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!