The laundromat is packed when Amor de las Carreras comes on. Swarms of multigenerational families cascade across the orange plastic chairs. Grandmas sit and chat while their daughters tend to laundry and the grandkids sprint circles around the place, all activity grinding to a halt the second the show begins. The men stand in the back, hands in pockets.

Since the show is in Spanish, I have no idea what's going on, but it's easy to follow the mood. When everybody's happy, the mariachis play fast. When it's sad, the mariachis play slow. All the women in the room sob. Some of the men even tear up and start to dab at their eyes. Me, I'm not quite as transfixed, rolling my eyes while I fold my clothes. In fact, while the rest of the room is choking up, I'm trying to stifle a laugh. This is the cheapest television show I've ever seen, and I frequently watch CBS.

There's a death scene in a hospital, and I can't take it any more. Evidently the producers have found a place where a woman can die slowly while wearing a low-cut blouse. I laugh out loud and eighty women scream epithets at me. An overweight, middle-aged man with a wispy black beard walks over, takes my arm, and leads me a few feet away. "Sir," he says, "this is our favorite television program. When you laugh at it, you laugh at us."

I heave a sigh. "Oh, please," I reply. "This show is ridiculous. I don't see how you can take it seriously."

"Actually, it's very true to life. We Hispanics are a very passionate people."

"It's ridiculous," I repeat. "And it cost like eight cents to film. When Tia Nina was in that plane crash, the cameraman just shook the camera while showing her looking scared in a big upholstered chair, and then you hear what sounds like somebody dropping a bag of crockery and they cut to a rabbit running through a field."

The man squares his shoulders and his face reddens. "That was very sad," he said. "And there are lots of rabbits in Mexico."

"There have been eight car crashes," I continue, "and every single one happened behind a bush. Car drives behind bush, you hear what sounds like somebody dropping a vase, and then somebody tosses a hubcap out."

The man's eyes tighten and he clenches his hands into fists. "We have lots of bushes in Mexico too."

"Well, it's ridiculous," I say. "It's stupid. Don't blame me if I laugh."

"No, I don't blame you," he says slowly. "And I'd like to continue talking, but so we don't disturb anyone, let's go behind the dryers there."

I follow him. I'm thinking he's starting to see my side, but then I hear somebody drop a big plate and everything goes black.

Moving is hell. I haven't changed my clothes or washed my hair in six days. I'm seconds away from being Benizio del Toro.

This old Italian guy who lives a few doors away dropped by to say goodbye. I've always wondered about him: very religious and old-fashioned, yet whenever we talk he touches me constantly, and points at a lot of stuff in the distance that require his hand moving suspiciously close to my groin. He says he says it's an old Italian tradition that when you move to a new place you bring bread and salt. It's symbolic, he says.

He didn't explain what they stood for, but judging from the Italians I know it's easy enough to figure out. Bread stands for the nourishment you need to live, and salt represents sucking the life juice out of everybody you meet.

I moved to a much nicer place, and stupidly thought the increased rent would be the only expense. Wrong! Now everybody who comes by says I need new furniture. Evidently exposed brick walls and beams don't go with cement block bookshelves. Is that ridiculous? If I'd known, honestly, I'd have found an uglier place. I can imagine how Louis XIV felt after he built Versailles.

LOUIS XIV: So, babe, here it is! My wedding surprise for you.

CATHERINE THE GREAT: Christ, Louis, what the hell did you do? All the gold, and mirrors, and frescos. Now all our furniture is going to look like shit.

LOUIS XIV: Hey look, babe, I spent eighty million dollars on this thing, just to impress you. The building was designed by an Italian count, the frescos are by the finest painters in France, and the mosaics are hand-set by the most skilled artisans in the world.

CATHERINE THE GREAT: Okay, it's beautiful, it's beautiful. (PAUSE) Now give me the fuckin' Sears card.

I don't have internet access yet, so I'm at a pay computer at the laundromat across the street. It's weird: just a few days ago, I thought this place was really sad and hopelessly depressing, full of people who had no ambition, no hope, and no talent, but now I'm finding it's not -- whoops, gotta go. Lupe says "El Amor de las Carreras" is on.

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Repeat Thursday: Sugar Frosted Flake

I'm moving to a new apartment, so it's total bedlam here. In the meantime, here's a classic from the vaults.

---------

I met Trevor bar-hopping one night. He was a few years older than me -- heck, a few hundred years older -- so I tried to lose him, but he was incredibly persistent.

"Come home with me," he said.

"I couldn't," I replied.

"It's just a small penthouse. Ten thousand square feet in Chelsea, overlooking the Hudson."

"I'll get my coat."

Almost instantly we became an item. My usual boring life vanished as I got swept up in a whirlwind of fast cars, expensive restaurants, and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. My mom always said it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one, but I thought it was easier to fall for a wealthy guy. He was cultured. He was refined. He didn't wear underwear twice. How could anybody resist?

A determined, confident lawyer, Trevor leapt into commitment headfirst. Waking up the morning after our first date I found myself alone in a bedroom the size of a football field, walls of glass on three sides. "Had to go to work," a note on the Noguchi table read. "Make yourself at home. See you tonight. P. S. The alarm is on so you can't leave."

Naturally, I was horribly annoyed. I felt like a goldfish in a bowl, a bird in a cage, a Fabergé egg, though I'd only pleased a couple members of the Russian royal family. But as I wandered the endless hallways dotted with tasteful Italian statues, passing room after room stuffed with armoires, wet bars, and Renoirs, I felt my anger fade. By the time I counted bathroom number eight I never wanted to see real life again.

The kitchen was vast and industrial, with more chrome than a Cadillac dealership, and the fridge was stocked like Balducci's. I smeared some brie with caviar and headed to the rec room, where a flat-screen TV covered the one non-glass wall. I'd never let myself be "kept," I decided as I watched a King Kong-sized Julia Child chop garlic larger than my head. But I could be cute and appreciative until chickens colonized Mars.

That first date lasted eight days, with just a quick pause for breath before the second: Trevor whisked me away to his home in the Hamptons. When he hosted a pool party, though, so I could meet his friends, it spiraled straight down the toilet. There were 50 of us: Trevor, me, and 48 other folks who, one by one, either congratulated me on my "catch" or suggested innovative ways to suck the poor sap dry.

"You know what you should do," one attractive man suggested, "is have an early birthday. That way you'll get a present whether or not he lasts until the real thing."

"Make up a sick aunt in Brooklyn," a thin young guy in Speedos advised, "so you can get out occasionally and sleep with someone attractive."

"Two words," a Leona Helmsley-type whispered. "Hot chocolate. It masks the taste of everything from Rohypnol to Beano."

I figured another intergenerational couple would understand, but once December wandered out of earshot May cut to the chase: "Getting him into bed was the easy part," he disclosed. "Now you've got to get into the will."

Eventually Trevor's sister sidled over and took my arm. "I can't believe the hateful things people are saying," she said. I felt like kissing her, but then she glanced over at Trevor, who was flipping burgers in his tiny swim trunks, and guffawed. "I mean, look at that eyesore. You'll earn every penny you get!"

I broke free of her grip and stormed into the house, Trevor toddling close behind. "I'm sick of these people," I said, tears welling in my eyes. "Every one of them thinks I'm after your money. It's like I have to be a gold digger just because I wear ugly clothes, cut my own hair, and buy my cologne from Rite Aid."

That last one froze Trevor in his tracks, so I continued to the bedroom alone. I changed into street clothes, threw my stuff in my suitcase, then cleared my toiletries out of the bathroom. I stumbled outside and got in the limo, but before I could tell the driver where to go Trevor had jumped in beside me, fully clothed.

"I hoped we could ignore the differences between us," I said, "but your friends don't seem willing to try. Why are they so suspicious? Why can't they see us as a couple, as two men in love, instead of old and rich paired with young and for sale?"

"Roman," he said, taking my hand in his, "it's nothing personal. Everybody makes assumptions, rich and poor alike. It's just the way people are."

"That's where you're wrong," I said. "It's the greedy who think we're all after money. It's the conniving who suspect us of plots. It's the backstabbers who think everyone's after them. I'll go hang out with poor, stupid, lazy people if that'll stop me from being insulted."

I don't know why this made me think of McDonald's, but it did. My stomach started growling, so I told the driver to head there, and we rode in silence until the golden arches appeared. "If you set one foot in there," Trevor warned, "it's over between us."

"I know," I said, nodding gravely, "but that's how it's got to be. This is my world. Here, I know I won't be judged."

Trevor followed me inside, resigned to my decision. "At least let me pay for you," he said, "as my farewell gift." I gave him a hug, for the last time inhaling the woodsy cologne that cost more than my education. When I let go, he stepped up to a register and bravely faced the geeky clerk. "I don't want anything, but I'd like to pay for him." The clerk looked to me for my order, punched it in, and read the total aloud, his pubescent voice cracking.

Trevor and I exchanged one final glance. I'd miss him, as strong feelings intermingled with my love of his wealth. But I knew what I was doing was right. Maybe these people weren't rich or fun or creative or smart, and maybe they had to move their fingers in the air to read the menu, but they wouldn't damn someone based on appearance. We were below pride, with our farts and flab and turquoise fannypacks. This Dorothy was back in his Kansas.

As Trevor fished the bills from his wallet the clerk looked at the two of us -- him in his tailored finery, me in my humble attire. His mouth twisted into a scabby pink smile and he scratched the top off a zit. "I love it when folks buy food for the homeless!" he said.

Most of my friends are crooks, which can be a bit awkward for a semi-honest man. I find myself continually wondering, How sociopathic do they have to get before I'll raise a red flag?

My friend Andrew owns a jewelry business, and he hired our mutual friend Charlotte to work for him. Charlotte is a bit carefree and self-centered, to the extent that he fired her two weeks later claiming she stole five thousand dollars worth of gems. "How can you still be friends with her?" he quizzed me. I didn't really have an answer, other than the fact that I couldn't exactly believe everything my friends believed. Like there are ghosts, and karma, and people who can touch their toes.

Lots of people warned me about Stephanie, but she was too exciting to resist. Every week she had another fabulous party, was featured in another national magazine. She started a spa on a shoestring by convincing unemployed people to work for her for free, promising them actual jobs after the place took off. The spa instantly hit the big time but the paychecks never showed, and she just replaced everybody with new rubes as the old ones stormed off. Soon her staff was massaging everyone from Gwyneth Paltrow to the mayor, and the money was rolling in. Like all fads, though, this one eventually faded, and a week after Christmas I got a call.

"Roman," she said, "I'm closing the spa. Can you meet me there at two a.m. and help me strip the place?"

I said sure, despite some reservations. I mean, a lot of people close businesses, right? And she was the owner, so obviously she could take whatever she wanted. We loaded a rented truck in the dark of night, then papered over the windows and left a sign, per her lawyer's instructions, saying she was closed for redecorating. When I finally got into bed as the sun came up I was congratulating myself for being such a good friend. A good friend with a new Persian rug and $1,400 worth of toiletries from her gift shop.

Not two days later she called me. She was moving to another city, in a rather hurriedly fashion, and she wanted to take her car. Since she was also bringing two dogs, though, she needed somebody to come along. "I'll pay for everything," she promised. "And we can stop anywhere you want."

What can I say? I'll agree to just about anything, which explains my carefree expression and resistance to most vaccines.

I knew Stephanie well, so I wasn't surprised when I ended up doing all the driving while she played with the dogs in the back. When we stopped for gas, though, she asked me to pay half of it. When I saw a billboard advertising the best smoked-ham sandwich in Pennsylvania, I headed for the offramp. "WHERE ARE WE GOING?" she screamed. "Who said you could get off the freeway? Am I your hostage or what?"

And that night at our first motel, when I said I wanted to take the car and explore, she said, "Roman, I've got eighty thousand dollars worth of jewelry hidden under the spare tire. You're not taking that car anywhere."

And that's when it hit me. Hi, I'm RomanHans. Count me in among the rubes.

The next morning was somewhat frosty, but then came the coup de gras. Somehow, in an undistinguished part of the south, we drove right past the gates of Dollywood. Right. Past. My jaw dropped. As an ardent lover of kitsch, these were the Pearly Gates. I immediately threw a U-turn and headed for the parking lot. "I'm going to Dollywood!" I shrieked with delight.

Stephanie stared at me blankly. "So, I'm just supposed to sit in a hot car with two dogs?"

I argued. I repeated her promises. I yelled. And I caved in. We covered another two thousand miles without speaking a single word. She actually followed through on one promise, though: after I dropped her off at her new place, she bought me a ticket to fly back to New York.

When I got home, there were hundreds of messages on my answering machine. Evidently Stephanie had left behind a mountain of unpaid bills, and had even stiffed her employees for massages that they'd performed. They knew I was her friend, so they came to me looking for her. The message that really bothered me, though, went a little something like this.

"Hi, Roman," a husky voice said, "my name's Mike. I'm trying to contact Stephanie, and I hear you're a friend of hers. I bought eight thousand dollars in gift certificates as Christmas presents for my friends, and a week later the spa closed down. Needless to say, I'd like to speak to her. If you can give me her phone number or address, I'd appreciate it. I work for the Yankees, and I'd happily give you a pair of season tickets."

To make a long story short, I went for it. I even took the high road and turned down the tickets, though if he'd worked on Broadway I'd be watching Mary Poppins right now. In the end, I decided you should believe everything your friends believe. Now I think cauliflower is awful, Baltimore is fun town, and cave men had dinosaurs for pets.

And my friends know you need to watch your back if you keep a gay man out of Dollywood.

There are many, many reasons why one might like About.com. When I do a Google search, About.com usually turns up in the top ten results, but I think twice about going there. Some people might have ten reasons for not wanting to go to the About.com website, and some might have a hundred, but I have only one.

1. The reason I don't like to go to About.com's website

There's an odd phenomenon I've been noticing more and more recently. People who don't nearly have math degrees from major universities like myself have been making preposterous pronouncements about the odds of certain things happening.

Ryan Seacrest told the 24 American Idol semifinalists that they had a one-in-twenty-four chance of winning the title.

On Extra, Christoph Waltz (of Inglorious Basterds) said his odds of winning the Best Actor Academy Award were twenty percent -- because he was up against four other guys.

When four people were left on last season's Survivor, Jeff Probst announced that whoever won the Immunity Idol would have a one-in-three chance of winning a million dollars.

One in three. News flash, Jeff: Russell, the Cajun backstabber, could win the Kentucky Derby but his chances of prevailing on Survivor wouldn't pass one in a million twelve.

This kind of idiocy is why these people are wealthy and famous, while I can finish medium-difficulty Sudoku puzzles and I have a blog.

See, here are the cold, hard facts: when you're in a competition, the outcome depends more on your ability than the number of competitors. One simple example will show that.

The Dalai Lama and Donald Trump just happen to die on the same day. Both float up to the Pearly Gates where they're met by Saint Peter. "Bad news, guys," Saint Peter says. "We're just about at capacity. In fact, we have room for only one of you."

Trump looks back and forth between the Dalai Lama and Saint Peter. "WOOHOO!" he finally shouts. "I GOT A FIFTY-FIFTY SHOT!"

I'm Not Going to Buy These Pants, But I May Go In For a Fitting

Sigh. Today's rant starts about half a mile down.

Okay, TV commentators, SHUT THE FUCK UP already. Yes, figure skating is gay. Who gives a fuck? It's an incredible sport, whether or not its participants wear spangly fringed ponchos. But no, the Heterosexual Sports Police keep yammering away, saying something has to be done. We can't have a gay sport! All those triple-toe-looping homos need to butch it up, because an effeminate sport is a total embarrassment! Like the audience cares. Like there's really butch dudes sitting in the audience going, "I'm not going to throw my congratulatory teddy bear at Johnny Weir: he's just way too gay!" Well, here's a question for the Heterosexual Sports Police: Which is gayer: figure skating or football?
	Figure Skating	Football
Description	Popular winter sport	A game of inches
Objective	Stellar performance	Penetrate the end zone
Preparation	Skate a lot	Lift weights in tiny shorts while your partner screams "PUSH IT! PUSH IT!"
Uniform	Leather, spandex	Cutoff shirts with shoulder pads
Title holders	John Curry, Viktor Petrenko	Packers, Bears
Popular moves	Lutz, Salchow, Axel	Touchback, Hail Mary, Quick kick
Common mistakes	Falling	Having too much motion in your backfield
Makeup	Maybe a little mascara	Chunky wedge of Maybelline at top of cheekbones
What you do after a good performance	Cheer	Dance with ball
Typical conversation between athletes	"That quadruple loop was massive!" "Thanks!"	"I'm going to make a pass at you!" "I'll be waiting with open arms!"
And in the end:	Smitten teenage girls throw flowers	Time to hit the shower, girlfriend!

FROM the moment it was announced on Feb. 2, Meryl Streep’s 16th Oscar nomination — best performance by an actress in a leading role for “Julie & Julia,” in case your attention has been otherwise occupied — seemed both richly merited and a bit redundant. Of course she would! How could she not?
Does this New York Times opening paragraph make any sense at all? It sure wasn't!

Major Rap Star Frightened by Wizened Old Man's "Vulcan Grip"

Responding to charges that he attacked 72-year-old presidential candidate and grandpa Mitt Romney, rapper Sky Blu released a video today stating he was the victim. Blu sat in front of Romney on a flight from Vancouver to Los Angeles, and reclined his seat before takeoff -- which, as every flyer knows, is strictly forbidden. Mr. Romney "loudly" told him, "Sir, sir, put your seat up," before reaching forward and grabbing his shoulder.

Gordy says in the video that he punched Romney in response to his "condor grip," as a sidekick play-acts the scene and adds: "Vulcan grip."

English Lesson

Today's phrase: "There's more where that came from."

"TMWTCF" is a handy phrase that all students of English need to memorize. You might think that the abbreviated "There's more" would be sufficient for most situations, and the following four words are just extraneous, but a quick examination in context shows why they're required.

Say you're at a dinner party, and you've just had a piece of pie. Your host looks at your plate, nearly licked clean, and he says, "There's more!"

You want to shout, "Oh, yes, please!" but something deep inside stops you. Sure, there's more pie -- but from where? Is this secondary pie of the same quality as the first pie, or just some backup, emergency pie he found by the side of the road?

If the host had used the phrase "There's more where that came from" his guest would be spared the linguistic headache and instead merely has to ponder whether he wants it à la mode.

Other similar phrases, in decreasing order of specificity, are "There's more in that general neighborhood," "There's more of a kindred ilk," and "There's more, but we're fuzzy as to its provenance."

Every time you turn around, Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah song is blasting in your ears. Rufus Wainwright covers it, half the American Idol contestants belted it, and k. d. lang sang the hell out of it at the Olympics opening ceremony. It was pretty spectacular: her crystal-clear tone, her languid phrasing, her perfect diction.

Oh. Oh, we thought.

Oh.

Well, in Cohen's defense, it's not like there's a bucket of rhymes for eighty-syllable words. With every line ending in "ya," though, it didn't exactly strike us as Joyce Kilmer returns. In fact, see if you can tell which of the following lines were written by Cohen and which we made up while we were brushing our teeth.

(1) I tried my best but I just can't outdo ya.
(2) But you don't really care for music, do ya?
(3) I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool ya.
(4) I told her, You can go -- I won't gumshoe ya.
(5) Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya.
(6) When he fights you know he'll really kung fu ya.
(7) But if I did, well really, what's it to ya?
(8) Stay away from Macy's, they'll just muumuu ya.



ANSWERS:1, 4, 6, and 8 are fake.

Run, you stripey bastard -- RUN!

Art Project Answers Question, "What Do Fat People Look Like Hanging Upside-Down?"

Burger King is about to launch a new product called funnel cake sticks. According to Ben Wells, their CFO, they are "uniquely positioned to drive both profitable dessert and breakfast sales."

Yes, that's right: they're either dessert or breakfast. Reason #487 why the terrorists hate us.

Mike Kappitt, one of their Senior VPs, agrees. "Yeah," he says, "we obviously have a lot of activity happening in our pipeline against breakfast."

Okay. Cool. I'll keep an open mind. Note to Mike, though: when you work at a place like Burger King, you should avoid phrases like "a lot of activity happening in our pipeline." Hope this helps!

I never actually believed in anal bleaching. I thought it was an urban myth, like Richard Gere and the gerbil, or Tom Cruise being straight. In fact, it turns out there's a spa in New York where they claim to have invented it, and apparently they have quite a following.

"I didn't know how people were going to react from this unusual treatment," said Enrique Ramirez, owner of face to face nyc, which is a pretty misleading name considering they're not looking deep into their customers' eyes. "I was extremely surprised how New Yorkers especially, reacted to this. I received tons of letters accusing me of being sick!!! Many writers and bloggers made fun of me as well. I wanted to take it back but, I stuck it out and eventually all the negative comments and press went away. I now have a good amount of Anal Bleaching cult following."

So, in the end, was it a smart move or not? "I truly believe that I lost some clients from this. During the Fall of 2007, I was in many Manhattan magazines so I really couldn't hide it. I even removed it from our web site for a few months until the storm ended. A few regular clients did comment in a negative way when anal bleaching was introduced and suddenly they disappeared with no explanation."

"No explanation"? Just as a public service, I'll provide one for the man.

ME: Well, see you tomorrow. I'm heading to the spa.

A COWORKER: That sounds like a great idea. Which spa are you going to? The only one I know around here does that creepy anal bleaching stuff.

The Los Angeles Times thinks that because a sea creature is boneless it will burrow through miles of plumbing into your toilet and bite you in the ass.

Interesting. But, you know, they're pretty much calling jellyfish idiots.

DOCTOR: Roman, I'm going to prescribe some Symbicort for you. I think it'll take care of the problem.

ME: Okay. By the way, I've got a heart condition and high blood pressure.

DOCTOR: What?