Holiday Snaps

This is the center of the dome at St. Peter's Basilica. The building is definitely one of the wonders of the world, made all the more astonishing because it was altruistically constructed as a monument to man's love for God. The golden motto in the center reads "S. PETRI GLORIAE SIXTUS PP. V.A. MDXC PONTIF. V.," which roughly translates to "'God's the best!' says Pope Sixtus V who totally built this thing."

Holiday Snaps

This is a sculpture in St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. It's some dude holding a beehive on his lap. The beehive is an allegorical device that features prominently in Vatican artwork. It represents the papacy. It's really the perfect symbol since they too have lots of drones and workers but only one queen.

Holiday Snaps

"I already told you I don't want to buy any gum."

Holiday Snaps

You've got to applaud the Catholic Church for reaching out to gay people. I mean, at the Vatican Museum my mouth totally dropped open when I spotted Treasure Trail Jesus.

Holiday Snaps

"Ratzinger? No, can't say I've heard of the dude."

Holiday Snaps

"Yup, I'm dead, but I still got the Prada slippers, bitches!"

Holiday Snaps

Everything you've heard about Italian cooking is 100% true.

Are people finally tired of listening to chefs talk? That's what somebody told me at yesterday's Tap-Dancing Architects show.

Repeat Friday: What A Dump

I don't understand my dog Snowflake. Three times a day I take him out for a walk, and he always scurries over to the same old tree. To the naked eye it looks like all the other trees, but from the way Snowflake acts you'd think it was Bob Fosse. He sniffs at the bark, paws the fallen leaves, circles endlessly. It makes me wonder if he's stupid. This thing's the botanical equivalent of "The View," except even Barbara Walters rarely reeks of piss.

I yank on his leash and drag him farther down the block, past a new apartment house they're building. I've got a love/hate relationship with it. It's an oversized concrete box surrounded by classic old brownstones, but since it brings ten hunky Polish construction workers to the neighborhood it could be the Gates of Hell for all I care. Whenever I pass one of these guys on the street I'm tempted to strike up a conversation. I usually go for flattery as a pick-up line, but I'm not sure "You can sure stack concrete blocks!" will prompt eyelashes to bat.

Snowflake and I are almost to the corner when we find an enormous brown pile in the middle of the sidewalk. It's about enough to make me lose my lunch, but to Snowflake it's like finding vintage Gucci. He tiptoes up to it, circles a few times, sniffs. He can't take his eyes off it. If he had opposable thumbs he'd be snapping pictures.

I'm tugging on his leash when a construction worker appears. He's picked up a Snapple at the deli, I guess, and now he's headed back to work. He's one of my favorites, reminding me of a guy I used to date. We went all hot and heavy until his birthday came up. I still get defensive about it: I mean, if mango shower gel is a crime, color me guilty.

"Hey," he says, in a thick Polish accent, "you gotta clean up after your dog."

I show him my hand, stuck inside a plastic bag, and think about making it talk. I decide not too: I mean, if there's a profession that less sexy than accountants, it's puppeteers. "I do," I say. "He hasn't gone yet."

"Then what's that?" he asks, pointing to the sidewalk. Like an idiot I look. It hasn't changed. "Your dog took a dump."

"It's not his," I say. "It was here when we got here."

"Of course it's his. He's standing right next to it."

"You're standing right next to it and nobody's claiming it's yours."

He starts his next sentence with "Listen, wise guy," which doesn't bode well for our future together. I don't date anybody who reminds me of Dad. "I just went to the store, and it wasn't here when I left. Look around -- you see any other dogs? Who else could have done it?"

I don't see any other dogs, but this doesn't prove anything. "My dog's poo is nothing like this," I maintain. "For one thing, this is bigger than his head. Snowflake ate a whole pizza once and barely crapped a cannoli."

"I'm not even listening," he says. "I'm not buying your excuses, and you're not leaving until you clean that up." He's just dripping with macho swagger. It's only hot when you're sure the guy's not going to kill you.

I come to the conclusion that I can't win this argument by myself. I need backup; I need a character witness. Surely some of the neighborhood folks have seen Snowflake poo before, and can testify that this monstrosity isn't his.

Like the answer to a prayer, the guy who lives upstairs from me is fast approaching on the other side of the street. I've kind of got a crush on him too: he reminds me of a guy I used to date in college, who dropped me when I gave him a ring. It wasn't commitment he was afraid of -- some folks just don't get Cat's Eye. "Hey!" I yell. "Excuse me! Have you ever seen my dog take a crap?"

"No!" he hollers, and he darts across the road like the Clash are playing on our side. He takes one look at the sidewalk and scowls. "Damn," he snaps. "Did I miss it?"

This is such an allegory for my life, I think. Two men I'm interested in, and the topic of discussion is whether or not my dog took a dump. Under other circumstances I'd probably have caved, but the dog that left this muffin was clearly not in good health. Let's just say it'd be easier to pick up apple sauce.

From four different directions bystanders approach. In a quiet Italian neighborhood like this, a giant crap is like Cirque du Soleil. I get the newcomers up to speed, hoping somebody'll back me up, but everybody takes Construction Worker's side. "If I wasn't going to clean up after my dog," I ask, "why did I bring the bag?"

"You were gonna pretend to clean it up," a chubby kid replies. Right, I thought -- now I'm the Sociopathic Urban Mime. He's just mad because I gave out Swiffer refills last Halloween.

"You know," somebody says, "I'll bet he's the one who's been carving graffiti into the trees."

"And setting off the car alarms at four in the morning."

The crowd murmurs like a posse on "Bonanza," accusing me of everything from destroying the ozone layer to reusing postage stamps, and the circle around me starts to close in. By now I'm thinking, hey, maybe Frankenstein didn't have it so bad. Sure, he was chased around by villagers with torches, but it wasn't in a hip neighborhood, and he didn't have to worry about ruining flattering clothes.

Just as I'm deciding on the best direction to run, an old lady in a faded housedress breaks through the circle, wielding a cane like a tire iron. Somebody explains the situation to her in Italian, and I'm guessing they offer her first whack. Instead she takes a look at the dog, the poo, the plastic bag over my hand, and puts it all together like a Sicilian Miss Marple. "So your dog hasn't gone yet?" she asks. I nod. "Then make him go."

A gasp of surprise erupts from the crowd. It's like we're all gathered in the library and she's just picked out the killer. Even I'm impressed -- I mean, I wouldn't have expected anything more than interesting than curse words and tasty gnocchi from her. "Easier said than done," I complain. "I have to massage his lips to get him to eat."

"Convince him."

All eyes turn to the dog, who's shivering like a chilly chicken. "Poor little puppy," somebody says. "He's too nervous to go."

Now this was just flat-out wrong. Snowflake's never cared who was around when he went. In fact, he seemed to be spurred on by attention from attractive guys. It was the bane of my existence: I'd meet somebody, we'd flirt, he'd try to make friends with the dog, and before we could swap numbers we'd be scurrying for gas masks.

A lightbulb goes on over my head. "Hey," I say to Construction Worker, "pet the dog. Pretend you like him."

He stares at me like I'm crazy but follows my instructions. Not two seconds later Snowflake is proudly standing over his own, markedly-smaller creation.

The crowd grumbles and I beam like a new dad. "See?" I say, gesturing like it's a game show prize. "There's a huge difference."

They nod reluctantly. It's a rollerskate next to a Humvee. "Sorry," Construction Worker says. "I guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion."

"No prob," I reply, and then comes our first awkward silence. Pause. "You can sure stack concrete blocks."

He smiles and his brown eyes twinkle. "Thanks. Well, I gotta get back to work. Maybe I'll see you later."

"Yeah, that'd be nice." We all watch as he walks away.

Snowflake and I head back towards home, and he runs to the safety of his tree again, circling like a Spirograph. I still can't claim to understand the little pooch, but he's a chip off the old block in a couple ways:

Great taste in men. Really not so great with gifts.

Repeat Wednesday: Greek To Me

It wasn’t easy convincing my landlord that my air conditioner was really broken. He kept saying that the noise and smoke were nothing out of the ordinary, and he stood in the blast of superheated air oohing and aahing like it was a tropical waterfall. When his face took on the color of a medium-rare porterhouse, though, he gave up pretending, and in exchange for a glass of ice water he called a repairman. The next thing I knew somebody was pounding on my door at 7:30 in the morning.

“Open up!” a gravelly voice growled as I glared at my clock in disbelief. “I’m here to fix your air conditioner!” I threw on a towel and opened the door and if I wasn’t fully awake before I certainly was now: the sight of this guy was as bracing as a double espresso. I don’t mind old or out of shape folks provided they wear something to hide it -- like baggy clothes or the Houston Astrodome -- but he had on less than Britney Spears.

I tried to avert my eyes as he lumbered in but I couldn’t help but notice corduroy short-shorts, scuffed brown boots and a tool belt, with lots of blotchy red nakedness in between. He zigzagged through the place until he found the air conditioner, and after the removal of his tool belt sent his shorts plunging to new depths I fled to the shower. When I returned the air conditioner was still grinding like a cement mixer and he was sitting on my bed reading an old copy of Drummer.

Oops. “I’m a musician,” I lied. “I thought that was an instruction manual.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t think so. Though some of the guys look a little like Ringo.” I hadn’t picked up an accent before so I was surprised when he pronounced it “Reengo.” He was from somewhere weird, I thought, but unless he said “Blimey,” “Ah, so” or “Zeig heil!” I wasn’t in a place to guess.

He smiled and showed a jumble of teeth splayed out like shredded wheat. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “I am Greek. My people have been that way for thousands of years. Women are the mothers of our children, but men are for love and companionship. You see, in Greece young men are the tippy-top of beauty. You see that in our art and in our literature. The older men are expected to marry and raise children but also since they hold the knowledge they must share it, along with friendship and love, with impressionable youths. It is their civic duty.”

He tossed the magazine aside, extracted a screwdriver from his toolbelt and pried the front cover off the air conditioner. “Take the philosopher Aristotle, for instance. He was a very wise man. He invented geometry and logic and the VCR. He meets this kid Socrates and he embraces him like a son. He teaches him philosophy, introduces him to politics, and initiates him into sex. But, you know, it’s not just slam bam thank you ma’am sex. It’s a manly thing, like a big friendly hug. Except they were, you know . . . naked.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t know anything about gay sex in the past because I’d been trying to get some in the present. But long ago I’d visited a civilization where men bonded together and paired off and left the women to their own devices. It was called “San Francisco.” And while Castro Street wasn’t the Parthenon and a caftan wasn’t really a toga it was still fun enough.

He pulled the air filter off and a line of dirt sprinkled to the floor. “Me, I’m sad to say I have not found a boy to tutor. Maybe I’m not as smart as Aristotle, but I’ve learned a few things and I want to pass them on.”

Now, to say I wasn’t attracted to this guy was an understatement. Though he was butch as Hoss Cartwright’s left testicle he also had a belly domed like a turtle, and his hair was a shade of black found only on newborn mink and Wayne Newton. He had a thick thatch of chest hair that started halfway between his nipples and his navel, and his legs were lumpy and red. But his story made me nostalgic. I looked at the wrinkles encircling his eyes and started to yearn for a time when sex wasn’t just a temporary bond between strangers, something to kill a couple minutes between laundry cycles. When it meant sharing, and forming a bond so tight it could only be expressed by physical affection.

To make a long story short, he showed me how to adjust my thermostat and then we did it. He undressed me slowly and then yanked his shorts down, and with paint-splattered boots still tied to his feet he had his way with me. “We are like Socrates and Aristotle,” he panted. “I share my years of knowledge and then take you from behind.” He wasn’t particularly instructive, as I’d been in that position once or twice before, but knowing it was a time-honored tradition made it special. Before I even straightened up he was gone.

I woke up in a great mood the next morning, despite the fact this was the second day in a row somebody was pounding on my door at dawn. As I wrapped myself in another towel I realized something had changed. No longer was I a shallow gym rat with no connection to the past: now I was a shallow gym rat tied to history. I flung the door open like I was greeting a fresh new life.

“Hey,” my landlord said, grimacing at my pale pink flesh. “Did the guy fix your air conditioner?”

“He sure did,” I said, blushing. “It’s running great now. That Stavros is a terrific guy.”

He looked at me like a dog would if I asked it to mix me a martini. “Stavros? You mean the husky old guy who needs more clothes? That’s my wife’s uncle Patsy. He ain’t Greek -- he’s half Irish and half Italian. Funny you should say that, though, ‘cause once he told a guy he was Greek, and they actually -- “

By the time he saw my mouth drop open it was too late.

“Oh, jeez. You didn’t fall for that ‘mentor’ crap, did you? The Socrates and Aristotle speech?”

I nodded as blotchy red flesh flashed before my eyes.

“I gotta have a talk with that guy. But you can’t really blame him, I guess. That’s the only way he can get laid.” My mood was as limp as my towel now, and he was looking guilty. “Look, if you really want a mentor, I could give it a try. But I ain’t doing any of that butt-pirate stuff.”

I shook my head, smiling in gratitude despite slowly realizing that a seventy-year-old man had just turned me down for sex. “Thanks, Mr. Carmelo. But it’s really not the same without a Greek.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “In the forties I sent away to Japan for a mail-order bride. They sent me a German Jew named Schotzi.”

After he left I stood in the dark, listening to the air conditioner’s calm hum and feeling the cold air swirl around me. Sure, he’d tricked me. He’d used me and thrown me away. But was it as bad as all that? Maybe “Stavros” wasn’t going to be my mentor but he’d taught me something important.

If I was going to get anywhere in this world, I’d need to fake an accent.

Repeat Monday: Stripping Grammar Naked

Once in a while, somebody will ask me where I learned to write. Sometimes I tell them about the year I spent under John Rechy at Princeton. Sometimes I tell them about the short-story classes I took with Edmund White, or the sabbatical at that writer's colony off the woodsy coast of Nantucket.

And sometimes I tell them the truth: that I learned everything I know from sitting naked in front of my computer and reading lots and lots of godawful porn.

Experts know the best way to learn what's good is to study what's bad. For instance, I learned how not to cook Mexican food from Taco Bell, what not to wear from Wal-Mart, and how not to have sex with ex-husbands 1, 2 and 4. Desperate to find the very worst in writing, I cruised the sleaziest internet porn sites, searched Google for every four-letter word, and scrutinized every fan-fiction site where Spock and Sulu ever touched.

To save you time, though, and from discovering your belongings heaped on the doorstep by an intolerant boyfriend who knows about Internet Explorer's "History" file, I've compiled the most miserable writing I've found in many hard years of study. If we take a moment to examine these examples and see what mistakes were made, we can use that knowledge to write up some rules that we can use to improve our own work.

(1) He had nice thick chest hair that covered his entire body.

The first thing we learn is, never eat breakfast while surfing porn sites. Because while chest hair can be reasonably fetching on, say, a chest, when it creeps over to the forehead or the elbows it can make Jim Belushi spew up his Sugar Pops. It doesn't take an expert to realize chest hair is best confined to the upper torso, in much the same manner that toenails should remain in the vicinity of the feet.

(2) Jim grabbed his ass through his tight shorts and said, "I want you bad."

From this awkward construction we learn that if there are two or more males in your story, avoid using the word "his." Your dramatic scene will turn farcical if the reader thinks your hero is grabbing his own body parts and expressing his feelings of desire. Similar examples include the following:

-- The stranger wrapped his hungry mouth around his mushroom head.
-- Standing at the side of the bed, Gustavo grabbed his ankles and lifted them high into the air.
-- Slowly Maury worked his lips down to his stomach.

(3) All night long Carl slept, sprawled naked across the bed, and Max approached with anticipation.

What we learn here is, modifiers in the first half of your sentence also apply to the second. We’ve got a scene that’s probably eight hours long, which means Max moves about as slowly as gay rights.

(4) Brad's endowment was throbbing so hard Joshua thought it'd explode.

The problem here is painfully obvious: Don't frighten your reader with images from Japanese horror movies. You've spent hours conjuring up the perfect picture, then you go and spoil the mood:

-- Chuck's erection grew so hard it could have knocked over Hitler.
-- I'd never seen an ass pounded so relentlessly, and I watch Bill O'Reilly.
-- His equipment, trapped in those thin white shorts, looked like my grandma in her bra.

(5) Max took out Walter's penis and played with it.

Watch out for the words “took out.” While you may assume it’s equivalent to “bared" or "uncovered,” the reader may opt for another meaning, like “to remove from a box.”

(6) I really wanted to have sex with him. After I finished my french toast, I slid over next to him and brought it up.

Here we've got a confusing pronoun -- in this case, the word "it." The writer is hoping he can refer all the way back to his previous sentence, but instead the reader stops at the closest noun, which just happens to be "french toast."

Other regrettable examples are:

-- My wife and I made love on the deck of our pristine white yacht, then I tied her to the pier and went home.

-- Cooper and I took the dog for a walk. I couldn't resist the way his ass swayed back and forth, so I dragged him behind a bush and took him from behind.

(7) He grabbed hold of his meat and pulled out a condom.

This sentence shows that sometimes there's a weird synergy between different parts of your sentence. Either half of this line is fine by itself, but put the two together and it sounds like a magic trick.

Similar missteps include:

-- I squeezed the bartender's nipple and he refilled my empty glass.
-- Wayne rubbed Raoul's butt until Barbara Eden appeared.

(8) On my knees, Stephen grabbed my head and guided it toward his groin.

This is what's called a "dangling modifier," because the writer has misplaced a clause. Rather than being turned on, the reader pictures a Cirque du Soleil-style attraction. Re-read your articles searching for sentences like:

-- Covered with mayonnaise, Roger took a bite of his sandwich.
-- Engrossed in the newspaper, his penis lay there quietly.
-- Nearly at orgasm, Puddles the dog trotted in.

Well, we've just barely scratched the surface, but today's lesson has to come to an end. Remember, there are serious side effects to reading too much porn. You start to feel inadequate by constantly comparing yourself to these perfect, unreal images, and your self esteem can suffer as a result.

Honestly, though, I swear to you: usually I can go on for hours.

Repeat Friday: Go With The Flow

Last week I went to a cocktail party that positively sparkled with witty repartee and fascinating conversation. Too bad all I wanted was to get laid. I made my excuses, hightailed it to the Eagle, and the first reasonably attractive guy I saw I tailed home. We stripped off our clothes and he leaned in close, grinning like a 12-year-old about to swap his sister's Hershey bar with Ex-Lax.

"You know what would be really cool?" he said, eyes twinkling. "You could tie me to the bed and force me to suck your feet!"

Now, this bothered me in a couple different ways. First, I wasn't falling for his alleged spontaneity. It reminded me of those hetero guys who find themselves on dates with hot, tipsy chicks: "I heard about these things called 'body shots,' " they say, feigning innocence. "You wanna give it a try?" And second, I was supposed to force him to do me? I'm attractive; he should be happy I'm naked and there. I made my excuses and scurried off, adding entry No. 472 to my "Why I Shouldn't Sleep With Strangers" list.

A few days later, though, it happened again. Another guy with a weird request, and another naked scene. "You know what would be great?" this one said like a kid at Christmas. "My neighbor's a submissive pig into hypnotism and electricity. How about we see if he's busy?"

I put my finger to my chin, pretending to think, but mostly I tried to remember where my pants were. I made some vague excuse -- when you flee a pervert's apartment you don't quibble about the details -- and went out and found a replacement. My heart leapt up to my throat when we got naked and he too started to speak: "There's something I've always wanted to try," he said. "How do you feel about Nixon masks and cheese?"

"OK," I thought. "I give up. Everybody's doing that midlife-crisis thing. But can't you all just buy Porsches?"

Now, I've got nothing against crazy stuff: I mean, some people think what I do in bed is crazy, and that's before they hear about the chickens. It's the surprise part I don't like. You wouldn't ask people over for dinner and then surprise them with horse testicles in cat pee, and you shouldn't surprise sex partners with frilly pink corsets or Ovaltine enemas.

For the third time in a row, I put my clothes back on and made my excuses, but halfway down the hall I noticed my wallet was gone. It falls out of my pants a lot so it didn't particularly surprise me -- I just didn't like having to re-greet somebody whose apartment I'd just fled. I walked back to his door and heard him talking on the phone.

"He looked really hot," he was saying. "Nice face, stylish clothes. But then he takes his clothes off, and oh my God! He's so pink and furry I'm afraid the cat's going to run after him. He's got a roll of flab six inches wide around his waist, and it looks like he hasn't been to the gym since gravity was invented. I was like, 'Skipper, better put your shirt back on or Little Buddy's going to be sick!'" I poked my head in and he pasted on the smile I use when opening presents from Grandma. "I'll call you right back," he interjected. "Something's come up."

He hung up and I edged my way in. "I guess you were talking about somebody else," I said, trailed by an awkward chuckle.

"Oh, no," he said, with an insouciant air. "We were talking about you."

"So that stuff about the Nixon mask and the cheese -- that was just to get rid of me?"

He nodded. "It seemed easiest. You weren't quite what I expected."

I sighed. "Well, I'm not a model or a professional bodybuilder. But I work out three times a week, and I've never gotten any complaints."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" he cried like Joan Rivers spotting Cher. "Aside from your massive pinkness there's a zit on your shoulder the size of Vesuvius, and if you stood with your feet together I could still toss a ham between your legs."

I stared at him in disbelief, too stunned to argue. "I forgot my wallet," I said frostily, and I pushed past him to the bedroom where it was lying on the floor. Maybe he'd stripped me of my dignity, I thought, but I'd still have a Discover card with nearly $80 available. With my head held high, I strolled back outside, where the freezing air and his insults hit me like a smack in the face.

The sun was setting as I slowly trudged home and the city darkened around me. Although I hate Los Angeles, I found myself missing it: I mean, having sex there was mindless fun, while here it was like entering a dog show. You take your clothes off and they're inspecting every muscle, every hair, asking you to trot around the bed. "That right delt is slightly saggy," they say, looking up from their clipboard, "and there's a slight curvature to the spine. The chest hair is off-center, and the ears are out of proportion. I'm afraid you'll have to go." But I guess I should have expected it. New Yorkers are cutthroat about everything -- business, sports, even food. Why did I think sex would be different? For the first time in my life I had to confront one of life's biggest questions: Would I ever have sex in this town again?

I got my answer soon enough. On the subway home, a nice-looking guy struck up a conversation with me, then asked me to his place "for coffee," and I went. I stripped naked, he leered at me lustfully, and everything was cool. Then he took off his clothes, and damn. Freak-show time. From chest hair shaped like a bagel to thighs as flat and gray as Flipper to skinny ankles where the hair had been worn away by tight socks.

This would not do.

You know what I'd really like to try?" I said, feigning excitement. "I'd love for you to piss on me while singing 'Send in the Clowns.' "

When he led me into the bathroom and began humming the intro, I nearly freaked. If I'd still been wearing either pants or shoes, in fact, I'd be in Cincinnati right now. But then I thought, Heck, I'm not getting any younger, and to tell you the truth, I'm not in the best shape in the world. How often do opportunities like this come up?

I learned my lesson. By the time he finished, let me tell you, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Repeat Wednesday: Two Mistakes

Every time Richard opens his mouth he makes two mistakes. "I absolutely love Picasso's works from his purple period," he declares at the art museum, staring in admiration at a tiny, colorful work.

These pronouncements always stop me in my tracks, because I never know which mistake to address first. In this case I say, "Actually, Picasso never had a purple period. And that picture in particular is a Mondrian."

"Oh," he says. He nods his head like he's suddenly semi-educated, when in reality he's just moving on to his next mistakes. He doesn't seem to realize how hard it is to talk to him. When somebody makes one mistake, the human brain can easily decipher it. One mistake is glaringly obvious: Ellen Degeneres is married to Portia de Rossi, not Tia Carrera. Narcissus aren't orange, they're white. One can't actually dodge taxes by diverting some of their income to a 10K. The brain decides whether or not the err is worth correcting, and that's the extent of that.

When someone makes two mistakes, though, additional parts of the brain are required, because the conversation receptor is thrown into overload. A dialog starts ping-ponging inside the head. It's like the NYPD caught a naked man holding up a liquor store and then couldn't decide whether the case should go to Violent Crimes or Vice. "Have you seen that movie with Roma Downey Jr.?" Richard asks. "Hawaiian Tropics?"

I have to mentally list all the possible permutations and then rank them by the likeliest. Does he really mean Roma Downey? Probably not. Nobody's meant Roma Downey in quite some time. No, odds are it's Robert Downey Jr. But he never made a movie about tanning lotion, right?

Meanwhile, Richard is standing there blissfully, not a thought in his head.

Now, I kind of like Richard. He's attractive and fun and professional, three qualities I've rarely found before, let alone in the same man. But I can't help but wonder. Making one mistake at a time marks you as an ordinary, fallible human. What does two at a time say?

Still, he's my man for most of December. I bite my lip when he tells me he has a crush on David Beckham, the rugby player who's married to Scary Spice. I sigh sadly when he announces that Oreo cookies are made by leprechauns. I watch in silence as he pours champagne into a martini glass that has colored salt around the rim.

And still, somehow, we make it into bed. The usual way, pretty much: we go out to dinner, drink a bottle of wine, go back to his place and start making out. "I bet you've got a big dick and you know how to use it," he whispers into my ear.

I say, "Oh, just shut up and lie down."

Repeat Monday: Surprise

I have to do something. Every morning I wake up and it's like my eyebrows have grown just a little bit bigger, until they threaten to consume my face. It looks like two squirrels are scurrying across my forehead, and very soon there's just going be to one. Years ago, though, after an overzealous afternoon with a razor blade, I learned that shaping and tweezing your facial hair is like trying to remove your own gall bladder. This time around, I decide, I'll let a professional handle it.

I don't exactly keep up with the trends, but I know about threading. I've seen it on the news, where an Asian woman wielding something like dental floss wraps a coil around a stray hair and yanks it out, faster than the blink of an eye. While I run my daily errands I pass eight or nine threading salons, and I slow in front of every one. I feel my eyebrows swelling until I can barely keep my head up. I think, why don't I just go in and get it done?

You hear all these rumors about New York metrosexuals, but I'm the only guy in the salon I finally choose. There's so much estrogen in the building, in fact, I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into Pinkberry. Mercifully, the procedure is quick and painless. Five minutes and fifteen dollars later, the woman passes me a hand mirror. My eyebrows are far apart and half their original size. The delicate arch makes me look ever so slightly surprised.

I look at the woman. She looks at me. "Well, I think they look good," she says.

I race to the bathroom of a nearby Bed Bath & Beyond and survey the damage. They could definitely be worse. They're certainly not that 30s Jean Harlow brow, the thin Sharpie squiggle dancing below the hairline. They could almost pass for natural. Still, the arch is sharp enough to change my default expression. I'm no longer bored. I'm not exhausted. If I keep my face entirely still, I'm somewhere between inquisitive and questioning. Add in even the slightest additional surprise, though, and I look like a man fleeing Godzilla.

I run my remaining errands as I struggle to keeping my face utterly placid. Inquisitive eyebrows aren't such a horrible thing, I discover. They have the attitude that I don't, second-guessing every word I hear.

I stop at a fruit stand for a mango and some strawberries. "That'll be twelve dollars," the man says. I look at him. He looks at me. "Okay, okay," he snaps. "Maybe it's just ten."

I drop in Macy's to see what's new. There's a red knit cap I almost like. I'm not sure if it works with my beige skin and ridiculous height. "You look great!" a clerk says. "You look fabulous!" I look at her. She looks at me. "You look like a lit match," she admits.

By the time I head home it's late, and the subway is deserted. Still, a middle-aged man sits down right next to me. His suit is cheap, his hair's thinning, his moustache nearly hides his mouth. "You should be a model," he says, just out of the blue. "I mean, you are absolutely gorgeous. You've got an amazing face, and it looks like you've got a really hot body. You could be, like, in one of those Calvin Klein ads, just wearing underwear. David Beckham's got nothing on you."

I look at him. He looks at me.

"Well, I wouldn't turn off the lights when I fucked you," he says, so imagine my surprise when he did.

Repeat Friday: Why I Don't Read The Classics

I’ve been reading way too much trash recently -- books with sex or drugs or violence and no redeeming value whatsoever. The last book I finished was about a gay vampire who had other things on his mind than sucking blood. Try checking that out of the library without a fake moustache and dark glasses. After being both embarrassed and bored, I figured I'd read something respectable for a change. I’d seen most of the classics on “Masterpiece Theater” and they didn’t seem all that difficult so I figured I’d get one of them. To speed things up, though, I’d skip over Kenneth Branagh's lines.

I ended up with “Pride and Prejudice.” It’s one of those books you mean to read but never do, and halfway through the book I understand why. Like a PBS miniseries it’s interesting in theory, but after more than a couple minutes in reality it just bugs the pants off you.

For one thing, I expected intrigue, intelligence, and wit, but instead got a Victorian potboiler on the level of “All My Children.” Austen uses plenty of big words in Ye Olde English, but I’m still pretty sure the first printing had Fabio’s great-grandfather in a torn pirate shirt on the cover.

The book concerns several hundred people, all related, who alternately love and hate each other with the skill of Italians. At the center of the story are the Bennets: Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, and their daughters. Lots of daughters. The number is never specified, and it seems to change by the hour. We start off with Elizabeth and Jane, then page by page discover Lydia, Beth, Kitty, Mary, Lizzy and Eliza, though someone smarter than myself may discern that four of these could refer to the exact same person.

The big romance is between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, a guy who doesn’t even get a first name until page 187. There’s a roadblock flung in their path: we’re supposed to think that Mr. Darcy is unforgiveably rude because he went to a ball and only danced twice. That’s rude? the guys reading will ask. Hell, if he showed up in his underwear, guzzled scotch from a bottle and asked the hostess to pull his finger maybe she’d have a case. Then we learn that a dance lasts fifteen minutes, that you have to book them like appointments with the cable guy, and that dancing with the same woman twice is roughly equivalent to proposing marriage. Under these conditions even Fred Astaire would be hanging around the buffet table stuffing rumaki in his gob. Besides, that’s unforgiveably rude? That’s an obstacle to a relationship? Once I forgave a hubby who had sex with a preoccupied paraplegic.

The characters hook up and break off straight out of daytime drama. Miss Bingley likes Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy likes Elizabeth, Mr. Bingley likes Jane but seems destined to marry Countess De Burgh’s daughter (his cousin) to unite their estates. Elizabeth ought to marry Mr. Collins, her cousin, but since she hates him she pawns him off on Charlotte Lucas, the only character who’s not a relative. There are like eight sets of cousins who consider each other for marriage, yet for some reason they’re more concerned with estates and property than bearing children who have bat ears and duckbills.

Adding to the overall confusion is the language barrier. Shew, sallad, chuse -- maybe these words used to be English, but now they sound like parts of a snail. When they play “Vingt Un” I’m not sure they need playing cards or a plastic mat with colored circles on it. I have no clue what a “quadrille” is, and in the book it seems to alternate between being a dance and a board game. A major plot point hinges on how the Bennet estate is “entailed.” I’m guessing it’s not the opposite of what a butcher does to a bunny.

Here are some of the convoluted phrases Austen uses, and what I determined they meant through hours of research:

“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”	“Huh-uh."
“Dare I say my eye might have misjudged the possibility?”	“Really?”
“I see no occasion for that.”	“Whaaa?”
“That is not an unnatural surmise.”	“Maybe.”
“Upon my honour I have not the smallest of objections.”	“Oh. Okay.”

Now, I don’t mind a little wordiness as long as the author keeps it all straight. Austen, though, turns the whole exercise into a word problem. There are forty countesses in the book, yet rather than referring to them by name she gives the name of their house. “’I visited your relations at Lancashire,’ the Countess of Marscapone exclaimed while her own thoughts dwelt on her sister at Longhorn.” Everyone has three or four cousins with the same name (Colonel Fitzwilliam and Fitzwilliam Darcy meet on page 252, much to my astonishment). And everybody’s got more aliases than Puffy.

Austen loves to throw all sorts of folks into a room and not tell you who she’s talking about. Pronouns, adjectives, past participles -- I‘ve never seen so many things dangling, and I spent one Christmas at a nude beach. Here’s a typical scene among the Bennet sisters (remember there are somewhere between five and forty of them). See if you can tell who’s talking, and who they’re speaking of:

“Tell me, dear Lizzie,” enquired the younger Miss Bennet of her sister, “who is it that you are fondest of?”

“Methinks she shall chuse herself!” a flaxen-haired lass cried, and her two elder sisters tittered.

Elizabeth looked at her older sister with fine eyes mingling incredulity and agitation. “Why am I thus subjected to this undisguised air of discivility? Whilst my desires burn brightly within my bower they are of no small importance to yourselves, and I fear you shall render them like insects ‘neath a hasty hobbled boot.”

Silence hung in the air, then the girl leaning against the mantle-piece spake. “Beth, you are over scrupulous, I assure you; her intent was not so bold.” She turned to the woman nearest the bird. “What say you, Kitty?”

The tallest sister who isn’t Lydia froze with mortification. “Indeed, madam, I am not Kitty,” she observed. “Kitty stands indifferently by the balustrade, nearest the girl who’s allergic to cheese.”

The woman with the bean-shaped mole and crinoline knickers pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I foresaw the return of this confusion within a fortnight,” she cried, and with the girl who’d recently returned from the dentist fled the room, fatigued.

And so, kind reader, to cut a long story short, I’m giving up. At page 274 I’m bidding a final “fare thee well” to the Bennets and the Bingleys and their fourteen hundred cousins and returning the book to the library, where it can be admired from a great distance. Tonight I’ll enjoy a respite from such obfuscation in my bed-sit chamber, neither playing nor dancing a quadrille with the one I hold in fondest regard who isn’t me.

On vacation! Three incredible weeks in London and Rome. Culture, shopping, and rainy weather followed by espresso, panini, and gelato. I'll occasionally be reprinting some reader favorites while I'm gone. Back October 6.

World Shocked When Homophobic Cartoonist Goes After Women Next

The good news is, Max Garcia's comic "Between the Lines" appear in exactly one newspaper: the New York Daily News. The bad news is, it's my local newspaper.

Every day we unfortunate readers get a glimpse into the inner recesses of Mr. Garcia's mind -- at least the parts that haven't been jammed full of Ren and Stimpy cartoons, role-playing games, and fart jokes. For those outside of Mr. Garcia's limited sphere, this panel provides a fine example of his humor:

Got that? See, it's a pun! When horses say "nay," it's like they're saying no! Sad puns provide the basis for 99% of Mr. Garcia's comics, including the billiard balls frolicking around a swimming pool and Vladimir Putin atop a Ritz cracker. You can almost picture Mr. Garcia elbowing you in the ribs while you peruse the drawing for meaning. He's stifling hysterics and warning, "Give it a minute! You'll get it!" but we get it all too quickly, I'm afraid.

A cursory examination of this cartoon illuminates Mr. Garcia's unfortunate subtext. The male horse is distinguished, with a well-groomed goatee, while the female has a big mouth, a cinched waist, and giant boobs. While annoying, the adolescent sexism can be easily ignored until Mr. Garcia's larger mental problems surface in the strip.

I've written about this panel before, so I'll just summarize by saying Mr. Garcia has evidently spent a lot of time in Mel Gibson movies from the 1980s. Today, though, the other shoe dropped. Mr. Garcia demonstrated why homosexuals frequently quote Martin Niemöller's sharp adage, "First they came for the Socialists...." Because Mr. Garcia discovered that it's safe to come after us, so now he's gunning for those other bizarre creatures that boggle his tiny mind.

Like a modern-day Sean Delonas, Mr. Garcia breaks us up with his virtual catalog of tried-and-true tropes: pale, pasty, glasses, long hair, brown belt, sweater vest. The message beneath those brilliant colors? SEXUAL HARASSMENT WOULDN'T EXIST IF DUDES WERE HOTTER. That's not a comic: that's the bumper sticker on an idiot's car. A comic shouldn't leave you thinking, "So, I'm an attractive dude. Is rape gonna be okay?"

I didn't contact Mr. Garcia for comment this time around, and perhaps the adage about teaching pigs to dance explains the reason why. Instead I'll reprint his reply to my thoughts about the Chuck Norris comic: "Hey, wanna be my Facebook friend?" I didn't speak in a barbed balloon and I don't have big tits but my answer was definitely nay.

Life is like a game of Tetris. Problems enter your field of vision one at a time, and you deal with them as best you can before you file them away. Right now I'm at that part where you think, "Just dump that shit on the top, assholes. I no longer give a fuck."

Gay Bar Chastened By Police: You Just Can't Keep Bothering Us Every Time You Get Attacked

Story.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

Picture this: you're on a date. You've had a fabulous dinner followed by expensive drinks, and now you're parked in front of her house saying good night. You lean in for a kiss and she cowers back like dogs are attacking. "It's been a wonderful evening," she stutters. "Let's please not ... spoil it."

What's gone wrong? Odds are you've just fallen victim to the number-one killer of the one-night stand: your breath was just too fresh.

See, you put a lot of effort into that date. Maybe too much effort, in fact. You shaved, got dressed up, maybe splashed on a little cologne. At first your girl thought it was nice. Then when you started asking about her day and wondering what she thought, she realized you'd put more effort into this than she did. The die was cast. When she smelled that fatal dose of minty Mentos on your breath she thought, "Ohmigod, this dude is crazy desperate!"

Well, buckle up and get ready for your life to change with Colgate's new Coffee and Cigarettes scent. It not only cleans and whitens your teeth, but it leaves behind the odor of freshly-ground French roast (black, no sugar) and unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes.

Colgate's harsh new scent has been scientifically formulated to totally addle today's women. At first whiff she'll think you were busy and semi-thoughtless, but over the next seven to ten minutes it'll occur to her that deep down you don't care about her at all. Before the night is over the unmistakable truth will have solidified in her head: you have better things to do and don't care about her at all. Now lean in for that kiss and see where you get! Just make sure you've got coffee and cigarettes for two.

Also look out for new Colgate Advanced Coffee and Cigarettes, to give you twelve-hour protection against looking like you give a fuck.

It's actually sort of refreshing to realize that Spotify knows nothing about me. I mean, if they think I was still in school at the age of 38 then they won't be a whole lot of help to the NSA.

Dear AMC TV employees:

You've never heard of me, but I found all your email addresses on Google. Based solely and entirely on that string of letters with "@" in the middle I've decided that you all want to get email from me. Surely you agree, since that's apparently why I get email from you.

Today I'm having chicken sandwiches for lunch. Just broiled chicken on bread. I always liked mayo but recently decided it's kind of gross, like lube for a sandwich. I don't even like getting my throat greased up when Raoul's in town.

If you don't want to receive these updates in the future, UNSUBSCRIBE HERE. Either click on the box where it says DINING DELIBERATIONS or unclick it: one of them subscribes and one unsubscribes but I didn't take notes when I set it up.

Welcome to my email list!
RomanHans

Dear AMC TV employees:

Hi. It's me again. I played a little joke on you: the checkboxes on my UNSUBSCRIBE page don't work at all. Or as you guys say, "Please allow ten days for your changes to take affect." Ha!

I really don't get fashion. Everybody says you've got to wear a black belt with black shoes. And then I tune into Project Runway and chicks get reamed for being too "matchy-matchy"! Is that a thing? Do I need to buy something brown?

If you don't want to receive this newsletter, CLICK HERE and uncheck the box next where it says WARDROBE WONDERINGS. Please allow blah blah blah.

All the best,
RomanHans

Dear AMC TV employees:

Me again. I know you unsubscribed from WARDROBE WONDERINGS and DINING DELIBERATIONS. Hell, I haven't seen four hundred people move so fast since I went swimming in white Speedos. But this is a brand new newsletter and I thought you'd be interested.

Did you know tofu increases estrogen production? I was having lunch with a girlfriend when she was all, "Roman, you are turning into a chick." And I was like huh? She said, "You're vegetarian, right? You're eating lots of tofu? Well, tofu causes estrogen production, and it's turning you into a chick." Naturally I was relieved. I mean, I'd assumed she was badmouthing my skirt.

Stay tuned for more updates with my weekly LUNCHTIME LAUGHS newsletter. You should probably forget about unsubscribing because I'm just doing new newsletters every week until Jesus returns.

All the best,
RomanHans

Dear AMC TV employees:

Well, out of the kindness of my heart I added a box that said UNSUBSCRIBE ME FROM ALL NEWSLETTERS, and all four hundred of you did. This means you won't get any more of my newsletters. This, however, is a one-time email I thought would interest you. Why? Because you're the people who kept emailing me crap about Breaking Bad when I DON'T WATCH THAT SHIT and COULDN'T GIVE A FUCK.

Today it's warm in my apartment, so I put the air conditioning on. Rain is dappling at the windows so I kind of want to open them but I live over a Chinese restaurant and the Amityville Horror can't compete with those kinda flies.

This has been WEATHER WONDERINGS.

Okay, I'm not a sadist. All your angry notes have finally gotten to me. If you really don't want to hear from me, CLICK HERE and initial where it says, "Roman, I apologize for incessantly emailing you crap about Breaking Bad when you DON'T WATCH THAT SHIT and COULDN'T GIVE A FUCK. I promise we'll never email you again."

It'll work; I promise. But if I ever hear from you again, my next update is called SEXY SHENANIGANS and my pubic hair went gray back in 1982.

All the best,
RomanHans

Looking for a good book? The Philadelphia Independence Visitor Center has a varied stock. Here's some choice selections from their Noxious Gas and African American Studies section.

"Undercover Boss" Celebrates Its 500th CEO Shocked To Discover His Employees Aren't Paid A Living Wage

This week CBS TV's "Undercover Boss" will celebrate its 500th episode, and the 500th company president who had absolutely no idea his employees worked so hard for so little.

"The initial idea was to show both sides," said Mitchell Michelson, the show's producer. "Show incompetent employees getting fired, and terrific employees being rewarded. We realized pretty quickly that we'd get sued by the incompetent employees, so instead we decided to focus on the great employees. We actually worried that we wouldn't be able to find any who weren't already well-paid and well-treated, but we laugh about that now."

The show's formula has been honed to a sheen over the years. "The CEO goes undercover and hangs out with his low-level employees," said Michelson. "He discovers that the people who have been giving him their blood, sweat and tears can't afford to buy more than one roll of toilet paper at a time. He declares that this is completely unfair and unjust, and wishes he'd taken action before. Inevitably, tears accompany these hard-won realizations, and he gives three people money and then heads home."

One might think the show's long-term success on a major network would lead to an improvement in America's workplaces, but Michelson says that doesn't appear to be the case. "You'd think people would catch on eventually," he said. "Every week there's another CEO who's shocked, totally shocked to discover his employees toiling long hours for an unlivable wage. You'd think other CEOs would tune in and say, 'Hey, I should check and see if we mistreat our workers.' But these are important, powerful businessmen. If they don't have time to ensure their employees are treated well, when would they find the time to watch TV?"

Walter Blickner, head of Blickner's Sporting Goods, raves about his experience as the 500th clueless CEO. "I had a great time," said Blickner, whose company has 214 stores and $600 million in yearly sales. "It was really a great experience, and I was really glad to take part. Of course, I was standing on the shoulders of 499 other CEOs who also 'forgot' to visit their stores and see if their employees slept in their cars."

Longtime viewers of the show will doubtless recall numerous highlights, but Michelson's personal favorite was Tamara Lepnicki, the single mom who worked 14-hour days sewing the feet onto dolls at Candy's Clown Factory for six dollars an hour. Copious tears were shed when CEO Mark Livingson discovered that Tamara's two children were taken away because she couldn't afford adequate medical care and he presented her with a 3-day cruise to the Bahamas and a trophy that named her, "QUEEN OF THE HUSTLE!"

The show was an immediate success so don't think the producers will fiddle with a winning formula. "It's been an amazing ride," said a beaming Michelson. "I'm thrilled that we can show the hardworking men and women of America that their indefatigable effort will eventually be rewarded, though currently for just three of them a week. I'd like to say that our show provides good role models for CEOs, but clearly that isn't the case and we'll just have to keep on educating them one at a time. It's my fervent hope that in the next few years we'll feature another five hundred corporate leaders who truly don't realize how shitty it is to work for them."

Evolutionary Biologists don't get much respect. And rightly so! Whereas many intelligent people contribute to the world by investigating the regulation of serotonin uptake by postsynaptic receptors or the effect of cognitive behavior therapy on body dysmorphia, EBs spend years struggling to explain why people still have eyebrows.

They come up with these ridiculous explanations -- spoiler alert: it's all about sex -- and then preface them with disclaimers like, "Of course, there's no way we can know for sure." Men have pubic hair because it holds pheromones, thereby attracting sexual partners. Men have facial hair because it provides physical evidence of reproductive prowess, thereby attracting sexual partners. Gosh, I guess that's why there are so few Chinese! And if indeed the end-all of evolution was to get us all laid, wouldn't there be at least a couple people with the words "I'M RICH!" spelled out in freckles on their foreheads?

When they wander away from the human community, however, EBs go entirely nuts. A terrific example is this compilation of studies examining homosexual behavior in insects. Short answer? The eight-legged dudes were all positive their partners had vaginas.

Whereas larger animals have developed more complicated homosexual motivations — like maintaining alliances, which has been found in certain primate and seagull species — insects seem to mistakenly partake in it in a hasty attempt to secure mates.

This opening statement says more about the scientists than about the bugs. There are a lot of reasons to have gay sex, they say, then cite that it's a great way to make friends. Really? If I want to make friends, I lend someone money. Help them pack. Feed their dog when they're on vacation. Put their erect penises in my mouth? It's not going to make the top ten.

Insects, though, don't even use this stupid excuse to go gay. No, they're in such a hurry to fuck, they don't even notice their partner's lack of vagina. After every instance of homo insect sex, apparently, the EBs have witnessed dude smacking his exoskeleton forehead and going, "Oops! Sorry! No homo!"

The study's idiot co-author goes even farther up the ridiculous-theory ladder.

"[Insects] have evolved to mate quick and dirty," said study co-author Inon Scharf, an evolutionary ecologist at Tel Aviv University. "They grab every opportunity to mate that they have because, if they become slow, they may give up an opportunity to mate." Sometimes, such extreme indiscrimination leads to mating with inanimate objects, as has been observed in beetles trying to mount glass bottles.

Got that? Beetles don't just mistakenly fuck dudes because they think they're chicks. No, they mistakenly fuck bottles because they think they're chicks. Scharf actually says that glass bottles look like giant female beetles. I guess that explains why women always run screaming out of liquor stores.

Other studies do, however, show evidence of more intentional and malicious motivations behind homosexual insect sex. Male butterflies, moths and wasps, for example, use same-sex encounters to distract competitors from potential female mates.

Really? You know, I've had sex a few times. Guys have approached me in bars, said, "Why don't we go back to my place?", and we've fucked. But I'm relatively sure the guy's primary motivation hasn't been to keep me away from the hot chicks. And I'm not sure how a scientist would determine this motivation. He see a bunch of moths, both male and female. The male moths start fucking. They're all lubed up and screwing and an actual, thinking scientist says, "Wow, they really want to distract the other dudes from all the women!"

Certain beetles have even been found to use same-sex mounting as a way to spread sperm to other males that may then pass it along to the next female he mounts,...

Sigh. Well, I guess we should have seen that coming. Now Bob Beetle is ejaculating on Barry Beetle's chest in hopes it'll get rubbed against Betty Beetle. I'm trying to figure out how EBs work out this whole cause-and-effect. Beetles have gay sex, then still dripping sperm they hang around with females. I'm thinking (1) they have to hang around with females because there's no Insect West Hollywood, and (2) beetles have a hard time cleaning up.

     Dear Scientists,
     Maybe the beetles would have wiped off the cum but, you know, they don't have Kleenex.
     Hope this helps,
     RomanHans

Are you getting the idea that beetles have a lot of gay sex? Well, it appears you're right.

[O]ne study found that certain male insects have developed femalelike genitals to lower the risk of damage from homosexual penetration.

That's my favorite beetle anecdote, and definitely the pièce de résistance. That's the story that sets intelligent people giggling because it destroys that whole "confused hetero" theory. Let's set the scene: there's a whole colony of horny insects, but all the males are just buttfucking each other. Constantly buttfucking. In fact, they buttfuck so often it's actually a threat to their lives. (Mental note: could this be why crabs walk sideways?) Male insects go gay so often that even God is throwing in the towel. He's like, "Holy Christ! If I give you guys fake vaginas, would you please stop fucking each other in the butt?"

And what's the first thing Evolutionary Biologists have to say about these insects? NONE OF THEM ARE GAY.

Sadly, I see a lost cause, at least for the near future. Because if rampant gay sex won't convince scientists that not all insects are straight, what will? Will they need to carry little rainbow flags? Hold parades? Open discos? That would certainly be one of the most disgusting things I could think of, and I've been to Oil Can Harry's.

Random Thoughts

I'm not really like other people. When I get stressed out, I run around like a chicken with its head.

I'd stayed at the Hyatt at the Bellevue before, so I remembered. I remembered setting the air conditioning on HIGH the second I set foot in my room, and I remembered that when I returned after eight hours of sightseeing the place was still as stale and dry as day-old toast. Still, I'd made it through that last visit and I figured I'd make it through this one too.

I didn't. I woke up at 4 a.m. lightly bathed in sweat. I don't particularly mind sweating in bed, except I was alone.

Not helping matters was the bedding. It was dark and the covers were mangled and somehow the tiny top sheet had gotten swallowed up by the thick duvet. My options seemed like either arctic provisions or a naked man laying atop a mattress. While I enjoy the odd naked man, I also know that after laying prone for a period of time, his body partially liquifies and forms folds and wrinkles that rival the Grand Canyon if it had curly brown hair springing out of its chasms. Not to mention the whole Tennessee Williams stigma that comes with oppressive heat and sleeping:

STELLA: Oh, Brick. This heat is like a vice, squeezing the living daylights out of me. The dank air is settlin' in my lungs so it's like I'm a'wallowin' and a'frettin' in the soggy recesses of a swamp rather than at the luxurious Hyatt at the Bellevue.

BRICK: I can't take it, Stella! It's circling my head like a buzzard and squeezing me like a snake and I swear it's going to suck me dry. Every breath I take my mouth turns to sand, and I can't move without feeling the accursed vines of the kudzu plant creeping up my thick, tattooed legs here on the edge of the upscale Rittenhouse Square shopping district.

I'm not the kind of person who accepts something and lets it go, especially if it means paying big bucks to not sleep for eight hours. I'm definitely a "bee in my bonnet" kind of guy, except I own the Bonnet Store. I hit a button on the phone that said "GUEST REQUESTS." I wasn't sure it was appropriate: it sounded like it was for people who ran out of hair gel rather than, say, people who had reached medium-rare, or didn't like lions clawing down their doors.

I explained the situation to the woman. She offered to send up an engineer to fix the thing, but in my book putting on clothes and having company pretty much means sleep time is done. Instead I went with her helpful tips: first, set the fan on AUTO instead of HIGH. I assumed that something running constantly at top speed was more efficient than something that randomly turned on and off, but I've never been paid to think at 4 a.m. Second, set the desired temperature at 68 instead of 60. I may have missed the logic here, but apparently if the air conditioner thinks the job is too big, it won't even give it a try. When the desired temperature is close to room temperature, it feels like it's got a fighting chance.

She also offered to send up a fan. I got the idea that if she worked at Avis and my Mercedes broke down, I'd be tooling around Philly on a Big Wheel.

I decided to go with her helpful tips. Twenty minutes later, when I realized the temperature wasn't going to change and I wasn't going to sleep, I called back and asked for the engineer.

I completely banished any thoughts of a silver lining when he arrived and wasn't even remotely hunky. He confirmed that the GUEST REQUEST tips were total crap while he pulled the AC filter out. He actually thought I'd be interested to know that it was two inches thick with lint, and I waited while he fetched a new one. "It'll be okay now!" he said. Really? I thought. Is that the Hyatt motto? If I find a hair on the Grilled Skuna Bay Salmon at the XIX restaurant will the waiter pluck it off and proclaim, "Looks like it's okay now!"

Needless to say, I was a bit grumpy when I boarded the MegaBus home. The guy behind me talking nonstop on his cellphone certainly didn't help. In his fourteenth conversation his voice suspiciously lowered, clearly indicating a female on the other end.

"Nickname?" he asked in Barry White's voice. "You gave me a nickname?" He chuckled long and low and I actually started to think it was sweet. "Yeah," he said, "I like that nickname. We'll have to give you a nickname too." Another pause while my chilly heart defrosted. I felt like recommending the standards: Sweetie, Darling, Honeybunch. "Okay," he finally said. "We'll call you Downstairs Margo."

I sighed. New York City's skyline appeared in the distance and I thought, "Well, it looks like I'm okay now."

What did the zookeeper witness in the white animal section? They were all hanging around their rooms and cutting themselves.

Real answer: PANDA-MONIUM

Spent Tuesday night in Philly at the Hyatt at The Bellevue. Hoped the air conditioning would kick in eventually; it didn't. Woke up at 4 a.m. sweating. Called the front desk. "I can send up a fan," she said. I said, "I'm a goddamn business traveler, not Cho-Cho-San."

Dr. Phil Tweet Outrages People Who Misinterpret A Poll Question And Think He Found A Drunk Girl And Wanted Advice

Story.

News Roundup

Former teen heartthrob David Cassidy was pulled over in upstate New York for failing to dim his headlights and was charged with DWI.

Cassidy was stopped early Wednesday about 10 miles south of Albany. Tests showed his blood-alcohol content at 0.10.

The Albany Times Union reported that when the arresting officer, Tom Jones, told Cassidy his name, the singer said, "What's new, pussycat?"

I read so many times people saying their loved ones were taken because God needed more angels in heaven. This irks me so much. People don't become angels. They are totally separate beings. God brings people home for reasons all his own, and we might never understand it, but it's certainly not to gain new angels. He's got more than enough, so shut up, people!

I mean, come on. When a dog dies, does it become a chicken? Does a monkey become a sea cucumber? No! Christ, we're intelligent people, not Buddhists! It's scientifically impossible. One thing does not turn into another! When you die, you become invisible and your soul floats up to heaven but suddenly sprouting wings and magically learning how to play the harp is just patently ridiculous.

I realize I need to be patient. I've been asking God to grant me patience almost every time I feel like hitting one of the kids. And I know it's comforting thinking that after God takes us, we'll all be flying around heaven like Superman. But the sad fact is that's just a sad delusion, and as much as it pains me to say this, we need to face the cold, hard facts. We'll have to walk around on the clouds just like regular old dead people.

Of course, these clouds also have a silver lining. God likes us better than angels. That's why he gave us free will while making the angels his helpers, henchmen, and housekeepers. Yes, we make mistakes, but He gave us that freedom because he loves us so much. The angels are second-class, not as good, sad substitutes for the real thing -- pretty much like God's adoptive children. He can cast them out of heaven, but once we're in we're good. It's like heaven has a union.

Anyway, if you agree, please spread the word. Next time one of your relatives dies and a well-meaning "friend" says God must have needed another angel, politely inform them that you're strong and resilient enough to face facts: that your dead relative will be sitting at God's right hand for the rest of eternity as long as idiots like them don't get in the way.

Olympics Committee Says Russia Doesn't Discriminate Because Straights Will Also Be Arrested For Saying Anything Positive About Gays

Story.

Gorgeous Portraits Capture The Feminine Side of Masculinity (PHOTOS)

The Huffington Post has a lovely photo essay today. I'll let them explain.

Nir Arieli's portrait series "Men" places men in traditionally feminine spaces and postures, illuminating the human characteristics that have, over time, become decidedly feminine traits. The following male muses are making us wish men felt free to explore their feminine sides more often.

Ms. Arieli gives Hanno musically-oriented props to indicate that this classless Neanderthal may actually respond to something other than pork rinds and baseball scores. He is clearly occupying an unfamiliar space: he's thinking. And not thinking about adding a back deck to the house, but about his place in the universe, his role in society, and how many calories are in rice pudding.

Paul's little trip to Gayville comes courtesy of adding one accessory and ditching another: he's lying on an effeminate bedspread and not eating a pulled pork sandwich. This portrait isn't entirely successful because it's obvious he's faking his vulnerability to get his girlfriend to blow him. Also, Paul often finds himself on a woman's bedspread because he has eighteen roommates and hasn't done his laundry since 1982.

You'll notice a lot of these models are lying down. Men don't do that a lot, because they don't have to wait for themselves to come home from work.

Tal's posture is traditionally feminine because only women aren't smart enough to find their way out of tide pools when it gets really cold. Her family is loading the ice chest, recliners and umbrella into the station wagon and she's like, "Wait! I suddenly realized why Paul never called me back in the summer of 1983!"

Can't wait 'til Ms. Arieli captures women in traditionally masculine spaces and postures, but I guess there aren't many betting parlors left and there's like zero female models willing to kick a dog. Thanks, Huffington Post!

The tastefulness of hair rides a very thin line. It's attractive, for example, in masses on Alec Baldwin's chest. It's not so hot when there's only one and it's sticking out of your kebab.

"What Not To Wear" Puts 5,000th Woman in Cinched Blouse and Belted Jacket

Today in the New York Times: "Dark and Angry" Teenager Asks Mom To Join Him On Royal Caribbean Cruise

He wasn’t just an ordinary teenager who rolled his eyes and walked 10 paces ahead of me, either. He had grown into someone dark and angry, and when I was with him, I either felt like I was isolated in a psychological freezer or needed to hide in a bunker. He had called me unthinkable names and shattered my heart to smithereens. When he asked me to go on the cruise,

How To Tell If Someone Is Lying

They Speak Formally. Bill Clinton said "I did not have sexual relations" instead of the more familiar contraction "I didn't have...". This is typical of people who are lying; to avoid contractions and use more formal language to distance themselves from the lie.

I'd never heard of this rule until a Headline News anchor confirmed it on TV, again citing Bill Clinton as the gold standard of liars. I don't know how that man ever fooled us with his ridiculously stilted words! I feel like an idiot, being duped with so many tall tales, but with this handy rule I know it won't happen again. In the future I'll be on the lookout for truthtellers using honest words like these:

• Houston, we've a problem.
• We're the world.
• We'll fight on the beaches.
• We're not amused.
• I'll return.
• We're legion.
• I'm Spartacus.
• I've a dream.
• I'm the greatest.
• Don't judge, or you too'll be judged.
• The only thing we've to fear is fear itself.
• I'm what I'm.
• Thou shan't kill.

I don't know why nobody's thought of this before. If you want to build a massive structure, what building material makes the most sense? Wood means chopping down trees. Cement means digging up land. What we need is something that's environmentally-friendly and sustainable, with a supply will never run low.

Hey, how about human bodies?

There's certainly no shortage of human bodies, which is why the Great Cross is such a terrific idea. It'll be length of ten football fields, and eighteen stories tall. It'll be "the largest Christian monument in the world dedicated to Jesus Christ" (are there bigger Christian monuments dedicated to, say, Fozzy Bear?) and will be "easily" visible from space.

And it's going to be a stack of dead Christians.

The Great Cross Alliance is dedicated to constructing the largest, longest-lasting Christian monument in the world. It will be built of columbarium and mausoleum vaults that are available for purchase for you and your family. The Great Cross will be supported by a world-wide community who choose to become part of this beautiful vision dedicated to Jesus Christ.

Naturally the people who propose this massive project have also written the world's longest FAQ. It answers questions like:

• May I Visit? (Answer: Yes!)


• Will Participants Be Identified? (Answer: Yes! We'll glue "Hello! My Name Is" stickers to their feet. Psych! Ever hear of headstones, people?)


• Can I Donate To Help Build The Great Cross? (Answer: No, sorry. Psych! Send us a check.), and


• Where Did The Idea Come From?

The husband and father of the family that developed the concept had three similar dreams between 2007 and 2009. He saw an enormous, gleaming monument in the shape of a cross. The construction was a stack of large, clear glass blocks, each containing the perfectly preserved body of a person in peaceful repose.... [He] realized that such a monument could be a rallying symbol for worldwide Christianity, and a way to preserve the Word of God for a long time.

Got that? It was a vision. Jesus came to him and said, "Look! Stacks of dead Christians encased in glass as a monument to me!" And the guy replied, "Jesus, glass just does not make sense."

Where's the giant cross going to be? I found this map helpful:

Got that? NOWHERE NEAR CHINA. And how is construction coming? Well, see for yourself:

Wait. No, that's right. For a second I thought I got the construction photo mixed up with pictures of my third husband installing our eight-man hot tub.

Despite their divine inspiration, great ideas don't have such a great success rate. The Firearms Museum and Reflecting Pool still haven't been built at The Citadel. In fact, all they've got to show after nine months of fundraising is a wooden shed, but Porta-Potties are on the horizon. Unlike the dead folks who'll make up the Great Cross, its future isn't set in faux-stone.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: The project must reach a critical level of funding before construction can begin. This level is set at the sale of 400 spaces.... Once the critical number of 400 is reached, construction will begin as soon as possible.

Did you see that? I just caught it out of the corner of my eye, but it looked like THE RED FLAG YOU CAN EASILY SEE FROM SPACE.

Mausoleum spaces at the Giant Cross are priced at $25,000 for a single casket. Four hundred of these would bring the builders ten million dollars. When it's finished, the cross "will enclose a volume of 8.6 million cubic meters," which is enough to "contain more than three Great Pyramids," but those first four hundred coffins will total only around 1,300 cubic feet. That's about the size of an eleven-foot cube, discounting the visitor's center or rainbow-refracting observatory dome they might prop on top. Initially, at least, that Christian monument you'll be able to see from space would fit into somebody's dorm room and there'd still be room for a dozen bongs and a "Hang In There, Baby!" poster. You'd drive out to the desert to look at it but it'd be totally be hidden by the World's Biggest Thermometer.

Will it be popular? Beats me. Maybe there are Christians who want to spend eternity piled up with other Christians eighty miles from Reno. But I definitely think it'll be a beacon of hope and source of inspiration to the entire world. I know every time I'll think of that mound of dead people who fall for crazy shit like this I'll say to myself, "Now that is a really good start."

(Via the very busy Joe.My.God)