Bestiality is Not a Hobby, or--My Worst Date Ever

After reading today's Cary Tennis column in Salon "If the first date isn't great, why go out with him again?" I found myself reminiscing (not so fondly) about my worst first date ever.

I am, apparently, a dousing rod for freaks. In an ocean of dockers and blue shirts, I will immediately pivot and gravitate to the one guy who's wearing a pair of Batgirl Underoos underneath his workaday uniform of blue and tan. This superhuman ability to find the off-kilter was what I believe ultimately led me to what wins, not only the gold medal, but the silver and bronze as well, for my worst date ever. In order to protect the innocent I won't name names.

His name is Boris. And this is our story.

In retrospect there were signs. But I took them as signs of surrender to my to my irresistible charms. Unfortunately I neglected to remember that in addition to being irresistible, my charms are also, largely non-existent.

Nonetheless I am an optimist and over looking his rather persistent phone messages, I agreed to meet Boris for a drink at the Attic, a small, dimly lit bar in the Mission that I had suggested because I liked that they offered both booths and booze. An ideal combination for lazy drunks who dislike having to keep upright on a bar stool.

I ordered a shot of Fernet and a Bass. Boris had a Cosmopolitan. Fine, I thought, so he likes girlie drinks, there are worse things. Little did I know that I would soon find out exactly what those worse things were.

After sitting down with our drinks, we lumbered through the usual set of first date questions. Where do you live? (with my parents) What do you do? (not much, I'm unemployed right now). This line of questioning wasn't yielding much in the way of conversation kindling, so I thought I'd lob him an easier one. "So, do you have any hobbies?"

“Yes,” he said and grasped the pink triangle of a drink closer and leaned his head forward eagerly. Finally, I thought, something we can talk about. He then continued--"I like porn." Logic, at this point would seem to dictate that I leave. Logic has never been my strong point, especially if there is a full beer in front of me that I just paid for.

I thought to myself, well maybe he really likes pornography as a collector and has come up with some fascinating insights about pornography with all the spare time that his unemployment provides. After all, I collect vintage Playboys. And by collect, I mean filched two from my former roommate. (Thanks, Jason, by the way.) Playboys from the 1960s and 1970s were well known for their excellent articles by top-notch authors, that is not often matched, even today. For example, one 1968 Playboy magazine features a symposium on creativity with contributions from Truman Capote, Allen Ginsberg, Henry Miller and John Updike.

But, I digress. And I really, really wish Boris had digressed too.

“No,” he continued on like some ill-fated but determined verbal train wreck, “I just like to watch it." I looked around for the hidden camera. I waited for the punch line. I waited for Boris to say something ironically hip. I began to feel that I would be waiting a very long time.

"I especially like bestiality and incest porn.”

Boris said this while smiling and looking me directly in the eyes as if he had merely confessed some charming but harmless quirk, like that he liked to garden in his boxers and not that he likes to watch women have sex with donkeys.

Now it is the rare bad date that so stands out so clearly that you swear you can hear the shovel scraping the bottom of the barrel. Unfortunately, this sound turned out to just be the date's violent death rattle. There was more.

Perhaps mistaking my shocked silence as disinterest in the entire male species, Boris took a long look at my boots and asked, "Nice Doc Martens--So what are you--a lesbian?"

No, no I’m not, Boris. But, thanks to you the option suddenly seems much more attractive.

So, yes, thanks to Boris, I think there are definitely occasions when one should run and run quickly. And perhaps backwards as well, a lesson also learned from Boris who had this comment as I was walking away, "You have a nice ass. I like your ass!"


http://www.salon.com/mwt/col/tenn/2007/12/03/dating/

Ghettotini

Recipe for Ghettotini:

• One glass, preferably without plastic or handles; and

• One pour of vodka, preferably longer rather than shorter.

• Drink.

• Repeat as necessary.

Advantages: No fancy shaker, vermouth, or pickled vegetable needed.

Disadvantages: Tastes remarkably like straight vodka.

Pssst....Wanna Buy Some Endorphins?

Anyone who tells you that early morning is the best time to exercise, are the people who have never done precisely that. Early morning exercise, like grape-nuts and office cubicles, only sounds good to those who have not had to experience them.

For years I have tried to convince myself that getting up and out the door for a run by 6 a.m. was what I should be doing. My body, however, was not on the same page. In fact, the page it was on more closely resembled a big warm bed.

I think there is a common misconception among non-runners, that the runner is always eager to run a 10k at the drop of a hat. We do not. Deep down runners harbor a secret: we seldom, if ever really want to begin running. Once the actual running begins though and the endorphins kick in, it’s a different story.

Ah, endorphins. I heart you.

Always in need of the next endorphin fix, I would try to trick my body. I would promise it that we were only getting up to have coffee and read the paper and then we’d go back to bed. Or, I’d bribe it--get up five days in a row and you can buy that cd. Sometimes it fell for it, sometimes it fell right back in bed.

This past week though, I started running later. Instead of trying to bolt out of the door with sleep still in my eyes, I first made my commute downtown and then ran (my gym has a downtown location). By the time I was running, I’d already had my cup (thermos) of coffee and the sun had made its way out.

It proved to be the ideal combination. I am baffled why the idea to try a later running time did not occur to me sooner. But, this I do know this--when the army says they get more done by 6 a.m. than most people do all day, it's because no one will go to war if they're getting proper sleep. That and “The Army, Nodding Off Around Noon Time for You and Your Country,” just didn't sound as good.

Seriously People, Stop Fucking Around With Mice

In addition to creating mice with Methuselah-like life spans, we have now created a mouse without fear.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20071108/sc_nm/mice_fear_dc

Why, people? Why the mouse? Why not fearless, aging pandas? They’re cute, they’re cuddly, you don’t often find their feces in your kitchen. And if you did, I bet even their poop is cute.

#1 Reason Why I Can't Be a Hooker

I have come to the realization that in addition to the long list of jobs that I've already had to cross off my occupational wish list (e.g. lottery winner, haberdasher to the stars, all jobs involving skill, grace or coordination), becoming a hooker was also now out of my reach.

While one might think that this handy little insight might have occurred earlier, it wasn't until this past weekend during a trip to Port Costa, that it really, truly sank in.

You see, Port Costa, a town of roughly 200 located on the Carquinez Strait, has one hotel. A very special hotel. A hotel that was once allegedly a brothel. However, the only thing alleged about it now is the upkeep. They have though, kept the rooms named after the purported former employees.

We were to be in Ivy (smallish-pun intended), a room which featured a space heater that was about as quiet (and as effective for warmth) as a four-foot long bug zapper. There was also a teddy bear with cheerful circles of brightly colored fur and a not-so-cheerful slit throat.

It was while staring at the cotton carnage, that I realized why I cannot be a lady of the night: my name is all wrong.

My name is three syllables long and contains 3 vowels, the combination of which can be pronounced in any number of ways. This Rubik’s cube of potential pronunciations would not be an advantage to a person in an occupation in which time was of essence. If you think a few seconds, or at least the perception of a few seconds, don't matter, ask any smooth-legged biker. Or watch Cops, which is generally how I prefer to conduct my in-depth sociological research.

I also like to consult peer-reviewed journals, and by that I mean the back pages of our local weekly. My review of the local escort ads quickly confirmed my suspicions. There was Debbie, Angie, Crystal, Callie, Ami and several Summers (the effects of global warming are everywhere), but alas, no Andrea. The only sort of horizontal work it seems I am destined for are my afternoon naps under my desk, or as I like to call it now, the Andrea Room.

Everything You Need to Know About Vaginoplasties and UFOs

One of the things that I do at work, besides compulsively checking my email, is set up, dissolve, or otherwise move around our corporate entities like a Three-card Monte player on crack. Researching my most recent assignment, which involved a corporate merger, I stumbled across an eHow.com article about the same subject.

And while at, first I was worried that merging these two companies might be difficult and involve lots of work, eHow reassured me that it wasn’t that difficult and that all I would need is:

• A computer with Internet access
• A corporate lawyer

Huh. Silly me, reading through pages of statutory law. Now, that I had all this free time thanks to eHow, I decided to look through some of their other categories in hopes of further simplifying my life so that I would have more time to, I don’t know, cure cancer, bring peace to the Middle East, or figure out why people care so much about Brittney Spears’ kids.

Some of the more promising titles included:

How to Find Vegan Bondage Gear (Nothing like trying to find cruelty-free products to inflict pain on your loved one.)

How to Achieve Nirvana (Four easy steps!)

How to Suggest Vaginoplasty to a Wife (Helpfully suggests talking to your wife when you can be completely alone with her. As opposed to the crowded elevator I would have suggested. I guess that’s why they get paid the big bucks, though)

How to Build a UFO (Best check your lease if you’re renting. According to the author, you’ll need 14 tons of purified titanium alloy A Tesla coil and Acid solution saturated with helium nuclei. )

And finally—How to Get Abducted by Aliens. According to the author, it helps to have lots of time to spare as “Alien abductions take time and if someone has a busy schedule it will just not work for either party. A person needs to have plenty of leisure time for an alien abduction because, after all, the aliens control when an abductee returns. The last thing a person needs is to return from an abduction and have to catch up on appointments and responsibilities.”

So, there you have it. You now know where to find me for the next few days. But, first I need to pack and read up on How to Claim Alien Abduction Insurance. As my grandma used to say, “the only way you can make sure you’re not under-prepared is to make sure you’re over-prepared.” Or, as my mom still likes to say, “stop making up lies about your grandmother.”

Viva La Moustrap

If you think your Mondays are long now, don’t expect any help from Aubrey David Nicholas Jasper de Grey whose Methuselah Foundation is working towards the goal of a 1,000 year life span. Yup, that’s approximately 47,944 more Mondays.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/10/30/AR2007103002222_pf.html

Most disturbingly though, one of the first steps on this journey will be to triple the remaining life span of late-middle-age mice. According to a report in the Washington Post, Mr. De Grey believes that the day this announcement is made, the news will hit people like a brick as they realize that their cells could be next. I think however, the only brick will be the one you will need to get rid of the fifty-year old mice that are running through your home.

Does This Vending Machine Make Me Look Fat?

Forget the whistle, forget the pepper spray, and forget practicing the firm "no" that you've only had occasion to use on your dog and whose sole response was to continue to dig/bark/lick himself. Why? Why because the Instantaneous Tent Skirt is here!

http://gizmodo.com/gadgets/clothing/transforming-safety-clothing-inspires-sexual-fantasies-313221.php/

Combining form and function in the way that only someone who truly does not care about either can do, Aya Tsukioka has created a long skirt, that can be converted into a facsimile of a vending machine when the wearer is concerned for their safety. Of course, this presumes your aspiring assailant is (1) not thirsty and (2) not suspicious of coke machines with sneakers.

The idea though, is not totally without foundation. With about one vending machine for every 23 people (presumably not counting ones that happen to be sporting breasts), Japan has the highest number of vending machines per capita. And while vending machines are not quite as ubiquitous here, there are plenty of opportunities where a similar item of urban camouflage might come in handy.

For example, recently while walking through the Mission late at night a man began to follow me. Actually, perhaps follow is too strong a word – he more pitched from side to side, with the occasional forward motion thrown in for good measure. And while his thirteen steps for every one of mine was sufficient to remove me from any potential harm, I still can't help but, for many reasons, regret that I did not have a skirt that unfolded into a taqueria.

I won't hold my breath though. Although the New York Times recently reported on this, the skirt was actually designed in 2001. Which means that Ms. Tsukioka has been resting on her laurels, possibly while on the inside of a giant fabric soda dispenser.

If you have any doubts about how serious the Japanese are about their beverage/porn/dirty underwear dispensers -- check out Terada Ikeda's blog.

http://jihan.sblo.jp/

The aptly titled "I take a picture of the vending machine every day (or so). I'm very sorry" blog features pictures taken of the same vending machine for every day for the past two years. And while I might not want to buy the world a coke (excuse me could I change this for 19.8 trillion quarters?), I sure would like to buy Mr. Ikeda one, if only to pay tribute to a truely dedicated man. Now, if only the vending machine were a little slower….

Not a Princess

Last night after an evening out, I returned to the structure formerly known as "home" but which is currently taking a turn at "wanna-be crack house" due to our imminent move. I am not entirely certain why I continue to lock the doors. I am though, entirely certain now that I am not a princess.

Apparently, at some point during the night, I rolled over and onto my hairdryer. You might think that laying on a large and oddly shaped piece of plastic might have disturbed my sleep, or at least given me nightmares of marathon blow-out sessions. Nope. Slept like a baby—actually, better than a baby, since I managed not to poop or pee myself.

So there you have it folks. I am not a princess. I am a sound sleeper though. And while not quite as glamorous as being royalty, is still something of a small victory when you live in city. And I take my victories--and my sleep—where I can find them.

Miss Teen South Carolina for President

It almost seems too easy--making fun of Miss Teen South Carolina. Like stealing candy from a baby. But, as anyone who has ever actually attempted to take a candy bar from a child knows, nothing is ever as simple as it seems, and quite often one is left with a lot of explaining to do.

Or so I've heard.

When asked why one-fifth of Americans can't locate the U.S. on a world map, Miss Teen South Carolina replied,

"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some people out there in our nation don't have maps. And I believe that our education, like, such as in South Africa and the Iraq, everywhere, like such as, and I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., or should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future for our children."

Ahhh, the sweet sound of Schadenfreude…

Now, I'm usually a big fan of poking fun at others, mainly because it uses the time in which others could be using to make fun of my own spectacular shortcomings. The problem though, is that the question itself appears to be questionable. In fact, according to A 2006 National Geographic poll, 94% of young Americans could find the United States on a world map. Granted, National Geographic lacks the authority of say, someone whose accomplishments include appearing on a television show that featured a character named, "Screech," however a brief search failed to reveal anything that would contradict the National Geographic poll.

Pageants have always prided themselves on their ability to instill in young women important values and skills, such as poise, education, and the delicate art of taping one's breasts together. Now, it appears that they can add one more—the presidential answer.

The presidential answer, when executed correctly, will cause listeners to focus on the garbled response and lose track of the original question.

For example, consider any of George W. Bush's well-documented verbal gaffes, such as:

"Forms of government matter, in my opinion. It matters how—the nature of the government in which people live."—Tipp City, Ohio, April 19, 2007

"I think—tide turning—see, as I remember—I was raised in the desert, but tides kind of—it's easy to see a tide turn—did I say those words?"—Washington, D.C., June 14, 2006

And compare them to Bill Clinton's unfortunate "I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky." If only he had only taken a cue from G.W. and Miss Teen South Carolina and used the three-card Monte reply, the American public might have just given Clinton a collective chuck on the chin and considered him a loveable, if slightly befuddled, cad who perhaps could have used a little duct tape on some of his own body parts.

***

And if you doubt the above, check out our president's most recent verbal slip-up:

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2007/09/07/international/i073619D05.DTL

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Plan B

On the corner of Kearney and Bush this morning I saw a man with a box and a sign that said, "testing for human kindness." Inside the box was an assortment of change and a large wrench. I am assuming the wrench is plan B in case human kindness fails.

I don't think his plan is completely off-base. At least not in the wear-adult-diapers-across-country-wearing sort of way.

If someone tells you to make lemonade with the lemons life has handed you, you should inform them that lemons + nothing = lemon juice. The use of physical force to convey this concept is perfectly acceptable.

Bet on Ted!

For those of you that believe that the Reverend Ted Haggard's 3-week wind sprint "cure" from homosexuality will have as much holding power as scotch tape in a hurricane, check out http://BetOnTed.com where you can bet on when Ted will officially fall off the vah-jay-jay wagon. Half of the pot will go to the winner, and half will go to LYRIC, a San Francisco organization for queer youth.

You can pick any date between now and February 8, 2008, the anniversary of when it was announced that "[Ted] is completely heterosexual. That is something he discovered."

You see, he had simply misplaced his heterosexuality.

Say what you may about Pastor Ted, but I like this concept. Like some day, I hope to discover that I'm "completely responsible." Ahh, yes, there it went, it was in my coat pocket all this time...

And the Hetero Ted camp has advanced at least one more interesting theory. Apparently three years of mantastic blow jobs does not mean you're gay if "it wasn't a constant thing." A sort of five-second rule for sexuality, I guess. Of course my sex life isn't "a constant thing" either, but I don't believe that exactly makes me a virgin. What it does make me though, is a woman with a lot of time on her hands. Enough time in fact, to put five bucks down for December 3, 2007.

Here's to the good reverend coming through and coming out!

Follow the Bouncing Pill

This past week I spent alternating between bouts of vomiting and self-pity. But mostly self-pity. During my convalescing I spent a lot of time watching such high quality programming as Blind Date and Cheaters. I also watched more redeeming programming though, such as commercials.

While watching a commercial for Ambien, a drug for insomnia, I noticied that one of the listed side effects is drowsiness. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but that's a bit like listing infertility as one of the side effects for birth control pills. Another commercial for a yet another sleep aid, Lunesta, wisely advised that you should not "engage in any activity after taking Lunesta that requires complete alertness, such as driving a car or operating machinery." Mmm--okay--if you need that advice then you're probably taking the sleeping pill because you spend your nights tossing and turning over what you're going to do when your work discovers you're a complete moron. Me? I sleep like a baby. My boss already knows I'm a complete moron.

On a not completely unrelated note--while hopped up on enough Thera-Flu to decongest an L.A. freeway and beer (feed a fever, drown a cold), I decided it would be a good idea to clean out our kitchen cabinets. Yes, there were more ground-level chores that I could have done, but these cabinets were my cleaning Everest. I had to clean them because they were there. And like George Mallory, my efforts were doomed to failure.

As I was standing with one foot on the edge of the counter, holding onto the cabinet door that had suddenly become unhinged and was the only thing holding me from falling to the floor, I began to calculate the amount of time before someone would discover my Windex-clutching dead body. My roommate was out of town, I had just paid the bills and I so rarely answer my cell phone that I routinely get messages from friends telling me that they are removing me as their emergency contact. I figured three months would be the optimistic answer. Two if I'd set my alarm and it eventually managed to annoy the neighbors.

And then I realized---so, that's why married people live longer--it's not the whispered sweet-nothings, it's not the twelve dozen roses-- it's the fact that whoever you're with, even if it's a Lunesta-taking-tractor-driving moron, that even they will most likely have enough wits about them to dial those three simple digits that every second grader knows: 9-1-1, thereby extending your life span--not to mention allowing you to finish cleaning the cabinets without the employment of a Sherpa.

Happy Valentine's Day All!