was snowed in and I wanted to sing and talk to girls. That my voice had deteriorated further in the hour or so I'd been there was irrelevant. Well... not irrelevant (except insofar as my life is ever not irrelevant) but not a consideration.

Going back downstairs, the booth that I'd interacted with earlier had been filled with four new people: a dude sitting next to a chick and two cute girls across from them. I recognized the two cute women from the night before... one had introduced herself to me in an unsuccessful attempt to get me to host karaoke and insert a spark of joy into the lives of everyone.

The first conversation with the booth girls had been off-the-cuff. From the hip. Riding the scissors. (OK. I just made that last one up. I like it, though it sounds sort of painful. Maybe that makes it appropriate.)

This time? I took a moment to plan. Here was the planned conversation:

Me (to blond): Hey... I recognize you, don't I?
Blond: Hi! Yes, we met last night, I'm--
Me: Shh... no names.
Brunette and Blond: *giggle*
Brunette: I love the mustache!
Me: I know.
Blond: The kitchen just closed. We are totally in the mood for some tuna melts.
Me: I've got tuna melt fixin's at my place. Let's go.
Brunette and Blond (grabbing their coats and exiting the booth): *giggle*

OK. I'm not sure that I had it THAT well planned out. But I at least knew what I was going to say to start things off. Shockingly, though, it didn't go exactly according to plan. It went more like this:

Me (to blond): Hey... _ re____ize you, ___ I?
Blond (smiling, but confused): I'm sorry... what?
Me: __ voice. It's fucked __.
Brunette and Blond: ...
Brunette: Hi, my name's Mary.
Me: Good to--[cough cough/clear throat]--meet ___. Y__ were here __ night?
Blond: Yeah, we're alcoholics. *giggle*
Me: ___ me ___. ___ ___--[cough cough/clear throat]--__. Bye.
Brunette and Blond (staring blankly at me, judging my 'stache, in all probability): ... bye.

They were actually very nice and friendly. I just couldn't fucking talk.

I was able to sing falsetto without too much difficulty, so I sang 'Stayin' Alive' downstairs and it went OK. I also got to talk to Marriage Material... or, rather, I got to exhale in a speech-like pattern as she strained to hear me over the off-key stylings of Boys 2 Men and Tenacious D karaoke.

I kept trying to talk, and I've paying for it today. Actually, the readers of this blog entry are paying for it. My online loquacity is clearly an overcompensation for my inability to speak out loud. Knowing that 4-6 more inches of snow are on the way tonight (note: I did not make a '4-6 inches joke'... am I maturing? Or is it because I've already used up my quota of penis humor for 2008?) and I won't be able to sing is killing me. And taking control.

The Misadventures of Potter the Cat

I have three cats. The youngest and smallest and most friendly is Potter. Also known as Mr. Potts, he's fluffy and black with yellow eyes. I'd put a picture of him in this blog but, to be honest, he looks exactly like about a million other fluffy black cats you've seen.

Unlike my older two cats, who were adopted from shelters and have remained skittish throughout their lives, Potter has always been more social and more willing to spend time with people who come over and visit. He's been active and he loves to cuddle in my left armpit as I sleep.

Thursday night Mr. Potts howled and hissed. I wandered into my bedroom, expecting him to be wrestling with Truman. He was, oddly enough, lying on my bed. I petted him and he rolled over oddly. I chalked it up to the cat nip I'd put around the scratching boxes earlier that day.

His odd behavior continued after I got back from my LQA crawl that night. He was hanging out on the back of my closet, as if hiding, when I got home. I was confused so I pulled him out and made sure he had food, etc.

I woke up the next morning and couldn't locate him. He'd decided to find the cat carrier, which was 3/4 buried under clothes. He'd found the most reclusive spot in my apartment. Throughout Friday he was lethargic and I took one opportunity to prod him: poking at his ears and his face and his paws and his stomach, trying to figure out if he got cut or what the fuck was happening. His stomach felt a bit distended and he wasn't happy when I approached his butt region, so after a bit of online sleuthing I diagnosed him with constipation... which I read can be caused by hairballs and can be bad because they can cause impaction and death within days if untreated.

So Saturday morning I brought Potter to the vet. I talked to them and it was decided Potter needed x-rays to confirm the constipation, and if that's what it was they would perform an enema.

I was proven right. The film showed he was constipated, but the vet promised to send it to a specialist to ensure there was nothing else wrong with him. The vet also thought blood work would be a good idea, but I had to draw the line there, knowing that if blood work showed up something bad I probably couldn't afford to do anything about it, anyway.

We came home (Potter and I... not the vet and I, although she was pretty cute) and I started feeding him the pumpkin stuff to act as a laxative. After he used the kitty box on Saturday I thought we were all set.

Unfortunately, he didn't use it again on Sunday. And, last night, I gave him a lift onto the bed at about 9:30 PM and he was there until... oh, until about 10 minutes before I started this blog.

Now... I'm no expert, but 23+ hours without moving very much isn't a good sign. Unless it's me and it's fueled by laziness.

Throughout today I brought him his pumpkin stuff. I brought him food.

I also heard from the vet, and the specialist said that Potter (a) had a hernia causing a slipped disc, and (b) probably has kidney damage.

Ugh.

So I'm getting medicine for him tomorrow to deal with the hernia. I am again probably going to decline blood work.

As Mr. Potts wasn't moving, though, I brought him dinner and water in bed. I was watching the end of the Blazers game and I thought that I should give him a chance to use the litter box. I came into the bedroom and Potter had ... moved! From the foot of the bed to near the pillows.

"Wow," I thought, "maybe he's feeling better".

Then I looked closer. He had spilled the water, soaking the sheets where he had been lying (through the comforter and down to the mattress pad, of course) which prompted him to drag himself up to the head of the bed.

I removed the bedding, brought him to the kitty box, and he actually used it. As sad as the whole thing is, it's an improvement over last night... last night, before I brought him to the bed, he had reacted oddly after I'd placed him in the litter box: he had laid down. In the litter. Even given it was clean litter... that's fucked up.

We'll see how the medicine helps him. We'll see if he's on a downward spiral or if he can bounce back and be around to greet my visitors for a few more years.

Poor Mr. Potts.

Texture

I was walking back from the grocery store today and I saw something that made me think about things. I think it made me think. About things.

Anyway, it made me think about how adulterated things are almost always more interested. Broken things or flawed things or impure things.

A baby cuddling an adorable puppy is great, for what it is. But it's pure. For those who aren't messed up (and by "messed up", I mean worse then me, since I egocentrically am the standard for mental health) they're going to say, "Awwww!" and they are going to be filled with a warm fuzzy feeling.

Even as I share those feelings... aren't they a bit inspid? There's no hook, so while it might give me warm fuzzies, it's not going to be that memorable.

Humor runs the same way, in my opinion. Bad words aren't just a means of communicating a punch line to be funny... they're a way to shock us and to create a hook that makes the funny more edgy and more interesting.

Fuck.

(Of course, timing is important, too.)

While it's possible to be funny without cussin', and it's possible to have an adorable scene without having any sort of unexpected twist... things just are better when that twist.

When twists become layers, to be peeled away and examined or discarded, that's when things can get complicated and more interesting. It's one of the reasons I enjoy reading history... there are so many things going on and so many levels of motivation and action that it's neigh overwhelming.

I bring all of this up because as I was walking back from the grocery store, I saw an old man smoking a cigarette. That simple scene brought a flood of thoughts to my mind and I have been chewing on it (not literally... the old guy ran away) since.

The thoughts included:

• the guy was homeless (I've seen him around the neighborhood a lot)
• he was smoking a cigarette... not from a pack, but a single cigarette
• he was guarding the cigarette from the wind and treating it like it was made of solid gold (not that solid gold needs to be protected from the wind)
• that cigarette was clearly bringing him a lot of pleasure... certainly more than most people that I know who smoke, who puff their way through them until they get their fix and/or until they have something more pressing, at which time they'll throw the remainder to the ground
• that cigarette was probably bringing him one step closer to some sort of horrible malady related to cancer or bad breathing
• he is old enough that if he's not cancerous at this stage, he might be OK
• might it not be worth trading a future of sickness for him in order to get pleasure from the "now"? Who am I to judge him?
• if he does get sick, I doubt his private medical insurance is going to cover it... it's going to be poor working stiffs like me who foot the tab
• I don't currently have a job, so calling myself a "working stiff" is not entirely accurate

And so it continued. And continueS. I think I need a hobby.

Might it have been more immediately gratifying to see a really hot woman walk down the sidewalk on my walk home? Or to see a boy scout escort a gaggle of young geese across the street? Perhaps. But seeing something with so much texture has proven to be much more interesting.

Adjustment to a Standard

One of the things that make humans stand out from the rest of the world is our ability to think abstractly. Abstract thought and the ability to drive a Corvette are the only two things that separate us from, say, meerkats.

Our ability to think abstractly is great, but I think it comes as a mixed blessing because the ability comes tethered to a need. A need to understand, to explain, and to categorize. (Oxford comma ftw!)

"How is that a mixed blessing?", one might ask. "After all, the ability to think abstractly is useless unless it's ... er ... used."

I'm not intending to damn with faint praise our ability by saying it's a mixed blessing. Great things, from penicillin to the periodic table of the elements to banana nut bread have come about as a result of our compulsion to understand.

The negative is that we sometimes cannot appreciate what we have. When we don't understand it, we often seek to... to the detriment of appreciation. And once we understand something, the magic is gone and we become less interested. (This is consistent with the "Dissatisfied/Apathetic/Non-existent" train of thought that I've been having lately. I've gotta tame that beast before I let it out of its cage, however.)

Take a magic trick. Most of us are delighted that we can be fooled, but then we need to know how it works... and we aren't satisfied until we know. Once we know, we can feel cheated and the magic trick is useless except insofar as to see the joy/confusion/disinterest cycle repeat when we see someone else experience the illusion (a trick is something that whores do for money, after all).

All of this is preamble. Similar to our compulsion to admire and ruminate about a magic trick, or a sunset, or a really really short person, guys often want to know why a woman is attractive and why she is not.

OK. At this point I should disengage from the rest of the guys on the planet. I will only speak for myself. Feel free to generalize as much as you, the dear reader, would care to.

Obviously some women are attractive to me and some are not. Because of the aforementioned "mixed blessing", unless I am blasted out of my mind on booze, I tend to not merely accept that a woman is attractive (or not, or REALLY attractive, or REALLY unfortunate looking). I like to understand why a woman appeals to me, physically, and see if I can apply rules across the spectrum of chicks I meet and know.

I understand that there are definite physical characteristics that are programmed into me as being fetching: symmetry indicates health, youth-like features (such as smooth skin, absence of wrinkles, rosy cheeks) indicate nubility, cleavage is reminiscent of female buttcheeks. The ape within me really can't resist many of these things.

I'd prefer, though, to categorize traits differently. Something that is more humanizing both to me, as the potential humper, and to women, as the potential humpees.

Until recently (specifically, last night) I had a two-pronged approach to categorizing women physically. Clearly this is a VERY large brush, but the two components were the adjectives "Hot" and "Cute".

Strippers are often Hot but not necessarily Cute. A girl-next-door type might be Cute but not Hot. Some girls are high on both scales, and some women are less fortunate.

There is little practical application to this approach, but it's an interesting reference point for my internal dialogues (and trust me, I have many (although most involve Colonial American historical figures)) and an occasionaly conversation with a friend.

The reason that I bring all of this up is because the basic two-attribute approach has remained, intact and unchanged, for almost two years now. It sprang, fully formed, from the brow of Jupiter. It remained simultaneously unassailable and irrelevant (although maybe its lack of relevance put it beyond reproach). It was gospel, of a sort.

Until last night.

Last night, when I was attending a rock and roll concert with some friends, I was struck that the inquiry was missing a component. Hot is important. Cute is critical. Those two had been enough... until last night.

Classy.

Some women are Classy. Some women are not Classy. A woman's level of class can be a big turn-on, and I am shocked that it had not occurred to me.

What does "Classy" mean? I don't know how to define it, but I know it when I see it. As with Hot and Cute, the adjectives are atomic and, in attempting to deconstruct them, one destroys any value they have in defining anything.

So there's the updated approach: Hot, Cute, Classy.

I think that covers it. I can't see a fourth critical component on par with these things. Of course, Classy didn't occur to me until last night, so maybe I've yet to discover the Ununpentium of this approach.

My Contact List

My phone can, as it turns out, be used for something other than poking myself in my eye. It is a place to store contact information, including names and phone numbers. Who knew?

I guess most people, including me. I'll just claim that it was a rhetorical question.

I had reason to go through my contact list on my phone this week. The contact list has been building for about four years, but the last three (corresponding with my dramatic change in circumstances) is when it started to get busier and
more confusing.

In real life I'm a bit of a packrat. Actually, anyone who's walked into my apartment and seen the cardboard boxes that haven't been opened in five years can tell you that I'm more than a bit of a packrat. Electronically? It's even worse. Storage is cheap and search capabilities are excellent... so why throw anything away?

As an angry tangent: I'm still pissed that I can only store 135 txts in my phone. I end up storing about 132 at a time, making me delete sent and received txts in real time when I'm in a conversation or two. So fucking annoying.

While I am limited to fewer than one gross txt messages, it seems I can keep an unlimited number of contacts. Which is good, I guess (if I couldn't, I'm sure I'd be bitching about that)... but messy.

In addition to standard contacts (family, (ex-)co-workers, friends) there are
a few other categories. I don't literally have them as categories, although that would be funny, but they roughly break down this way:

Dead Ends
These are numbers that I received from women that didn't go anywhere. I called them once or twice, or I txted, and got either no response or such a luke-warm one that I didn't bother to follow up... or if I followed up too much, they became a Bitter Pill (see below). These are numbers that I should probably delete, but it's entertaining to see names from the past that I recognize and either chuckle or curse under my breath about. Oddly enough, about 75% of these numbers seem to be from girls somehow related to Peso's.

Bitter Pills
These are numbers of girls that I went out with once or twice. Girls that weren't into me or were into me too much. Girls that I dated and then was told that they were going to be dating someone else exclusively. Girls that demonstrate to me how tough dating can be.

Who the Fucks?
My favorite. Who the FUCK is 'Juliette'? Or 'Emily'? If either Juliette or Emily are reading this and you know that you've given me your number: I'm sorry. No offense. I must have been really drunk and/or without my daily vitamin that day. You, along with a select few others, are officially 'Who the Fucks'. Which is distinctly different from the 'Want to Fucks', which tend to populate the other two categories. A related category: 'Why the Fucks?' tend to be friends-of-friends that I have in my phone, and I am never quite sure why I needed the number nor why I would ever need it again.

Appendix I: Marriage
I did an unofficial count as I was going through my contacts and it appears that three or four women that I went out on dates with are now married, with another engaged to be married. Wowzers. Fortunately, none of them reside in the 'Bitter Pills' category.

Appendix II: Broken Heart
Unrelatedly except in temporal terms, I went through my Facebook friends list, too. It reminded me that I have had my heart broken twice in my life. It's happened every 16 years, as it turns out, so I've got another 13 to go before things take another tragic twist.

Hosting on a Sunday Evening

As a result of my Obama-ordered work cessation program, I have not had my standard salary and have been more eager than ever to locate alternate revenue streams.

I'm out of kidneys, so I was back to hosting karaoke on Sunday night.

Normally the upstairs at Ozzies is only open on Friday and Saturday (to deal with the Bro Overflow on weekends). Every once in a while, however, a group or individual makes arrangements to have a private party upstairs, and a subset of those occasions results in me being the host.

Sunday night was one such occasion.

The party kicked off, as I understood it, at 9:00. I arrived at 8:34 to set up the scene, which involves turning on televisions and hooking up microphones and drinking about four gallons of ice water. (The ice water is critical... don't ask.)

To my surprise, people had already arrived for the party. There were three of them, including the host of the party.

In some situations, I could see myself being irked; I prefer to drink my ice water in isolation. The people that were there were very kind, though, and eager to sing some karaoke. Which is good.

What is not good is that no one else showed up for another hour, so it was the four of us, hanging out. Well... they were hanging out. I was checking my txts and email on my phone.

After others started showing up, the party got going and the host made an announcement. If I remember correctly, he said two things:

1. It was his pink ticket party. I wasn't sure what that was until about two minutes ago, when I googled it.
   
2. It was his one-year anniversary of coming out of the closet.

Oh, yeah. I didn't mention that he was gay.

999 out of a thousand times I would not mention this... it's simply not that big of a deal unless it involves someone hitting on me (and then, irrespective of gender, sexual preference, or favorite flavor of ice cream, it's a big deal).

But while I guess I just mentioned he was gay, I didn't mention he was gay. See the bold formatting? That's for emphasis.

And I'd like to emphasize that there's nothing wrong with being gay. Or gay. I am willing to pull a Seinfeld (meaning "There's nothing wrong with that", not meaning some sort of euphemism for a homosexual act)... and I'm not even someone who says, "What they do in the privacy of their own home is their business; I just don't want to see them do it." I like that people are happy and feel empowered and if they feel gay? Be gay.

It's cool.

With all of this being said? I must confess that the party I hosted was atypical.

Normally? Lots of 80's pop. Standards like Bohemian Rhapsody and Bon Jovi and Total Eclipse of the Heart. I roll my eyes when I hear it, but it's familiar.

Sunday night? Show tunes.

Show.

Tunes.

I didn't even know there was a song in the book from "Chicago". Let alone two. "Rent"? "Phantom of the Opera"?

If a group comes into Ozzies in a couple weeks and starts singing a bunch of middle ages gregorian chants that they found in the "Songs by Artist" book, I'll be only slightly less surprised.

The thing is that the vast majority of the singers at the party were good. Some were very, very good. Almost shockingly good. If I hadn't been shocked at the content they were singing, I might have been more shocked at the talent level.

Back to the host. The host danced to many of these songs. Many, many of these songs. It got me to wondering about what he'd said about it being his one year anniversary of his coming out, and it got me to thinking one word. That word?

"Really???"

I find it almost impossible to believe that, in a single calendar year, he could learn so many show tunes to the point of knowing them ALL word-for-word and having a special dance for about 50% of them.

Of course, it's conceivable that he already had a little bit of knowledge of show tunes, and that helped nudge him out of the closet, but it amused me to think that he'd been cramming (err...) for a year following his debut at the homosexual cotillion (or however it's done) and was listening to soundtracks of musicals non-stop, preparing for Sunday night.

The night went great. People had a great time. I was both amused and bemused (but not c-mused) throughout and I look forward to the next private party I am able to host.

I've got my fingers crossed for Gregorian chanters!

I hate Voicemails

1. Dentists call and leave voicemails as reminders for appointments.
2. I had a dentist appointment scheduled for Monday.

A. Sidekick mobile phones "pop" open, with a strong magnet that keeps the keyboard covered until you press it just so.
B. I have a Sidekick mobile phone.

I. I have Jack Burton-like reflexes.

This morning I was getting ready to go into the office (doing a bit of contract work to stave off the inevitable starving/homelessness). I was on autopilot, planning my day and gathering my accessories (keys, water bottle, etc.) when I came back into my bedroom and saw that my Sidekick (see: B., above) had a message waiting.

I decided to multitask and check my phone and get my wallet from the jeans I wore last night. Crazy, I know.

I unlocked my phone and saw it was a voice mail, rather than a txt, so I (keeping the phone closed) called my voice mail and held the phone up to my left ear/cheek. I reached down to get my wallet, and then disaster struck.

Evidently, I moved my face too far from my left shoulder, because the phone started to fall down. Using my incredible dexterity (see: I., above) I reached up with my left hand, while keeping my right one in the pocket of the jeans on my dresser.

Unfortunately, this maneuver was too complicated. My left hand successfully pushed my phone back up against my left cheek, and I was able to continue to listen to the voicemail from my dentist's office (see: 1. and 2., above)... BUT I also triggered my phone to open (see: A., above).

The cover of the phone flipped open with some force... directly into my left eye.

Ouch. My eye is still hurting and watering and I'm reminded, once again, that I hate voicemails (see: Subject for this blog entry).

Twenty Star Town

I like spicy food. Spicy food is something that seems self-perpetuating, insofar as once one starts to eat spicy foods, milder food seems bland. Whether it's because of damage to taste buds, some sort of restructuring of the synapses or because of a decree of the Capscaicin Gods... it just seems to be a lobster trap (you can go in, but you can't get out).

I wasn't raised eating Korean food or spicy homemade chili. I enjoyed (and still do) Americanized Mexican food. I don't know where my penchant for spicy food came from. But it exists.

Maybe, actually, it's because I have a poor sense of taste and smell... non-spicy food just isn't strong enough. On the other hand, maybe my sense of taste and smell is poor because I've eaten so much spicy stuff over the decades of my existence. (It's like how I think... do I think as an attorney because I went to law school or did I go to law school because thinking as an attorney does was something I already did?)

Last night I was at a birthday dinner party for ... in Belltown. I had the distinct pleasure of being seated between ... , the birthday girl, and LOL. It was like Speed Dating all over again, with chicken satay with peanut sauce substituted for an awkward conversation with a female Coast Guard member.

When it was time to order food, the waitress was working her way (in an oddly unstructured order) around the table. LOL asked me the star/spiciness scale. I assumed it was up to five stars, but I promised her I'd ask... and after breaking the promise I made to attend HER birthday get-together some weeks back, I dared not let her down again.

I had planned to order n+1 stars, where n=max number of stars on the scale. There's a thrill involved (at least for me... maybe only for me) in getting slightly spicier than is the normal max. Plus I usually am able to consume it without a problem.

It was my turn to order, and the waitress and I had this exchange:

Me: What's the maximum stars in terms of spiciness?
Her: One to four star.
Me: Is it possible to get spicier? Like five stars? [Note to readers: solve for 3n/(n-2)]
Her: Oh, yes. You want more star?
Me: Sure. Like how high does it go?
Her: As high as you want to go.
Me: Like what? A hundred stars? Ten thousand?
Her: Oh... ten, twenty star.
Me: Well, however hot you can make it, thanks.
Her: Twenty star?
Me: Sure. Sounds good.

I've never been a person who says that he has no regrets in life. I make innumerable mistakes--great and small--on a fortnightly basis. It's rare, though, that I make this kind of mistake.

That shit was hot. One bite in and I knew I was in trouble. Strike that. Once glance at the seed-laden plate of pad see ew and I knew I was going to be in for some pain.

I think I got through about a seventh of it before I threw in the towel... not literally, because the napkin I had was too tear- and sweat-soaked to actually throw without risk of damaging a fellow restaurant patron.

I commandeered a second water glass and consumed about 10,000 fluid ounces of H2O to wash away the pain. My lips burned for the rest of the night (at least until the rum kicked in). I have the leftovers in my fridge, but they've got to be laughing their collective Thai-accented, noodle-based ass off, knowing that if and when I take another crack at it I'll just be putting myself through pain.

Best Thai food experience ever.

A first (taking a request)

It's 2:37 AM on Friday morning. I went out with some of my boys on Thursday night... starting with a prefunk of Sparks and Absolut 100 at my place, leading to Chopstix and ending at Ozzies.

Towards the end of the night, I found myself, essentially, alone. I have alcohol coursing through my veins but I had seen TM2000 and Thor leave me, and Buddy 1 elsewhere (consistent with his 86'ing from Ozzies). I was drinking water after a pair of $1 Jamison shots to cap the night, and I was sharing a table with a 21st birthday party.

The girl's name was Britanny. Given her age, "Brittany" would have been a good guess for her name, behind "Jennifer" and "Katherine", or some version thereof.

Brittany was turning 21, you see, and had the paper crown to prove it. My first experience with her was an inane one:

Me: You turning 21 today?
Her: (With a "duh" look on her face) Uh, yeah.
Me: I almost wore that crown tonight.
Her: Good thing you didn't. ("Retard" was understood.)
Me: You have many guys buy you drink tonight?
Her: Some. You wanna buy me one?
Me: No.
Her: ... uh. OK, then. Later.

That was about 15 minutes before I found myself sitting at their table. The birthday girl was singing a song, and the dudes started swarming, as they tend to do at around 1:15.

As the dudes swarmed, I remained seated and tried to be respectful by not leering at her. I started talking to her friends and a woman sitting across from me revealed to me that she was the birthday girl's mother.

I'm getting old. I had to break out my driver's license twice tonight to prove that I'm not a liar. But I'm getting to the point where women almost my age are capable of having women that I find attractive as children.

Not sure that the sentence structure is solid. But I'm drunk. And I promised the birthday party I'd make a blog entry tonight. So this will have to do.

The birthday girl was adorable and I still find it hard it to believe that her mom was her mom. BUT... it is what it is. :)

Cardio + Animal Planet = No Bueno

Since I am no longer gainfully employed, I have been going to the gym more. It serves the purpose of working off the Taco Bell I consume on a regular basis and it also serves the purpose of punishing me for not having a job.

A key part to the time I spend in the gym is doing cardio. Many people run around town for free, but I've paid for a three year membership so I can have lower impact exercise in front of televisions.

And it was the television directly in front of me that is the catalyst for this blog entry.

There are about a dozen TVs scattered about the cardio area of my local 24 Hour Fitness Express, and about four of them were visible from where I was exercising. Evidently there are things called "remote controls" that allow for the channels to be changed, but I am not one to rock the boat, so even if I'm the only one who can see a TV, I leave it on the channel it's on.

Sometimes it works out well, if one of the ESPN family of networks is on. I can live with E! and CNN and most of the regular ones (for some reason, one of my favorites (History International) does not appear very often).

But today? Today I found one that does NOT work for me. That channel? Animal Planet.

I like animals. I like pets. I like pets and animals too much to watch Animal Planet, especially when I'm sweating in public.

I caught the end of one show about veterinarians learn on the job. "Whatever," I thought as I kicked off my cardio workout, "it might be interesting, and in any case since yesterday was their holiday I might as well celebrate Veterinarian Day with them by watching this."

Well, seven minutes later there was a gibbon with a badly broken arm that was going under the knife. Even under the best of circumstances, I am not a big fan of monkey innards, and when I was just breaking a sweat it was no less appealing. By the time the other case study, involving a cute puppy that needed some sort of surgery for eye trauma, I was feeling a bit queasy but I didn't want to interrupt my workout so I averted my eyes and crossed my fingers (not literally; they were grasping the elliptical machine in ever-growing weariness) that the next show would be better.

It wasn't.

Now, I know dogs are loyal. And I know that some people treat dogs like horseshit. What I don't need to see, as I gazed around, wistfully looking for a cute butt to stare at for the remainder of my cardio time, is for a dog to be super-loyal after being treated like horseshit.

Animal Planet clearly disagreed.

In "San Francisco Animal Cops" or some such, there was a case of a dude keeping a little dog named Sexy outside on a SHORT chain (not even a collar) with an open dog house and feeding him scraps for his entire life. Sexy's life. Not the owner's.

Never had taken the dog for a walk. Never had let the dog inside.

When the Animal Cop took possession of the pooch, he had to cut the chain off from around the dog's neck. And Sexy made a bee-line for the owner that had neglected him so thoroughly and for so long.

Maybe it's that time of the month for me, or maybe it was the sweat getting into my eyes, but I felt like crying, it was so sad.

Crying in the middle of a 24 Hour Fitness is no bueno, though, so I bit my lip and cursed Animal Planet for making my cardio so emotionally difficult as well as physically taxing.

A short story

Buddy One and I were in Peso's on Thursday night. The night before Halloween. I think there were like five people dressed up in the city of Seattle. I was a vampire, Buddy One was a zombie.

We got our drinks and a waitress interacted with us. Her mistake.

Waitress: You guys look good.
Buddy One: Oh, yeah?
Waitress: Yeah, you look scary, but...
Buddy One: But what?
Waitress: But you are too nice. You have to be meaner.
Me: (Waiting for the waitress to start to walk away) Shut up, bitch!
Waitress: ...
Me: Like that?

I don't know that she liked it. At least I didn't get us tossed out.

Fighting racism, two fists at a time

Buddy One and I used to go to Ozzies together. We'd drink and sing and generally make merry. One night, though, the peaceful environment was corrupted with ignorance and ended with blood running on the streets.

How does something so right go so wrong? Allow me to explain.

BO (nice shortening of the nickname... you're welcome!) and I wandered in and saw a fella wearing a Michigan shirt. We'll call him Michigan. BO had recently purchased a Detroit Tigers hat and I have found that only Australians like me more than Michiganders, so we took a couple minutes to talk to him. Nice guy. Kinda plump, but a nice guy.

BO and I (at this point I might just see how often I can use "BO" in this story) took a seat in the singing area and saw our buddy, Black Karaoke Buddy, there. ("Why that nickname?" you might ask. Well. He's black and he's our karaoke buddy.) We had a good time, singing our songs and singing along when other people sang theirs... standard stuff.

Standard, that is, until it was Michigan's turn to sing. He chose Vanilla Ice's generation-defining "Ice, Ice Baby"... which is both extremely repetitive and, at times, challenging. Challenging, especially, for guys who have had some alcohol and don't really know the words that well. Guys like Michigan.

In any case, we were singing along. BO, BKB and I. Michigan's buddy was watching and leaned in to our table's flight zone and declared (seemingly good-naturedly) to BKB these fateful words:

"Keep that up and they'll have to revoke your card!"

The three of us heard it. BKB, probably (unfortunately) more used to this racist sort of stuff, didn't make a big deal out of it. I, being me, don't make a big deal out of anything that doesn't involve some sort of typographical error.

BO, however, took umbrage. He looked at us with an "Is he SHITTING me?" kind of look on his face. He then swiveled in his chair and told Michigan's buddy, known in this blog as Racist, that it was not cool and not to be racist. Whether Racist heard or not is unknown, but further incidents at Ozzies were avoided.

At Ozzies, they were avoided.

Somehow BO and I started talking to four chicks at the end of the night. Not only is that a lot for us to bite off at the end of the night, but they were professional softball players and lesbians. But I was drunk and had nothing better to do, so the six of us wandered over to another bar for a final drink before closing.

Unfortunately for ignorance and oppression, Michigan and Racist were at the same bar. We got our drink and BO, looking down at the end of the bar where Racist was sitting, stated in a rather loud voice, "There's that racist motherfucker!" And when prompted by the professional softball players to explain, he elucidated by stating, "That guy is a racist asshole!"

Which obviously cleared things right up.

Unfortunately, sometimes to make an omelette you need to break a few eggs. BO did not go for the Eggbeater-based omelette. He was going for the real deal, and that involved breaking some eggs. And some blood vessels. (Ick. Maybe the thought of breaking eggs with blood vessels in them isn't such a good image; I don't like blood in my breakfast foods as a general rule.)

Racist heard the proclamations. Rather than trying to clear up the matter, though, he took extreme umbrage. He returned that he wasn't a racist. He cursed back at BO.

And things were taken outside.

With the four professional softball players still in tow, BO and I went outside and took a right on Queen Anne... heading back to vehicles and (in my case) apartment.

Michigan and Racist were right behind us. Racist and BO were talking and at some point the two got closest enough for one punch to be thrown, and one punch was enough for BO to drop Racist.

BO kept talking, but he caught up to me and the professional softball players. Michigan was restraining Racist, who was raging and wanted a piece of BO. (Of course, as it turns out, he did NOT want a piece of him, but it seemed a good idea at the time.)

It would have been easy for us to disperse. For BO to take his 1-0 victory and for the professional softball players to go their own way (go their own way...) but easy is not always best, most just, or most fun.

BO kept yapping. We could see Michigan holding Racist back and it was simultaneously admirable of Michigan, idiotic of Racist, and hilarious to watch.

A pair of black guys walked past and BO told them that he'd just dropped a racist guy, and one of them rolled up his sleeves, as if he were going to drop Racist if he made it past the Michigan defensive perimeter.

Fortunately for everyone, as Racist made his way slowly up the block to our position, all non-involveds left... just the six in our party were left, waiting, when Racist charged.

BO stood his ground and Racist waded into a short flurry of punches that staggered him. He lurched backwards and fell onto the sidewalk. His head hit pretty hard, and in my medical opinion, he was concussed.

He popped up, though, with a bit of the ol' "I've just been concussed" crazy-eyes... and blood streaming down his left arm. I'm not sure how or where it came from, but he bled a lot in a very short amount of time.

Seeing a bleeding dude who'd just had his skull bounce off the sidewalk pop up ready for more of an ass-whooping, the professional softball players skee-daddled. Leaving just Michigan, Racist, BO and me.

Michigan was at the end of his rope. He was a decent guy who didn't want to see his friend get beat up. He started talking--pleading--with me to leave and to take BO with me. Of course, I wasn't going to risk my hide by getting in between the two guys, especially since my friend was winning. I calmly explained that I lived very close and that THEY were the ones who ought to leave, especially considering Racist had started it all.

Michigan tried to explain his perspective, and he managed to dig himself a nice little hole as he recounted the matter:

Michigan: My friend saw your friend singing my song, and--your african american friend might have been gay, I don't know, and he--
Me: What?
Michigan: He might have been gay, and he--
Me: Uh... he's not gay, first of all, but who gives a crap if he is?
Michigan: OK. He might not be gay, but my friend...

I kinda tuned him out there. He could sense it, and he started pointing the finger at me, personally, for not keeping my friend under control.

This conversation was taking place on the street corner. Where were BO and Racist? They were in the crosswalk, circling and talking and taking one another's measure... at least BO was taking Racist's measure... Racist might have been counting the hallucinations the bruises on the back of his brain were causing.

As I spoke to Michigan, I was keeping and eye on the in-the-street hostilities to ensure that BO was doing OK. I didn't want to escalate things with a four man brawl for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that I'm the worst fighter on the planet.

Or at least that's what I thought. Then I saw Racist finally make his move.

He rotated his hips so he was in profile, facing BO. He then did two weenie little sidekick things towards BO's stomach. One missed entirely and the other connected, but it (shockingly, I know!) lacked any sort of power.

After the two kicks of fury, Racist didn't change tactics. He went to the well, as it were, once too often.

The third kick was one that BO was ready for. When it approached, BO caught it and sort of twisted Racist, who hit the pavement like a concussed ton of bricks.

If BO were a trained fighter, I think Racist could have ended up in the hospital at this point. As it was, BO got a couple more licks in before Michigan finally pulled the bloodied but still outraged Racist away. Racist, at that point, claimed he was going to go get a knife and kill BO.

*yawn*

BO and I wandered back to my place to cool down. He had blood on his shirt and various spots on his upper body. Seen, in part, here:

Racist was taller than BO, Racism had the reach on him, and Racism had the cultural and institutional inertia.

But Racism lost. Big time.

Three assholes

I think I'm a pretty easy-going guy. Much of my easy-going nature is rooted in laziness, of course, but as my personality manifests itself towards people, I tend to get along well with most people, I think.

I don't actually LIKE most people, but I can tolerate them and realize that they're good people without going out of my way to be buddies with them. The flipside to this general indifference is that I rarely actively dislike anyone. I don't know whether it's a reflection of my optimism that the number of people I like (as relatively meager as it is) outweighs the number I dislike, or whether my optimism reflects that positive imbalance.

In any event, I rarely dislike people. I can count on one hand the number of people that, right now, I can tell you that I don't like. As a matter of fact, I am going to do that in this post.

To protect the identities of these poor SOBs, I am going to do some creative time management. I hope that, by reading these descriptions, an observer won't be able to tell about whom (or from what time in my life) these three emerged on my radar screen. I will tell you (a) none of them are on my MySpace friends list, and (b) this blog is friends-only. [Blogger.com migration note: (b) is no longer accurate.]

Without further ado, and in no specific order (such as chronological or intensity) here we go. Three assholes.

1. Once upon a time, I liked a woman. She liked me for a bit and then changed her mind. Time went on and I still clinged to the feelings and, after a considerable haitus from communicating with her, we met up and spent the better part of an evening together. We talked about this and that and then we talked about a guy. A guy she had a crush on. Her smile lit up and as she shared specifics I felt like I was going to vomit.

I had never met the guy, but there are ways of learning things about people (muhahahaha) and she'd given me his name so, after a week or two, I knew things about him. What he looked like, where (generally) he worked, where he played high school baseball (OK, Google.com sometimes returns some crazy shit).

I also knew that I didn't like him (although I didn't know, one day, that I would be blogging about him).

One day I was walking downtown and I saw him walking down the street and I wanted to spit on his shoes. Or punch him in the groin. I restrained myself.

Did he do anything wrong? No. Might he be a nice guy? Yes. Do I give a crap? No. He's someone I still don't like, and even if he never meets me or knows who I am he'll always be an asshole.

2. My family all lives in other parts of the country nowadays. I don't visit as much as I'd like (although maybe more than they'd like), but the second guy on this list emerged during one such visit. I had a redeye flight and I was lying on a couch, watching TV, in anticipation of some sort of party or gathering of friends (none of whom I knew). I was dozing happily in spite of the hustle-bustle of the house when I felt something hitting me in the face. I kinda brushed it away but it persisted and I finally opened my eyes.

Standing over me was a guy with a goatee and an annoying voice. I learned both of those things simultaneously, as he apologized half-heartedly (in terms of emotion, not in terms of volume) for opening the blinds next to the couch, and the drawstring things were hitting me in the face.

He was going out to have a smoke on the porch, you see, and wanted to see the television. He was unconcerned, it seems, that I was trying to get a bit of sleep. He had to have his nicotine and he couldn't miss any part of the game that he was watching.

I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt... after all, I am a sports fan, too.

But the guy was annoying. Loud (as mentioned), short, a big-talker (slightly different from merely loud)... just generally extroverted and lacking in anything I would consider a sense of humor. He also had a pretty darn cute wife. And his family had money.

Asshole.

3. There have been a few times in my life where I've been between jobs. I have never been comfortable or confident talking myself up, so the application and interview process is terrifically uncertain for me. At one of these points of unemployment, I got a lead on a job and jumped through a few hoops to get an interview.

I was expected to speak to multiple people and to give a presentation in front of a group. Lunch with a group of employees was a possibility, as well. The longer the interview process went, the thinking went, the better my chances of getting a job.

Things were going swimmingly for the first couple of hours ... until I walked into the room to give the presentation. I noticed a face I'd recognized--someone I had worked with previously--and I gave him a smile and said hi. He gave me a stoneface in return, but I thought he just had his gameface on and so I moved forward. I spent the rest of the day with the company. Things went well.

My former coworker, as it turns out, had an issue with me. With my personality? With my work ethic? With my beautiful hair? I never learned. But he said something--or somethingS--bad about me, and I didn't get the job offer.

After initial confusion, my emotion resolved into anger. I have always got along with people I've worked with. I was shocked that someone would go out of their way to submarine my chances to get a job.

Why would he do that? I was higher on the food chain when we worked together, but we simply didn't share many tasks or conversations. Had he held some kind of grudge for that time, and when he was presented with an opportunity to "get even", he did?

Who would do that? An asshole.

Musings on my first regular season Seahawks game

I went down to San Francisco this past weekend with Buddy One and three of his other friends. Actually, three of us went down from Seattle and met up with two others in the Greater Bay Area (is Sacramento part of the Greater Bay Area? From now on it is, dammit).

A few stories emerged from the weekend ("emerged" is an odd word choice... I might just be tired and sloppy, or the verb might reflect the passive nature of how I approach adventures: just put yourself in a situation and see what happens) but rather than go into beer pong or karaoke tales, I wanted to focus on the last major event of the weekend: the Seahawks game.

People who have known me for a long time know that I'm a pretty big sports fan. I played sports from a young age all the way through high school at a relatively competitive level. I played IMs in college. I collected baseball cards and played Strat-o-Matic baseball and followed the Portland Trail Blazers rather religiously. I've been in the same fantasy football league for over 15 years.

I'm a sports fan.

The thing is that something funny happened to my fandom. I can't pinpoint an exact date or even year, but I believe that I became a bit of a closet sports fan some time after moving to the Greater Puget Sound Area (is Renton part of the ... never mind).

What do I mean by this? People can't tell, most of the time, that I am a sports fan. I rarely wear sports apparel, I don't talk much about sports to people I don't know well, and I almost never attend live games.

This is quite different from the time before I lived in Washington, and it made me wonder why. So, rather than leave you in suspense, I will reveal the two major reasons:

1. My ex-wife. She was great in many ways and in many ways we got along great. She was not a sports fan, though, and while her a(nti?)pathy towards sports didn't stop me from watching or discussing/ranting about sports, the utter absence of comprehension, interest and any sort of spark of anything positive about what I was into regarding sports sort of sucked the joy out of it. (Whether I mean "my marriage" or "sports" when I say "it" is something I will leave for you to figure out.)
2. My career. I've had two employers in Seattle since I've been here. Both were agencies with a lot of creative people... the kind of people who have only owned Apple computers and listen to NPR podcasts. A lot of smart, nice, good people... who didn't give a shit about sports. It was only in the last couple of years that I had more than one or two people in the office (of around 30) that I could possibly talk sports with.

I suppose I unlearned the habits of talking about sports to real people and relied on Web-based outlets to argue about the Blazers and fantasy sports to have interaction above and beyond television broadcasts and box scores. That I now have friends who actually are into sports, and that I've actually dated women who like sports... I still haven't grasped it emotionally, and my communication skills have lagged, so I feel awkward talking about them in a way I don't feel awkward talking about, say, vacuum cleaners or kitty box cleaning or karaoke (the three most important things in my life in the last 17 months).

Another reason that I don't talk sports in person? I don't think that I relate to the average sports fan. With the exception of the Blazers, I almost never care about who wins a game. I care if I have a fantasy player involved, and I care from a curiosity or historical perspective, but I don't get fired up and I don't feel real passion the way so many fans do. Even regarding the Blazers I'm more analytical and patient and ... cold... than many fellow fans.

I felt the difference in San Francisco this weekend. I root for the Seahawks more than I do any other NFL team, although I don't get too invested. (I'm more upset, for example, that I lost my fantasy matchup this week than I am excited by the big win the 'Hawks had).

Even setting aside the level of interest, my mental approach is just different. Seahawks fans were pockets of blue in a general sea of red in the stadium, but they were pretty loud and quite conspicuous any time something went well for the team. That's just not me.

I found myself looking at the crowd. Not people watching, exactly (although some women were definitely worth watching, for the record). I was watching for mob mentality manifestations. I was interested to see how the police blocked off a section towards the end of the game to prevent all of the Seahawks fans from accumulating there (and then withdrawing their cordon after about 15 minutes of trying to turn people away). I was fascinated/horrified by fights that took place in the stands and in the parking lot. I was horrified/impressed at how many $9.50 beers were sold throughout the course of the afternoon.

That has nothing to do with what was happening on the field--although the play definitely influenced those things (well... maybe not the beer sales), as well as costing me my fantasy game (O'Sullivan got benched and got me 0 points... I ended up losing by 5).

Going to games is almost a distraction. I would have seen a lot more--and, perhaps, at some level enjoyed the game a lot more--by watching on TV, with my browser pointed to NFL.com so I could get stats of other games. As an overall experience, however, I am definitely glad I made the trip down there.

I'm not sure if that means I'm more or less of a sports fan than I used to be.

The best part of my days...

I love being half-awake. I love finishing a nap, or waking up from a night's sleep, and being able to just lie in bed and relax, somewhere between being able to dream and being able to speak. There's something serene and comforting and safe that I only feel when I am in this state and in that position.

There is no reflection on failures--past or potential. There is no hand-wringing over missed opportunities or mistakes. There is no focus, in fact, on the past at all.

I look forward without fear. I make plans and set goals and make myself smile in a way that I simply cannot replicate when I am wide awake.

No sarcasm. No cynicism. No self-doubt.

It's not real, it's not even honest, in many ways. But I like it.

This and That

Stuff from the last few days.

This is a "friends-only" blog. (Blogger.com migration note: no longer.) There are three reasons I am making it friends-only.

• First reason: I am not gainfully employed, and it's possible that potential employers might be reading this blog. With one possible individual exception, I'm not too eager to expose my current state of mind with people who will have something to do with writing me paychecks.
• Second reason: I've lost a pair of MySpace friends in the last few days. One I know about (and am confused by/disappointed with) but the other I don't know. If these people are going to zap me as friends without even telling me, they don't deserve to see this. Or maybe they aren't obligated to wade through it. It depends on one's perspective, I suppose.
• Third reason: I've been feeling pretty antisocial lately. I was out briefly both Friday and Saturday nights, but didn't drink and was home and putzing around my apartment alone (baking cookies, playing Civ IV) by 9:30 each night. I just haven't felt like being around people (or at least not more than one or two people at a time) the last few days, and making this blog entry friends-only is a way to express this misanthropy.
  

Thursday I spent the majority of the day at a company, going through the interview process. We'll see in the next couple of days if I get an offer.

Friday I ... hm. What did I do? Update my MySpace music playlist. I think that's about it. Oh, wait. Buddy One and I got some lunch at Peso's and talked to some chick who told us that she had already cried two times that morning. Also, my ex-wife called about a financial situation where paperwork wasn't done and ... yeah. Not a massive deal, but not fun.

Saturday I cleaned my living room as I watched college football (including my poor NU Wildcats getting their first loss of the season). I got to use my (incredible) vacuum and it looked great... then I took the step of busting open the boxes that I've had stacked in my living room for the year I've been in this apartment. The boxes I got through included a large amount of paper that I ended up throwing away, including my financial records from 1996. Wow. I am glad I still had those, in case I had to go back in time about a decade and then got audited.

I went to bed early Saturday night... about 11:00. Read some and then went to sleep.

I woke up around 6:00 AM, feeling a blanket of apathy and emptiness... with a throw pillow of frustration that I was awake at 6:00 AM on a Sunday morning.

Some time ago (like 18 months ago, maybe) I had the realization that I had a sort of freedom that I had never had before... I could go to dinner anywhere I wanted, I could stay out as late as I wanted or go anywhere, and as long as my cats and my job were unaffected/accounted for, there was really no one to answer to. That freedom was exhilirating but also a bit depressing. I think this morning I had that feeling squared, since I currently have no job to hold me back. I could, if I were so inclined, go buy a bunch of cat food and kitty litter and let my cats fend for themselves (in violation of my lease, natch) as I drove to Toronto or Florida or LA or Hawaii. I wouldn't have to tell anyone I was going and no one would notice that I was gone. It's a weird feeling.

After that uplifting train of thought I drifted back to sleep for a few hours and have been, pretty much, camped in front of my computer and TV during the NFL games today. My fantasy football team is moving to 4-2, winning its third straight.

I remember typing up a blog early in 2008 where I was complaining about how shitty the year had started, and I look back at what I had going on and, yeah, there were some bad things. There were also some pretty great things happening, too, and I didn't really appreciate them. Some of those things are gone now and I wish I had enjoyed them more, but that's life, I suppose. This is a downcast blog, and I'm sure that in a few months I'll re-read it and shake my head and ponder how I could not appreciate the good stuff happening right now. That's life, I suppose.

First night (or: how to get two guys to ask you to step outside within 15 seconds)

I turned in a letter of resignation at my place of employment just about two weeks ago. Yesterday was my last day after nearly six years of working for the same empoyer. I was employee number four, and after a pair of name changes, a merger, and about two hundred projects, I was done.

What am I gonna do? Not sure. Sleep. Go to the gym. Clean up the boxes out of my living room.

And look for a job.

Last night, though, was the first night of being unemployed that I've had in over six years. It was (is) exhilirating and frightening.

I didn't have any specific plans last night... I didn't really feel like celebrating quitting, given the state of the economy and given that gloating would probably result in me being out of work for six months.

A friend, though, had taken some nursing exams and she txted me to come out to Ozzies, along with other friends of hers, to celebrate.

I hadn't been to Ozzies in nearly a queen's age (where a "queen's age" is equal to 72 hours), so I decided to go. I decided first, though, to figure out why I was getting a Windows error when I was trying to update to Service Pack 3. After some whiskey, some vodka/Red Bull, and then some Jaegermeister/Red Bull, I not only was able to update my registry and get Windows updated properly, I was also having a good time doing it.

Ahh, alcohol!

I wandered over to Ozzies and saw Motown, who was acting as the "guest judge" for the weekly contest. I had done the honor the previous week (or the week before; time is elastic) and it was good to see him there on a weeknight.

My test-taking friend, we'll call her Testy since I like to give codenames, was there with a group of female friends. I got into a chair and started talking. I met one of her friends (I'll call her Genie) and we talked about karaoke and England and alcohol. Pretty good stuff.

I was seated across the table from Testy and to Genie's right. There were two seats to my right and two seats to Testy's left. A pair of people sat to her left and I introduced myself to the guy. I'll call him Asshole Number Two. Not to give anything away, but unlike Testy, his nickname is not unrelated to his personality. He seemed fine at first, but wasn't especially friendly. Whatever.

At some point it was my turn to sing. I got up to sing and another guy sat down in the seat that I had been in. Fine. I sat by Motown at another table and went about my business.

Later, when the second guy (named, for future reference, Asshole Number One) left, I waited a few minutes and then went back to chitchat with Genie and Testy.

After about 30 minutes I felt a tap on my shoulder and I looked up and it was Asshole Number One. We had a brief initial conversation. It went something like this:

ANO: Move.
Me: What?
ANO: You're in my seat.
Me: Huh?
ANO: I said move, dude.
Me: No.
ANO: What?
Me: I'm not going to move. Why do you think it's your seat?
ANO: I was sitting there before you took my seat.
Me: Well, I was sitting here before you took my seat.

It was at this point where, as things sometimes do when guys are drinking and around women, it got much more (simultaneously) serious (and ridiculous).

ANO: You wanna step outside?
Me: What? Are you serious?
ANO: (glowering)
Me: No.
Asshole Number Two: Move!
Me: Give me a break.
ANT: He was there first.
Me: Wrong. I was here. You saw me sitting here. I got up to sing and he took my seat. No biggie. But I'm sitting here now, and I'm not moving.
ANT: Wanna step outside?
Me: Really? Wow. No.

It's at moments like these in life where I feel like it's all a joke. What life have both of these guys lived--what experience base do they have that is so utterly foreign to me--that they would each want to go outside and fight me? And why do they think that I would go outside and fight over a seat in a karaoke bar?

I looked around, and both Genie and Testy were kinda fidgeting uncomfortably. Naturally, though, I wanted to know if I was welcome in this seat. So I asked Testy, for whom we were all purportedly there, whether she wanted me to move. She didn't say much, but Genie said, "No! I need you to sit next to me!"

Buttressed thusly, I looked at Asshole Number One and shrugged and said, "Sorry, dude. She wants me to sit next to her."

Asshole Number One retreated from the table, and Testy stood to talk to Asshole Number Two. They were, like, three feet from me and their conversation went something like this:

Testy: Don't worry. He's a friend of mine.
ANT: I don't like him.
Testy: ...
ANT: He's creepy. He's a douche. I don't like him.
Testy: I invited him. He was sitting there before.
ANT: (Looking at me) Stop looking at me! He's got his eyebrows all raised and shit. I don't like him.
Testy: ...
ANT: We're going.
Testy: OK. You don't have t--
ANT: No, we're out of here!

It turns out that Testy didn't even know those guys. They were friends of her friend. Genie didn't know them, either.

Wow. Guys are awesome.

The rest of the evening was rather uneventful. Michigan and Racist were there, but that's another blog, long since due in the telling... maybe tomorrow I can write it up.

RIP, Bus Thoughts Blog

I've lost blogs before, and it's been painful. I've pushed "back" on my browser at the wrong time. I've had the "Preview & Post" button lead to a broken page error. Usually I get pissed and remind myself to always copy the blog before submitting.

This morning I typed up a blog. I'd love to say it was hilarious and insightful and a can't-miss, but it was pretty pedestrian (about my thoughts on the bus this morning). I just need to start writing again and I wanted to start somewhere.

I typed it up. I pushed "Preview & Post" and then I got some sort of premonition that something bad was going to happen. I selected all from within the blog and had to copy it... I should have done a Ctrl-C number to copy, but instead I right-clicked and went to select "Copy" from the popup menu...

Usually right-clicking is safer. Ctrl-C doesn't give much feedback that you've successfully copied the content to your clipboard, but if you select "Copy", you're golden.

Unless, of course, "Copy" is not an option.

MySpace's stupid rich text editor seems to embed a different HTML page into the window, rather than text. This leads to an alternate set of options popping up, and one that does not include "Copy". So I left-clicked to get out of the popup menu, which meant I no longer had my blog selected, and I hit "Ctrl-A" to select all...

And then the next page finally kicked in. The page could not load. I knew I was screwed.

"Back" on the browser (my only option at that point) led to a blank blog entry page. A quick check on my blog confirmed that the new one had not been saved. The "Bus Thoughts" blog was gone forever.

RIP, Bus Thoughts blog.

40 Things: Updated

For some reason I haven't felt much like blogging lately. Maybe it's the travel I've been partaking in, or maybe it's the NFL season about to start, or maybe it's my continuing fascination with my vacuum cleaner.

In any case, I hope to have the blogging mojo back soon, and in the mean time here's an update on my "40 Things" blog, since the conclusion of my brief Lemonade Diet experiment:

1. Philly cheesesteak sandwich: ate one in Wisconsin.
2. Deli sandwich with thin-sliced turkey and ham with swiss cheese and mustard: the first thing I had for dinner after my diet.
3. Frozen burritos: have some in my freezer but haven't eaten any yet.
4. Hard shell tacos from Taco Bell: shockingly, I haven't made the run for the border/across the street for these just yet... and my Taco Bell run in Wisconsin had another focus (see below).
5. Quesadillas: yep. Happy hour at Tia Lou's.
6. Supernachos: yep. Birthday dinner.
7. Chili-cheese burritos: when I made the list, I was thinking of homemade ones, rather than the actual Chili-cheese (nee "Chilitos") items at Taco Bell... they've been discontinued in my region of the country (see this blog and this one for more info). But not in Wisconsin. Giddyup.
8. Qdoba steak burrito: yep. Delish.
9. "The Elvis" burrito from Mama's: the first thing I ate to break the fast (well, other than chips and salsa).
10. Taquitos made by my parents: no. I saw my parents but they had the whole "Our daughter's getting married!" excuse. Pshaw.
11. Chicago style stuffed pizza with pepperoni, black olives and pine nuts from Delfino's: not yet.
12. Wood-fired pizza from Via Tribunali or Bambino's: I did, and it was excellent.
13. Two slices of random kinds of pizza from any place on Vancouver BC's Granville Street: no... haven't been back to BC yet.
14. Tombstone supreme frozen pizza: have one in my freezer, haven't eaten it yet.
15. Omelette with ham and black olives with hashbrowns on the side and a large orange juice: hellz, yeah.
16. Stack of fluffy pancakes with boysenberry syrup and a large ice cold milk: it was this or the omelette. I went with the omelette.
17. Sausage gravy and biscuits: not yet.
18. Dick's Deluxe cheeseburger: yep. A cheap, healthy dinner.
19. Homemade turkey lasagna: no. No time to cook just yet.
20. Chicken parmesan: yes. Had it in Wisconsin and it was great.
21. Fettucine alfredo: no... had like 100 other Italian dishes, but not this.
22. Deep-fried cheese curds: when I made the list, this was a bit of a joke. But I had some with my Philly Cheesesteak in Milwaukee.
23. Mozarella sticks and marinera sauce: indeed. Red Robin to the rescue!
24. Big Mac: not yet.
25. Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers from Wendy's: not yet.
26. Hot dogs: hmm... not yet.
27. Macaroni and cheese (alternate: shells and cheese, preferably sans Velveeta): unfortunately, no. :(
28. Chef's salad: I had a blackened chicken salad at Crawdaddy's in Milwaukee, so I'm giving myself credit for this one.
29. Sushi: delicious. So good.
30. Phad thai (six star) from Tup Tim Thai: no yet, but given the proximity of the restaurant to my place of residence, it should not take long.
31. Phad see ew: I want to say "yes" so I'll say it.
32. Hand-shaven barley green noodles with chicken from Shanghai Garden: nope.
33. Grape beef with brown rice: nope.
34. Sweet chili shrimp: uh-uh.
35. Paneer pakoras from Taste of India: not yet.
36. Nan (garlic and regular): had some, yes.
37. Chicken shahi korma: hmm... I can never remember what I eat at Indian places beyond the nan. I don't think I ate this.
38. Chicken tikka masala: oh, wait. I do remember some. I ate this, yes.
39. Chicken honey and prunes from Marrakesh: no. No Marrakesh trip yet.
40. Brochette Marrakesh: nope.

The tally? 18 of 40 items consumed. Not bad for two weeks' work.

40 things I would love to eat right this moment

OK. I intended to make a list of 100. 40 will have to do. I should make this a checklist and see how long it takes me to get through these 40 things after I bid adieu to the Lemonade Diet (Thursday lunch...).

1. Philly cheesesteak sandwich
2. Deli sandwich with thin-sliced turkey and ham with swiss cheese and mustard
3. Frozen burritos
4. Hard shell tacos from Taco Bell
5. Quesadillas
6. Supernachos
7. Chili-cheese burritos
8. Qdoba steak burrito
9. "The Elvis" burrito from Mama's
10. Taquitos made by my parents
11. Chicago style stuffed pizza with pepperoni, black olives and pine nuts from Delfino's
12. Wood-fired pizza from Via Tribunali or Bambino's
13. Two slices of random kinds of pizza from any place on Vancouver BC's Granville Street
14. Tombstone supreme frozen pizza
15. Omelette with ham and black olives with hashbrowns on the side and a large orange juice
16. Stack of fluffy pancakes with boysenberry syrup and a large ice cold milk
17. Sausage gravy and biscuits
18. Dick's Deluxe cheeseburger
19. Homemade turkey lasagna
20. Chicken parmesan
21. Fettucine alfredo
22. Deep-fried cheese curds
23. Mozarella sticks and marinera sauce
24. Big Mac
25. Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers from Wendy's
26. Hot dogs
27. Macaroni and cheese (alternate: shells and cheese, preferably sans Velveeta)
28. Chef's salad
29. Sushi
30. Phad thai (six star) from Tup Tim Thai
31. Phad see ew
32. Hand-shaven barley green noodles with chicken from Shanghai Garden
33. Grape beef with brown rice
34. Sweet chili shrimp
35. Paneer pakoras from Taste of India
36. Nan (garlic and regular)
37. Chicken shahi korma
38. Chicken tikka masala
39. Chicken honey and prunes from Marrakesh
40. Brochette Marrakesh

Highlights from Hawaii

Originally I had planned on documenting the ups and downs from each day and night in Hawaii... and then I got distracted and had to, like, go to work and stuff. I now am finding myself falling behind on my blogging because of the daunting task of documenting nearly an entire week of excitement, adventure, and hilarity.

Instead of that sort of longwinded play-by-play, I will give some anecdotes. I'll start with three and if more pop into my head and I have the energy and time, I'll add future blog entries as supplements.

Day 3, at the beach near our hotel.

We went boogie boarding our first day in Hawaii, and I enjoyed it. I am a strong swimmer and don't fear the water or the ocean at all, so I was willing to give it a shot in spite of some rather large waves and a total lack of experience with a boogie board. My first experience was good but rather quick (twss) as I got very, very tired. In fact, I think I only managed to catch one good wave, but I rode it all the way to the sand of the beach and headed in for the day.

Day three saw a rematch, and it went pretty well. I still was a terrible, terrible boogie boarder, but at it was fun and (other than a nasty scrape of my left ankle on the coral beneath the ocean's surface) no one was hurt.

Perhaps most interestingly, I was approached by a girl when I was about 15 minutes into my boogie boarding (which, to be fair, was me trying to lie on the board without tipping over about 90% of the time). That's right, a girl approached me. Shocking, I know.

She was a waif-like girl who was from Korea and she asked me to teach her how to "surf". I immediately explained that we all were not surfing, but I neglected to inform her that I (a) just started myself, and (b) didn't have any idea what the fuck I was doing.

TM2000 waded over (sea-based cock block) and I introduced him (it was sort of like Ozzies, but more coral and less karaoke). He pointed to the hat she was wearing and told her that she should take it off, because she was going to lose it.

She meekly tipped it back off her head, relying on the string it was attached to... but after he paddled away she put it right back on. TM2000 is intimidating, I guess.

I proceded to crack about 35 jokes about Korea, ranging from Rock Ready to Kim Jong-Il to Japanese occupation in WW II. She nodded politely, of course, but I don't think she really got most of them... of course, even if she spoke perfect English, it would not have been uncommon for my jokes to go over her head and/or be entirely void of any actual humor. Say, for instance, a joke about the Japanese occupation in WW II.

We boogied our separate ways, but before I left I checked in on how she was doing. She caught a wave or two, was having a good time, and had lost her hat.

TM2000 wins, one to nothing.

Night 3, on the dance floor of a bar down the street from our Hotel.

How many times do I have to admit that I'm not a good dancer? It's an unanswerable rhetorical question, but whatever the answer might be, it needs to go up a notch. Because I'm saying it here. Typing it here. Whatever.

I'm not a good dancer. I know it. Anyone who's seen me dance knows it. I was informed by a purple-haired lesbian in Hawaii that I needed to move my hips more (and that it's SOP to stick one's thigh in between the thighs of the lady when there's a slow song...) later in the week.

I'm not a good dancer. But I sometimes like dancing. I don't need a girl to dance (although it helps, it doesn't help as much as a lot of alcohol). I also don't need to be mocked on the dance floor by foreigners. Again.

But it happened. I was dancing away at about 2:30 AM when a group of people entered the bar. Guys and girls. A rather pasty lot, but otherwise not particularly memorable. Two girls went on the dance floor and, after a bit of time, one started backing up towards me, kinda giggling as she did.

There weren't a ton of people on the floor, and I saw her coming. I could sense that she was going to do something silly that would potentially be at my expense... and she wasn't cute enough for me to put up with that. I retreated from the dance floor, getting another mai tai (or water, or something) and watching her look around, confusedly, at my disappearance.

Heh.

I went back out on the floor, of course, and the second time, I let her get close to me. She started dancing in a pseudo-sexy manner, not really touching me much, but clearly putting on a show for her friend. It pissed me off a little bit.

(Speaking of asymmetrical touching: there are a lot of hookers that walk the streets of Waikiki late at night. One approached us one night and, atypically for their breed as far as I could tell, put her hand on my shoulder and stood very close as she made her pitch for my money (or maybe she really just liked me for me). I figured her touching was an invitation, so I went a couple steps up the kino escalation ladder and put my hand on her waist. She took a step away from me real fast and left shortly thereafter. In retrospect, I guess I should be pleased I didn't get cut. Vertically.)

I did, though, talk to her. I asked her where she was from (Ireland) and if she was with friends (she was, a big group). I acknowledged that I know she was making fun of me/having fun at my expense, and I kinda excused myself.

Later that night, she was sitting with a couple of female friends in a booth, and they asked me to take their picture.

Me: Say, "Cromwell!"
Them: Cromwell!
Camera: *snap*
Me: (approaching) Here's your camera.
Them: Thank you!
Friend 2: Did you mean Oliver Cromwell?
Me: (in an Irish accent) Yes, he killed a lot of Irish people.

The best part of that conversation is that I have a HORRIBLE Irish accent generally, but after hearing them speak I was halfway passable, I think. When I retell it, though, I can't remember the Irish accent at all, so I tend to just say it as a pirate would: "Aye, he killed lots of Irish people! Yarr!"

Day 6, walking to Burger King for lunch.

Night five had resulted in a long and crazy adventure with a bunch of Australians (ending with the line, from one chick of, "Do you whiten your teeth? It's just bleach, you know. Your teeth will get brown when you stop. You're beautiful!!") and when TM2000, Flowers and Ice went on a trip elsewhere around the island, I decided to stick around the hotel, reading, napping, hitting the gym (the view from the elliptical was amazing... I want to move there, live on the beach, and shower at the 24 Hour Fitness until my membership expires. Hmm...) and walking to Burger King.

I don't recall the name of the street, but it ran right long the ocean/beach and it was occupied by a large assortment of tourists, locals, and homeless. It was from one of the latter two camps that I heard this glorious exchange, as I walked past...

Man 1: Do you know what it feels like to have a dick in your butt:?
Man 2: Uh...
Man 1: (leaning in close to Man 2) I DO!!!
Man 2: ...
Man 1: I've never told another living soul about this...

Unbelievably, and inexplicably in hindsight, I kept walking. How does one walk away from a solid gold conversation like that? Oh, well...