What an awesome power I command!

Well, bless my soul, I've come to realize that new acquaintances can blossom in any number of glorious ways; they may result in lasting friendship, bloom into a bubbling cauldron of steamy romance, get you free sandwiches at a Quiznos, or even develop into something even more miraculous, wherein willfully leaving your copy of the film Hotshots at that person's home seems not only acceptable, but downright logical, even though you've already watched the movie together once and so the next time the dvd is taken out of its case probably just means there is a small clump of dried oatmeal on the coffee table that needs to be scraped off.

One of the most significant ways I've used to determine that a certain someone is a terrifically worthwhile addition in my life is the conversation. Even telephone conversation, which I avoid occasionally/periodically/normally/every conscious moment, unless it's regarding something urgent, like lab results or olive dip recipes, slaps a smile on this ol' pasty face. Now, there is one specific person who I'm speaking of, but for anonymity's sake I will call her... Choco-paws.

Choco-paws was feeling a tad under the weather the other day and, regrettably, we had to cancel plans that we had for the evening. Thankfully we did have time for a nice chat, and just before we hung up she politely informed me that she needed to hurry and find a suitable place to throw up, since she had been fighting the urge to do so for... well, at least a handful of minutes I'm assuming. So I took her word for it which, being a trusting soul, I'm accustomed to doing. Yep, because if it weren't true that she was feeling nauseous due to the medication she'd been taking for her aching, fractured rib, it wouldn't speak very well of me. I'll push my own sweet grandmother into a snowbank to be the first in line and trumpet loudly that I'm not always the guy who's gonna charm the socks off you with my Thole brand gab. But, if Choco-paws was not, in fact, feeling ill before our phone exchange that evening, it would serve as a pretty incriminating bit of evidence that a seemingly harmless dialogue with me is enough to not only put you off your lunch, but instill in you a fiery passion to vomit powerfully into any nearby empty container you can find. And really, as quirky personal gifts and party tricks go, it's a pretty disgusting one... not that it wouldn't be fun to maybe test the theory out next time I attend a police auction or something. I'd just like to think I've got some amount of control over it. Well, I suppose I could bone up on a few ASL basics to be on the safe side. As long as I can sign "yes", "bathroom", "potatoes" and "no, that's a bleach stain", I should be okay for a while.

TIME magazine's girl man of the year!

Despite what professional body builders/construction foremen/investment bankers/hairdressers/my parents/second grade girls might say, I think I'm a man. For a handful of years now I've consistently thought of myself as a man; even a gentleman, if you'll allow me to briefly pat myself on my own chivalrous back. But recently I was given a reason to doubt the idea that I am, in fact, of the gender I've convinced most people of over the years.

The root cause of this confusion was a health insurance seminar/presentation at work. Our insurance provider through our employer was going to be different, come the new year, and so the new company sent a representative to go over some of the changes that would be taking place in our health insurance policy. I don't like to toot my own horn, but I think I do a damned fine job of showing interest and looking like I'm paying attention, even though you can practically see every other word bull charge my skull and be deflected by my impressively thick and stubborn head. I nod, look concerned when the tone of the speaker seems to become more serious, and I smile and chuckle when I sense that whoever is talking is trying to make a joke, and with a health insurance representative, expect something about as dry as day-old dog shit. I think I remember one of this guy's punch lines being something along the lines of "because you sure wouldn't want to pay out of pocket for an emergency room visit and still have the entirety of your $1,000 deductible to pay off when your plan could cover 75% of the cost for a trip to an urgent care clinic... am I right?". I smiled dutifully and did one of those quick-exhale-through-the-nostrils laughs.

But then he started going over insurance coverage scenarios that primarily involve women; specifically mammograms, pap smears, pregnancy and maternity leave. This is terrific and appropriate, especially since a good majority of the staff where I work are women. So, imagine my amazement when he appeared to make deliberate eye contact with me, and address me personally when mentioning the benefits of "preventive care" and going in for the above mentioned "mammograms" and "pap smears". He even ambled in my direction, not losing the eye contact, when going over the pregnancy and maternity topics for approximately the 8th time. His look and demeanor said to me "YOU are obviously the person I need to get the point across to the most: Get a breast exam and stock up on sweat pants and cheesecake, because everyone here already knows that you are pregnant female with lumpy boobs!" (no disrespect to women who actually suffer from breast cancer. Just making a point.). Now, the fact that I have a decent sized rack-o-lamb for a guy is beside the point, and I was just huffed up about it enough to pause him in the middle of his speech, explain to him that nearly every other person in the room was a woman, but NOT myself... but I didn't. I simply nodded, like I had been the entire time, and began to think "Well, this man is a professional. I'm sure he knows what he's talking about. I guess I should have a long face-to-face with my genitals when I get home tonight. I think they each have some explaining to do.".

I've since reaffirmed some confidence in my masculinity. For instance, each bottle of Herbal Essences shampoo I use is of a brutish, manly colour, like citrus orange and a bright forest green; the specific fragrances are inconsequential... there, see? That was totally a guy-like statement. So mothers, lock up your daughters, because as soon as I'm comfortable enough to wean myself away from bi-weekly Brazilian waxes and go jogging without an appropriately durable sports bra, I will be on the prowl!

It's my fault. I deserve it. I paid the 8 bucks (concluding the previously posted blog)

Well, I thought that MTV was the most shameless thing available to the viewing public, but it looks like that station is gonna be fighting a brutal, one-on-one, no-holds-barred cage match against Dragon Wars for that honor. I went to see it at the theater recently, and I just need to make a formal and very sincere apology to joy and happiness while I can. I am so sorry that I, as a human being, did nothing to stop production of this film before its contamination... I mean "release". I just sat idly by while I was bombarded with trailer after trailer advertising what I knew would be stupid, but I assumed would entertain me.

Here's the layout: Our main character (I don't remember his name, I'm proud to say) is what looks to be a scrawny, shaggy, unshaven undergrad who has finagled his way into a career as a reporter for a major news station. His voice never rises above the level of a timid librarian, and his facial expressions, or "expression", I should say, remains unchanging. But it is not unchanging in a mysterious way that draws you in and makes you yearn for the deep complexities that surely stir within his mind. It is unchanging in a way that makes you certain that he is thinking about a squirrel he saw on his way to the set that morning. Anyway, he gets told a story about a serpent that may change into a celestial dragon if it performs a good deed and some sacrifice or another takes place. Apparently this fellow is a reincarnated warrior from feudal Japan and he has a gaudy necklace to prove it. Now, in the area of serpents, all I saw was an evil serpent who terrorized a major metropolitan area in search of a girl. There is an evil man who looks like a half-melted Bill Marray doppelganger and is also leading an evil army in search of the same girl. Everyone is after the girl because she has a dragon-shaped birthmark on her shoulder. So what! I knew a guy once who had a birthmark on his thigh that was shaped like a peanut. Did he ever live in fear of being persued by hordes of circus elephants? No! Anyway, the evil man's voice is modulated to sound like Louis Armstrong suffering from laryngitis. At one point in the film he places himself in front of a moving car so as to get hit by it... then he does it again moments later, and I'm not sure why. There's also a shape-shifting Robert Forster who beats up some large drunks, and an overweight zoo worker who must have been inspired by everything Kevin James has ever been a part of.

Well, everything probably culminates at the end and there might be a dragon that makes a cameo appearance at the end. But, truthfully, Dragon Wars is 90% dragon-free and 147% substance/entertainment-free. Admittedly, I didn't/couldn't sit through the whole thing and, with what must have been about 20 minutes left of the movie, I got out of my seat, went to the men's room and went into the screen next door to see what was playing. I found myself entranced, in comparison, by a portion of the end credits to Mr. Woodcock.

My fake, former, fiery friends

I've never held a darn thing against dragons. Heck, I find the mythology behind them to be fascinating. My good friend Smoke-stool is a dragon. The only friction we ever had between us was when we got lunch one time at Panera. I ordered a turkey artichoke panini and shortly after we sat down he ate my foot. I thought it was incredibly rude, and I was so peeved that I simply stood up, hobbled confidently over to the door, leaving as small a blood trail as I could, and left. I know that every customer in the restaurant supported my bold action because I heard comments like "Eeeww, gross!" and "My god, wrap a towel around that disgusting stump!". I thought it was a little cruel to call my friend such terrible names, but he knew what he did was wrong. I also heard a unanimous round of applause as I exited. And it was applause. I'm sure of it. It most certainly wasn't the sound of dozens of customers screaming and vomiting.

Anyway, I digress; it just occurred to me that the only two films I've ever actually stood up and walked out of the theater as a result of seeing, were both about dragons. The first one was Reign of Fire. I personally thought this was one seriously loaded diaper of a movie, and I'm just a little angry with myself for not walking out sooner. It might have entertained me if I didn't find it so uncomfortable to watch. The embarrassment was close to what I would have imagined feeling if I had invited all my extended family over to crowd into my bathroom and watch me take a shower. Reign of Fire is full of filthy looking people who are charred like neglected campfire marshmallows by boatloads and boatloads of dragons (from what I remember), and an oily Matthew MaCconehaggeagigigiggerrhhyy-hay. He was certainly an impressive hunk of man in the film, and I do like Christian Bale a lot. I just think they could have... well there was... I just didn't... *sigh* I thought it sucked.

The other film... Well, I already have a blog on that posted elsewhere. I don't need to regurgitate my thoughts on that, I guess. I'll just repost it here, immediately after this one. So stay tuned! And Smoke-stool, I'm sorry I stormed out. It really was nice to see you. Let's go out for some Chinese or gross villagers sometime.

Now THAT'S a bargain!

I think that if there is one, shining example of generosity and good will in this world, it would be J-Lo. Now, I've had a few years to do my research on this and, so far, I have not come up with any offer that matches up to her claim that her "love don't cost a thing". I mean, realistically, you're looking to shell out almost $4.99 a pound for ground love, and upwards of $16.75 for an 8 oz. love strip steak. And those prices I got from the meat department at Cub Foods. You'd be spending almost twice as much at Von Hanson's, though theirs is a noticeable difference in texture and the love meat is far leaner. I haven't even considered the likelihood of acquiring love at such steep prices, to be honest. And, though I'm sure there is a waiting list a mile long for J-Lo's cost-effective brand of love, I think I owe it to myself to take a number and hop in line. I believe it was Aristotle who once said "Get your hands off me, you damn, dirty apes!", the apes being a metaphor for those who had apparently given him love at a discounted rate, but ended up demanding monthly payments, insisting that the first 25 leptas was only an initial installment, and that the great philosopher still owed nearly two full drachmas. "Decent action, but still not worth the price" he once confided in his mentor, Plato. So, until a universal love proposal reaches the heart and soul of our government officials, I believe I should take action, get at least a good year's supply of J-Love, as I've heard she calls it, and make a Greek man proud.