Soliciti-zing!

A guy knocked on my door this afternoon:

Zach: Hi!
Guy: (out of breath) Ima...membera...organiz...(nonsense, nonsense) LA Times...
Zach: Slow down, dude.
Guy: Ima...neighbor...selling...subscrip...(totally incoherent)...subscrip...shuns...
Zach: Do you want to come inside? You look hot...
Guy: (paying no attention to me) Remehehehe...muhmuhmuh...
Zach: Like, would a glass of water help?
Guy: Forty dollars.
Zach: Ok, forty dollars...
Guy: Twenty Sundays.... muhmuhmuh...
Zach: Are you asking me if I'd like twenty issues of the Sunday LA Times for $40?
Guy: uh huh.
Zach: Well, I used to get the paper and I didn't read it as much as I should...
Guy: Okay, thank you!

And the guy BOUNDS off my porch and SPRINTS to my neighbor's house, like an out-of-shape Batman.

I love that I have a front door.

I yin your yang

Before I moved in with K, I used to cook for myself. Sure, they were the same four meals (meat loaf, chicken pot pie, meatball somethin', and some kind of rice thing with peas), but I cooked. I took time out of my day to make a meal. I made my bed. I dusted. I wrote thank-you letters. Now, I have a live-in wife. And I didn't intend on being a misogynist, but sometimes life just opens a door. Y'know?

I enjoyed cooking. I had some kind of knack for it. But now, it's completely lost. I have gone from cooking for myself to being on an unintentional raw-food diet. Unless melting cheese on toast is cooking, I only eat peanuts, fruit, spinach, Cliff Bars, and tuna. And crackers. And beer. And Subway Sandwiches. I don't mix anything, because mixing is like cooking. I don't even know what goes with what anymore. Another lunch of peanuts and spinach. I am not exaggerating.

This brings me back to a point I've often made: that I'm always trying to fill the gaps. What I mean is, if I'm in a group of perfectly normal people, I'll play the weirdo. And vice-versa. If everyone knows how to gather, I'll naturally be drawn to hunting. What's unfortunate for K is that she does everything. Which means I'm naturally drawn to the couch. And all those domestic skills I had before we moved in are gone because she was better at making the bed.

Simply put, I am a no-good husband, and this is all her fault.

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.