*When I say "you in close proximity," what I really mean is "parts of your ready, willing and able bod are touching the tosser, so if s/he doesn't know you're there, chances are they've slipped into a coma and probably need medical attention this very instant."
Oh, whatEVER.

I discovered some very unsettling (at least to me) news in the wee hours of Saturday morning: The one guy? Is a Republican. Now, you might be wondering why this is such a huge deal, and it's not ... sort of. I mean, I've known him for going to be seven years in June and have been involved with him for what's going to be six in September, so for one, how could I have missed this fact when I know just about everything else there is to know about the guy, right!?!? But that's a total aside to the real disaster -- you know, the part when I said that Oprah doesn't have an agenda.

If you felt the earth jump off its axis 5:30 a.m. Saturday morning, that would be because "Oprah doesn't have an agenda" came out of my mouth, and the ground ripped open underneath my bed and swallowed my stupid ass.

We were talking about tsunami relief and how I, too, felt in light of billions upon billions of dollars getting dumped in a place we should not be in the first place all in the name of democracy and showing the world how we're the greatest country ever, the initial $15 mil was a slap in the face. He countered with this: Say he was a millionaire, and one of his friends asks him for help because their crib burned down. He offers $30K, and the friend bitches that's not enough. He could say, "Ok, then I can give you NOTHING. How 'bout that!?" Then he throws out at some point -- I'm not completely clear on the conversation sequence anymore -- the metaphor that the United States is the Oprah of the world, and that's when I said it.

"Well, when Oprah goes to Africa or wherever, she's not trying to spread her agenda ..."

A deadly silence fell over the room, broken only by him saying "Oprah has a fucking magazine and a televiszh ..."

"Yeah, all right, you're right, I choked. You win," I said, trying to think of the best way to cop out of saying something so assinine. I mean, it WAS 5:30 a.m., after all, and I DO have a sinus infection. The mucous could cloud my judgement, right!?!? And hey! He told me I was nuts at one point, and I was rattled by the personal attack! And, and ... yeah. I choked. That's what fucking happened.

Not usually one to let me out of an argument, he hit me with the usual "Don't patronize me," before realizing that after something that stupid? He probably ought to just let it go, because I was too humiliated to go on. I did evenutally recover my dignity when the discussion turned to gay marriage, but still ... oof.

So anway, back to the whole Republican issue and why I'm rattled by it: It's because when I think of Republicans, I've gotten so used to seeing them as people who don't think of why it is they support their party, and he does. In fact, he was the one, when I kept repeating, "I'm still tripping that you're Republican," to say, "You know, that's such a stupid way to look at people." As if I wasn't already humiliated enough.

Well, at least he can't pronounce tsunami right. He calls it, "tu-SAMI." Feh.
Oh, whatEVER.

It was April 7, 2002, one of the first Cubs games of the year, and the one guy was my date. I was blonde at the time, and the weather was about as shitty as it could be, even for April. The game was cancelled, naturally, so he and I decided that since we were in the city, we were going to bar hop. We started at Bernie's (his favorite place, which is now all yuppified and therefore not as cool, at least to me), then Cubby Bear, then maybe one other place -- or no, I think we ended up just drinking a ton at those two places, then tooling through The Alley, where he picked out a cool pair of Doc Martens that I bought for myself. (They look like this, except they're gold instead of white. V.v. cool.) So we get back in the car to head home all buzzed up when we decide that "Hey! There's two strip clubs five minutes from my crib. You wanna?"

Some background: As many typical guys, the one guy spent a good portion of his 20s frequenting strip clubs -- not like every night, but you know -- and we would talk about his experiences and stuff. And I, being somewhat curious and not morally offended by the industry as a whole, would always joke that he should take me to one. Now was go time.

We pull up next to Deja-Vu Showgirls, which is part of the chain ("1000s of beautiful girls and three ugly ones") but it's the one in Hammond, not the Lake Station one that's so popular in NWI. It was closed, though, so we went a bit further to Our Dolls, which is in the middle of an industrial complex. There were five cars out front, so we were, like, Ok.

You know those old '50s gangster movies with the dark panelled restaurants with the red booths? Put a black-curtained stage with pole dead center, and you had this joint.

Anyway, we sit down and order a couple beers, and the first girl comes out. She had to have been early to mid 20s, Hispanic and attractive ... on the face. The rest of her? Was built like a middle linebacker. With nipple rings. And I think she was rockin' some sort of face paint like a football fan, if I'm not mistaken. Not an ounce of fat on her, mind you, and certainly talented on the pole, but yeah. Middle linebacker. With nipple rings. Which, you know, hey, if that's your deal, God love you. It just isn't either of ours.

So the next one comes out and starts dancing to "Closer" by NIN. She was the goth of the group: Blonde, fried-out hair, skinny as fuck, heroin-chic makeup (or WAS it chic? Couldn't tell), all black garb. I thought she was worse than the first one -- I don't even think she did any pole tricks and just lied on the ground half-dead -- but the one guy decided this was going to be the chick he was going to tip. He got up, and I'm not sure if he was squicked out because he was with me or if for one brief moment the beer goggles came off, because as he put the buck in her skivvies, I'm quite sure his dick shrivelled back up into his body. The body language was just. that. priceless. I, meanwhile, couldn't get past the stripper shoes. I mean, stilettos? Are hot. Seven, eight inch platform stilettos made out of lucite that could house a fish? Not even remotely. Oh, and ol' Courtney Love-stripper did one better and had the seven-inch stacked-heel black granny boots. To this day, I still don't get the appeal.

The third stripper was petite and Asian and talented on the pole, but other than that, I can't remember anything. The fourth one had that whole "I'm-doing-this-to support-my-kid-or-kids" look about her, even though she was the most attractive of the lot. She, however, thought that "Never made it as a wise man ..." song by Nickelback was a perfectly appropriate song to strip to. It is not, and it was at that point we left. The first thing I said to him when we got out? "Ohmigod, I can't get past the shoes."

So then we decided we were going to hit the Lake Station Deja-Vu for a little classier (!) atmosphere. We got as far as the parking lot. The end.
Oh, whatEVER.

So today, Nancy and I took Mother to pick up her new glasses, which look very much like her old glasses, except not as old-lady looking (by that I mean shiny). But see, I picked out the old ones, too -- a fact Mother threw up to me at least 150 times during the course of the afternoon -- but you know how you do choose something and then decide you can do better the next time? Yeah, it was like that: I THOUGHT I was going to like the glasses last year when she got them, but then when she got them, I didn't like them as much. So this year, I chose something else. (And actually, I did choose something completely different from what she had at first, but her bifocals wouldn't fit into them.)

Now, that may sound like it has nothing to do with Shrub and world politics, but here's my point: There's no question that mistakes have been made during this war business -- and are you really going to argue that there haven't? I mean, seriously -- yet Shrub and his crew are all "Stay the course, blah blah blah," and all that other happy horseshit. Now, I don't know about y'all, but when I mistake, I choose a different course of action (at least, I do most of the time), and I don't trust someone who can't or won't do the same. I don't want someone who a) can't admit that they're wrong or b) if they can't admit it, at least change their actions. I mean, fuckin' ask Dr. Phil, man, or Maya Angelou: You did what you did when you knew what you knew; when you knew better, you did better. It's real simple.

Two other words come to mind: Patriot. Act.
Oh, whatEVER.

There was a reason why his e-mail was down (and it was in fact down, as in "nonexistent down"): Over Labor Day weekend, the crackhead down the street broke into his crib and ripped off his DVD player, his e-mail apparatus and several treasured autographed photos of sports icons he had hanging up. He knew it was the crackhead down the street because said crackhead had already broken into his landlord's crib upstairs and horked shit from him, so after the cops left, he devised a plan. And that plan included a baseball bat.

No, no, he didn't beat the crackhead with the baseball bat. But he DID carry the baseball bat with him every time he left his crib, whether it was to and from the car going to work or taking his dog out for her constitutional in the front yard. He went out there, bat in hand, and stared at the crackhead's house. Now, when he ran into the crackhead, he did threaten to take the bat upside the crackhead's skull if he ever comes near the crib again, but the psychological initimidation part!?!?! Ooooh, baby (shudders).

Yeah, I like my men a little edgy. Speaking of which, anyone catch Boston Legal Sunday? Two words: James. Spader. What a fucking STUD. Reminds me of the deputy prosecutor I dated six years ago. Swoon. Of course, he was a big-time alcoholic and it ultimately would've never worked between us for that reason, but oh, the possibilities ... Desperate Housewives was pretty good, too, especially Felicity Huffman, but she always rocks.

Oh, and btw, the Cubs? Suck. But we had a good time at the game, even if we partied only as "minor starlets" instead of rock stars. No guacamole, either.
Oh, whatEVER.

I would want to tell him that it wasn't the yelling tone his e-mail had the other day that freaked me out -- if we'd had that same conversation over the phone, I'd have never thought he was yelling at me, and don't I always tell him to write like he talks, anyway? -- but that he did it at all, and without provocation, because it felt distant, like he was trying to cut away another already tenous chord. I would want to tell him that I miss talking to him and that I wish he didn't feel all weirded out by my feelings. And that really, who the hell am I to judge any "relationship" he thinks he's got going? I mean, Christ, it's not like I don't know what "fucked up" is; at this point? I got it, thanks. Preaching to the choir. Whatever. I'm just here in my little corner living, loving, waiting for the time that maybe I won't be just a monthly stop anymore, like a period or an already-read magazine or whatever. Don't mind me. I wouldn't, however, have told him I love him.

Any of that would've made me look feel like a complete asshole -- you know, the whole "I really hate dealing with emotions, especially my own" thing I have. But I still want to know where my phone went.
Oh, whatEVER.

Not that it isn't quality time when we do talk, because it is; he's wonderfully bright and funny, and we've always had such an easy rapport, even if the rest of the world thinks he's a prickly curmudgeon, which he is, make no mistake. But we talk about once a month, and it's usually pillow talk, and that bugs me (yet makes me happy, too, make no mistake).

If I were a betting broad, my Spidey sense tells me that he may still be "involved," and that he wants to talk to me about that relationship but can't because I've kinda put the kabosh on that. See, I really tried to be a shoulder to him, and sometimes I still really want to -- no, seriously, I do -- because he's my friend, and he doesn't talk to people easily most of the time (again, curmudgeon). But one of two things happens when I do: 1) I get hurt, or 2) if it's not going well, I tend to get all superior, as in "Boo-YEAH, Fucker. Can you FEEEEL me now!?!?!" and although that feels really good, it's not fair to him. It's not even that I want him to hurt as much as it is I want him to know how I feel. But I guess it's easier to avoid me than have a giant elephant sitting in the room with us.
Oh, whatEVER.

For one thing, none of his friends truly appreciate -- and certainly none of my friends believe -- how unbelievably brilliant he is. A lot of people think that, because he didn't go to college/makes a living driving a forklift for a liquor company/hasn't reached the point that he absolutely MUST own property, he's your blue-collar jackass just smart enough to get by. And I see their point, because he's almost downright antisocial -- by choice -- in most situations. (He won't cop to that, but it's true.) But at the same time, many of his friends are so self-absorbed that they complete overlook the fact that he's more well-read than they are. Or maybe they know and choose not to acknowledge it, because then it would fuck up the natural order of their shit. Anyway, as brilliant as he his, his mindset is black and white, while mine is ... not-so-much, so we debate and debate and debate and debate forever. But it's not competitive at all; we're genuinely interested in what the other has to say, and I totally dig that. So this morning, we covered foreign vs. domestic cars and the whole Bush thing, among other things. Oh, but he does have it in his mind that Idaho doesn't exist.

Another point? "The pussification of America started when we let kids play soccer without keeping score so they wouldn't have to feel bad."
Oh, whatEVER.