Yesterday Bryce (a "player for the other team", for those of you who didn't know), was over at my place hanging out. He and I were on the sofa, him laying down and reading and me checking my e-mail on the laptop. Weezer was playing in the background.

Me: You know Bryce, if we were married it'd be like this.
Bryce: Like what?
Me: Just hanging around the house like this, relaxing.
Bryce: Me reading and you on the computer?
Me: Yeah. We'd be such a good married couple.
Bryce: Yeah. (sigh). If only I were a woman.
Me: Or if only I liked taking it up the butt.

Yesterday morning Micah, Joel and I are having breakfast at Stella's.

Joel: That waitress is totally cute.
Me: She's alright.
Joel: You should ask her out.
Me: Eh.
(pause)
Joel: I would love to get my hands on her hair.
Me: Ah, I see how it goes! You're just using me to get to her for her hair.

Joel makes a hurt face at me, as if that wasn't his goal, and promptly turns his attention to the ketchup bottle on the table with mock enthusiastic interest faces following. His attention is rapt by the ketchup and jems like "Oooh!" and "Wow!" and "I had no idea!" keep coming out of his mouth.

"Okay, okay, I get it," I say, and Joel goes back to reading his In Touch magazine. A step in the right direction?

As we were leaving the restaurant I give into peer pressure and ask out the waitress, saying that Micah, Joel and I are going out for sushi that night and asking if she'd like to join us. She does.

We're sitting at the bar of the sushi restaurant, waiting for Stella's Girl, when Joel says, "Don't bring up that I'm a hair stylist." I look at him in confusion. "But I thought that was the whole motivator behind this thing," I say. "You wanted to get your hands on her hair."

Joel sighs. "Yeah," he says, "but when people find out I do hair they just keeping saying, 'Ooh, what would you do to mine?' and today I'm really not in the mood." I thought Joel really wanted to get his hands on her hair, and now the entire date seems a little for naught.

The life of a hair stylist is not an easy one...

But then, as this story clearly proves, neither is the life of a friend of one.

Recently I've been horribly busy with my new job. I worked a double on Saturday and Sunday, with weddings both mornings and regular bar hours both nights.

There were swarms of people around for the weddings; women in unflattering dresses and little boys in tiny suits with gym shoes.

At one point I was behind the bar, and I happened to overhear a father in the bathroom talking to his son about washing his hands. The two exited the bathroom, the son (about 6 years old) with his tie slung over his shoulder. "Wait!" the dad cried out. "One more thing!" He reached down and pulled the tie off the son's shoulder. "You have to put your tie back down so that people don't know you were trying not to pee on your tie."

What words of wisdom.

You know how sometimes you're walking down the street carrying something, and to be funny someone (usually someone who looks kind of creepy) will say something to the effect of, "Oh, for me? Thanks!" or "I'd be happy to have that!" and will jokingly act as if you're giving your object to them. Yeah. Hilarious.

Yesterday I finally decided to take the leap and buy a house plant. It's green, and it has leaves, and it's in a pot. It's pretty spiffy. I'm in the process of picking out a name for it, under the hope that if I name it I won't be as apt to kill it. Kind of how I've heard stories of kids who grew up on farms, and then named the pig Wilbur or something, so then they couldn't eat it when their father told them that for dinner that night they'd be eating Wilbur. I don't know.

Right now the names I've got are Stanley if it's a boy and Ester if it's a girl. Evidently my plant is an old person.

I was telling Nicole my possible plant names at work the other day when the valet guy overheard. "You having a baby?" he asked. "No. A plant," I told him. He probably thought I was crazy. I asked Nicole what kind of parent would give their kid an old person name like Stanley or Ester. "I think Ester will come back around," Nicole told me. "Like Sophie." I didn't realize the name Sophie had been out.

So yesterday I bought the plant and was carrying it home when an older man who looked kind of creepy was walking towards me on the sidewalk. "Hey Buddy, I'll take that off your hands!" he said smiling and sticking his arms out. Again, people have done this while I'm walking with my laptop, or when I'm walking into the bank vestibule with a deposit envelope. But with a house plant? Really? You want to take that off my hands?

Maybe I should name it Sophie.

The other day Kami and I were talking and she mentioned a friend of hers who had taken on a much younger girlfriend.

“She’s nice, I suppose,” Kami said. “She’s just not that bright.” A common problem. “She couldn’t even carry on a conversation,” Kami went on. “I think at one point we were talking about ketchup, because really that’s all she could talk about.” Sad but true.

About an hour later Micah, Joel, and I went out to breakfast. As per usual tradition, Micah and I stocked up on several newspaper (ala Holly Hunter in Broadcast News) before going into the restaurant to eat. We find that it’s more constructive to read than to simply stare at each other across the table, as it’s so early that talking isn’t always the best idea.

So we’re sitting there. Eating. Reading. Whathaveyou. I’m on USA Today, reading a piece about Governor Schwarzenegger and his new budget plans in California. Micah is reading a story in the Tribune about new product ideas that have been patented.

And then Joel picks up a bottle of Ketchup and starts reading the back of it.

Sigh.

Once upon a time hotspots (places that have wireless internet signals) were the thing of coffee shops where you'd have to listen to bad adult contemporary music and the sssshhhhhhrrhhhh sound of a mocha being made behind you. But alas, those days are no more. Starting today (as I picked up my laptop from Bernadette during breakfast) I've decided to do a citywide (or at least northsidewide) search of great free hotspots in the city.

Currently I'm writing this blog while sitting on the side stoop of 537 Brompton, borrowing from a free internet connection.

Yes, I realize that this blog is about me being a dork more than anything else, but it's nice to be able to sit outside, enjoying the weather, and still be able to do stuff online.

So come to 537 Brompton and connect to CleverSpin Network. I'll keep you updated about other random city hotspots as I find them.

The other day I was shopping for soap (of the shower persuasion) when I came across Adidas soap. That's right. The same people who make shoes make soap. The back of the bottle billed it as "A high-energy body wash". I'm not really sure what that means, or how soap can be "high-energy". It's soap. And yet...I can't get enough.

I wonder if Nike makes soap. I would totally buy Nike soap.

A few weeks ago Bernadette and I were planning on going to an event together. I called her a couple hours before we had to go.

Me: Hey, are you getting ready?
Bern: No, I took a nap. I'm still in bed.
Me: What are you wearing?
Bern: (cautiously) ...Why?
Me: Because I don't know what I should wear to this thing and I want to know what you're going to wear. (beat) What did you think I meant?
Bern: Well I don't know. I'm in bed, we're talking on the phone...
Me: Oh get your mind out of the gutter!

Girls. What are you gonna do with 'em?

Last night the Music Box was playing Rear Window (the Hitchcock/Stewart classic), and me being the Rear Window fan I am, I couldn't pass it up. Only, it seemed that no one else really felt like going to see it with me.

And after they'd tell me that they didn't really feel like seeing it they'd ask, "So then what are you going to do?"

To which I kept replying, "Well, I'm still going to go see the movie."

It was at this point that people paused, then said, "You're going to see it alone?" using the uncomprehending tone of someone who has just found out about hermaphrodites for the first time.

Are people so bound to the stigma of "only losers see movies alone" that they can't see all the perks that go along with going to the movies solo? First off, you don't have to argue over what to see ("Are you sure you wanna see that new Sandra Bullock one?" "Yeah, why? Aren't you?" "Well yeah, but I mean, that new space one seems pretty cool too." "Listen, do you want to see the space one then?" "No, no. Lets go see the Sandra Bullock one."), you don't have to haggle over times, ("Is 7:30 too late?" "Too late?" "Yeah, I mean, then we won't get out until 9:30, and I have to be up early tomorrow." "Fine, we'll go to the 6:30." "But then we don't really have time to eat."), what kind of candy to get ("I like Buncha Crunch." "Buncha Crunch sucks!") and most importantly, where to sit ("How about here? Is this good?" "Don't you think it's a little close?" "You want farther back?" "No, no, this is fine." "You said it was close." "Well, I just meant close like, close. But it's fine, really.").

When you go to the movies by yourself you can go see whatever you want, leave whenever you want, swoop in, grab some popcorn, and sit wherever you damn well please. It's really quite a load off your shoulders. So please, stop attaching the feeling of, "Oh jeez, you're going to the movies alone? I didn't realize things were so bad," when someone just wants to step out for a night alone at the show.

And besides, it was Monday night. If I went to the movies alone on a Saturday, then I'd be a loser.

Next month’s issue of Chicago Magazine has a feature on Chicago guilty pleasures. What is a Chicago guilty pleasure, you may ask. According to Chicago Magazine it’s doing things like being a closeted Cheesehead and rooting for the Packers, or enjoying sliding down the Picasso sculpture in Daley Plaza. Sure, why not.

But then came the guilty pleasure on pg. 66: Girls in Boystown. “After a streak of nights in the hetero bars, my girlfriends and I head over to Boystown (roughly Halsted St. from Belmont Ave. to Irving Park Rd.). There we croon Blondie songs during karaoke at Roscoe’s, blow kisses to the female impersonators at the Kit Kat Lounge, and sip wine at X/O. Finally, we elbow our way onto the dance floor at Hydrate and writhe uninhibited among the wild, shirtless boys.”

Ahem.

Dear Girls Who Enjoy Hanging Out in Boystown,

Stop.

I understand that you think it’s cute to be in a gay bar. You enjoy the fact that there are good-looking guys around who call you “fabulous” but do not want to get into your pants. You revel in the fact that it’s like having a talk with your girlfriends, but you’re still getting attention from a man. I know you’re insecure, but going to gay bars is not the answer. The only result it’ll get you is a lot of wasted time with boys who are just using you for your cute straight friends and the occasional shopping trip, and you’ll only end up being a fag hag. And what little girl dreams of growing up to be a fag hag? A ballerina? Sure. A fairy princess? Why not. Maybe even a civil rights lawyer, nowadays. But trust me, you don’t want to be that girl who is always hanging out at the gay bars. Sure, it can be a nice place to visit, but trust me; you don’t want to live there, no matter how much you think you do.

Thanks for understanding. I hope this letter won’t affect us going out on Thursday.

Signed,

A Straight Guy Living in Boystown

The other night Joel and I are in a little corner convenience store, shopping for gum.

Me: Get apple flavored.
Joel: I want mint.
Me: Fine. Get mint.
(There is silence between us as Joel looks at gums).
Joel: Ooh! What about this one? It whitens your teeth.
Me: Everything nowadays whitens your teeth. (Beat). Pretty soon they're going to have vodka that whitens your teeth.
Joel: Well that'll be good for us.

You may be laughing, but you know it's true.

Confession: I have an obsession with checking the Missed Connections on Craigslist. I scan through them daily, hoping that maybe someone, somewhere, saw me on the red line and wanted to ask me out but was just too darn bashful. Sigh. Unfortunately no one has, and consequently I am forced to live vicariously through the missed connections that others post.

The other day I ran across one that tickled me:

"I almost hit you with my car. - m4w - 23

it was about 10:40 or so in the morning on June 1st, 2005. so i guess... that's today.

you were wearing a green thing, possibly a brown thing under it. you had short dark hair. kinda punk rock lookin'. art schooly, maybe. i was in a dark green thunderbird, Johnny Thunders on the stereo too loud. tall, tattooed and unshaven.

i was about to turn onto bryn mawr, but you were in the intersection and i had to kinda squeak stop fast to keep from hitting you. i gave a wave, you gave a wave back. you are too fine for words. no joke. lets go get a coffee. or you know, married. or something."

"Let's go get a coffee. Or you know, married. Or something." Why doesn't anyone ever say stuff like that to me?

Brad e-mailed this to me this morning:

"Find a date at Booze N' Jews, tonight!!! There will be a camera crew filming and interviewing people about the Jewish dating scene in Chicago. Its from 9-midnight at Sugar - 108 W. Kinzie. $5 before 10:00 and $8 after. Price includes a free drink, and stardom - if u wish... www.boozenjews.com"

I already have plans tonight, but I might have to stop by anyway. Booze is good. Jews are good. But booze and Jews together? Oy gevalt!

Caleb's pick-up line of the week is, "Do you want to come over to my house and play cards?"

So far it's worked twice this week.

I blame the heat.

Scene: I'm helping Micah make his bed.

Me: So remember my friend Nik?
Micah: Yes.
Me: She moved in with this gay guy. And his name is Nick too.
Micah: No way.
Me: I was just thinking that'd be a great premise for a sit-com. Nik & Nick. A straight woman and a gay man.
Micah: Did she get a place down here?
Me: No, they both still live in the suburbs.
Micah: Ouch. A gay boy in the suburbs. That's hard.
Me: Yeah.
Micah: There should be some kind of fund to help out with that.
Me: Gay Boys Trapped in the Suburbs. It's a worthwhile charity.
Micah: I would donate to it.
Me: You better. GBTS is a worthwhile cause Micah, and you need to do your part. With your help we can wipe out GBTS in our lifetime.
Micah: I don't know about that. Breeders will just keep having them and keeping them in the suburbs.
Me: True.
(We both continue to make the bed in silence for a minute)
Micah: I like how I can call you a Breeder and you don't care.
Me: Eh. It's what I am. I won't fight it.
Micah: True. Kinda like how you call me a Butt Pirate and I'm fine with it.
Me: Exactly. We understand each other.

I'm seriously thinking of setting up a fund for Nick. Would anybody donate?

This morning I was lying in bed, just beginning to wake up, when suddenly my phone rang.

Me: Hello?
Helf: Hey Joshy, what's up?
Me: Not much, what are you doing?
Helf: Well I'm just worried I missed brunch.
Me: What?
Helf: I overslept. It's after three.
(I turn to look at my clock. It reads 9:13)
Me: Helf, it's just after nine.
(Silence)
Helf: What?
Me: It's only nine o'clock. What are you talking about?
Helf: No, it's after three.
(Silence again)
Helf: Wait, so then what are you doing up?

It turns out that Helf had a bad case of the I-woke-up-on-the-couch-and-thought-it-was-later-than-it-was's. I hate when that happens. And I've had it happen before.

Bill Gates is one of the richest men on the planet, so how is it that he can't pay for things like this to disappear?

I was sitting around the house today with the radio on in the background. My interest going in and out, I heard, "Kelly Martin is a bookstore owner who reads between the lines!" and then some sort of murder mystery setup. Bum bum bum!A bookstore owner? Who reads between the lines?

Who writes this crap? A copywriter who has a bad habit of copying cliches? Bum bum bum!

Yesterday morning Micah called me from 7-11.

Micah: Did you know that Sylvester Stalone has a magazine?
Me: What?
Micah: It's called SLY.
Me: Get out.
Micah: And evidently it's on issue #2.
Me: There's more than one issue?
Micah: Yeah.
Me: Wow. SLY. Maybe it's like Oprah's magazine, O. Maybe Sylvester has a lot to say.

Then this morning when I woke up, I walked out into the living room, only to find a copy of SLY sitting on the coffee table. I stood there a second, not sure what to do. Could I pretend I didn't see it? Just walk away? Unfortunately SLY had already seen me, and I was forced to pick it up and read it. To save you kind people $3.99 (and the embarrassment of being seen in public buying SLY) I'll give a rundown on the magazine's highlights:

pg. 10 - A letter from the editor (Sly! Who else?) starts off, "Have you ever just woken up in a bad mood? You're sure as hell not alone - I do it all the time." I can already tell that this magazine is going to be around for a long time. Or at least until next Tuesday.

pg. 28 - Sly conducts an interview with James Caan about vodka. Honestly, I'm confused if it's real or made-up.
Sly: Years ago vodka was a blue-collar drink, right?
James: Maybe - what's your point Yogi?
Sly: Well Boo Boo, just that it's now become a designer drink - with all the flavors of a fruit cocktail.
James: Look, when I was a kid, all I knew was cream soda.

pg. 32 - "Sly's Stuff" shows us all the hygiene products Sly keeps in his medicine cabinet. $27 on something called Rulinea FX Tropical Regenerating Cream? Really?

pg. 43 - An ad for the new Planet Hollywood Resort & Casino opening in Vegas in 2006. Way to plug your failing business Sly.

pg. 50 - An "In Memoriam" for Ray Charles. Too bad he died last June. But SLY wasn't around then, so I guess it had to come out now. Expect an "In Memoriam" for Johnny Cash (who died in 2003) in next month's issue.

pg. 86 - Sly himself interviews rap producer Suge Knight.
Sly: What makes you the most angry?
Suge: More than anything, it's got to be the motherfuckin' lies.
Somebody get Sly a Pulitzer!

pg. 91 - "Battle of the Sexes", listed as "A rant by Sylvester Stalone" starts off, "When were the battle lines officially drawn? When were the he's declared the direct opposite of the she's? ...It's perplexing!!!" There, there now Sly. Don't think too hard about it. He goes on to spout deep thoughts like, "Imagine playing in the National Football League without a helmet. Insane, yes. Well in the Super Bowl of "life," your helmet is tragically missing." Did you already order the Pulitzer? Make it two!

pg. 102 - Sly himself has an interview with Mickey Rourke. I'm not even going to tell you about it.

pg. 104 - Part of the script for Rocky VI. I'm not even going to tell you about it.

pg. 120 - On the backpage Sly gives us his personal list of '10 Egotistical Things Worth Living For'. #8: Revenge and other hobbies. #5: The day replaceable internal plastic organs go on sale at Wal-Mart.

Please, I hope reading this has cured any appetite you might have had to go out and buy SLY. I only wish I was making this stuff up.

Why do I buy fruit? I buy it because I see it in the store and I think "Mmm, those grapefruits look good." I also buy fruit because the government recommends like, 9-10 servings of fruit or vegetables a day. Does that seem like an absurd amount of fruit and/or vegetable to anyone else? But I do what the government says because after a while "fighting the man" just takes it out of you. And lets face it, getting screwed into eating a few extra pieces of fruits isn't the worst thing that could happen to me. So I put my grapefruits in the bag, twisty-tie it up, and head home.

And then my relationship with the fruit moves from the store to my apartment, where things are quite different. In the store the fruit was great. I loved the fruit. The fruit looked juicy, I paid attention to it; that was the honeymoon period. Once the fruit gets home it sits on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator, constantly blocked by styrofoam take-out boxes that get put in front of it. The honeymoon is over. When the fruit finally does resurface it's all brown and soft (unless it's supposed to be soft, in which case it's probably turned stale or...whatever the fruit equivalent of stale is). By that point it's pretty much all over.

I want to eat fruit, honestly I do. I just wish it wasn't so perishable.