More things I know

Subway's menu
How to type
The rules of college basketball
The rules of baseball
How to iron
Pi to 28 places
Recognition and recital of all the quotable moments from the following movies (some are standard):

• Star Wars IV, V, VI
• Reservoir Dogs
• Pulp Fiction
• PCU
• UHF
• The 'Burbs
• Lebowski
• Caddyshack
• Spinal Tap
• Clue
• Braveheart
• Dr. Strangelove
• Bueller
• When Harry Met Sally
• Ghostbusters
• Godfather I & II
• Half Baked
• Hunt for Red October
• The Jerk
• Lawrence of Arabia
• Holy Grail and Life of Brian
• Winnie the Pooh and Disney's Robin Hood
• Rushmore and Tenenbaums
• Swingers
• Predator
• Tombstone

I can also sweep real good.

Because no one else will...

Leo is asking me to save the whales. I smell buddy picture!

No hugs by the squat rack

I go to a predominately gay gym. Like 99% gay. Like I walk in there, and everyone looks at me like I should know better. I mention my membership to local friends and they give me that arched-eyebrow, bent-lip look. And it's starting to get to me. Today, a guy pointed at my shirt and said, "Minnesota Wild?" I said "Uh huh." "Nailed it!" he replied. (Minnesota Wild is a hockey team with a very bad logo. It was probably on sale, and that's why my mother bought it for me last year. I have a dozen of these shirts: University of Puget Sound, some semi-pro baseball team, a shirt for Dead-Guy Ale, etc...) This guy mistook me for a fan. And I don't know if he is gay, but I certainly felt like I was being hit on. He carried on and on about the origins of the NHL, the New York Rangers, the Red Wings, his season tickets. For the life of me, I could not reciprocate at all in this conversation. Not even to be polite. Couldn't even smile. There were pauses in the conversation for me to interject something. I had nothing. Like I didn't even speak the language. Like I was in a coma. So that long three minutes between preacher curl sets, I just rubbed my biceps and kept myself from withdrawing eye contact. I probably shouldn't have been rubbing my biceps. That may have encouraged him.

Because this is a gay gym, most of the members (99% of them) look pretty slick in their gym clothes. Some go over the top, like the 60-year-old, 6'5" guy who wears a black spandex onesy. But for me to say that I'm the ugliest guy in the room is probably an understatement. I don't primp. I roll out of bed and get to the gym. Sometimes my shirt and shorts are inside out. I have bed head. I have pillow lines on my face. My shoes have grass stains. And I wear headphones. For the first hour I'm awake, I try not to say a word. I don't even say hello to Reuben, the sincere gym manager.

Now I fear that I've become some walking storm cloud. The word is out that not only am I ugly, but I'm MEAN, and maybe even a mute. K stopped going to this gym a year ago, and people still remember her. Oh, she's so nice. What a wonderful smile. Her gym clothes ALWAYS fit. Frankly, they probably remember her because she's the only lady that ever came in. Maybe I want to be a walking storm cloud. I don't want to have to give obligatory hugs to the guy who's spotting me on the squat rack. Is that asking to much from a gay gym? I should start wearing a ski mask.

Guest blogging

I've written an entry for friend-of-the-blog, Millty. It can be found here.

Something against Toyota

This morning I discovered that my car was tagged. But (I'm not so sure how to make this clear) it wasn't done in spray paint, or keyed into my paint. Much less permanent. Not permanent at all, actually. In fact, writing it in soap would have been more competent. The dude tagged my car with his FINGER in the morning dew stuck to my WINDSHIELD.

And not even where it'd bother me--up in the right corner, away from my eyeline. A very tasteful "TFL(squiggly)" deftly signed by the...artist? I'm hip enough to know that the first part is "Thug for Life" (thank you, public school education). The rest just looks like a bunch of arrows and sevens.

I didn't even wipe it away. Maybe he/she(?) signed my car because he thinks I'm cool, like when someone TP's your house? The guy was like "Hey, this cat here drives a Rav4. That's very sensible of him. Oh, look! He's also overinflated his tires to save on gas. Man, I sure love the environment, too. Mad props, yo." And he signed it. Maybe the arrows and sevens translate to "This guy's great," or "Two thumbs up!" or "Carry on my wayward son."

Then I remembered that I don't trust the youth of today. I started thinking like KIDS think. Now I'm almost certain that this is some kind of mark that "gangs" put on things they're going to fuck up in the FUTURE. Like when snipers hit targets with a laser to show the gunships where to unload carnage. Or maybe there's some REAL destruction somewhere else on my car and that this tag is just there to distract me from leaking brake fluid. Have they mistaken me for someone else? Someone else who's in a rival gang? I've been told I look like Seth MacFarlane. Oh God! Seth MacFarlane's in trouble! This is how The Big Lebowski started. My windshield really ties my car together.

I should have purchased their door-to-door candy bars and supported their "sports uniform" drive. I must be on a list.

So many people in the neighborhood

I don't know if they're very good people.

A couple nights ago, I went for an evening walk around the block only to be halted by police tape and the news that someone was shot in the face outside our local convenience store. All the hipsters came down from their lofts to gawk. What happened? Can anyone see anything? Are you still guest DJing at the bike shop tonight? Last I heard, it was gang related. I don't know if I should find comfort in that. I imagine gangbangers (white-kid language for people who have those long shorts/short pants) don't shoot so well, holding their gats like they do. I often find myself uncomfortably close to stray bullets.

Like the first time I hung out in Echo Park. I was FEET away from a drive-by. Again, another gang shooting. The guy got shot in the ass, and the victim did a good job of moaning, and writhing, and taking off his pants to gain a moderate following. What happened? Did anyone see who did it? Is that bullet in his ass? Who's the guest DJ tonight?

So only two bullet stories and they both take place less than a mile from each other and very close to our new home. Fortunately, we live on the top of a hill--just steep enough for only the most determined can collectors to find aluminum/plastic gold in our bins. Surely, bullets can't make it THIS far. It's hard to shoot UP, right? That's why tall people are never murdered. Never.

Spider's last stand

I feel like recently, the spider in my mailbox has taken over every part of my life--from this blog to my Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons. Rest assured, this will be the last spider entry. Why? Because that spider is DEAD. But not without a fight.

There's not much of a story here. Everything played out like I feared it would. K fetched the mail, brought it back to the patio, and held it while she talked to my parents who were visiting for the weekend. I hear my dad shout "Stop!" Dad swiped the mail and crushed the spider that had finally calculated her attack by attaching herself to a catalog for a community college.

Whew.

With any luck, that millipede I saw crawl into the house this morning wasn't best friends with that spider. Just in case, I'd better plug up my ears when I sleep...