Though Cyril had lived in America for over twenty years, he'd been born in London. Naturally I was mesmerized by his sexy accent, but quickly learned it came with a down side. Every time he spoke, he said something that made no sense. These odd mutterings were British colloquialisms, I guessed, though exactly how they could have gotten so entrenched in his vocabulary confounded me. I thought they were fun for our first few dates. They were colorful. But eventually I realized they were conversation killers, and, you know, sometimes there are conversations you want to see all the way through to the end.

One night we were discussing art with another couple. "I like Picasso and I like Manet," Cyril declared. "It's all swings and roundabouts."

He looked to everyone for agreement but instead all he got was "Whaaa?" And immediately the conversation swerved from art to "Gosh, aren't British people fascinating?"

I figured Cyril would eventually catch on, but he didn't. For two months I watched every conversation go up in flames. I began to read odd psychology into it. Were idioms just his way of saying, "I'm special!" rather than whatever he pretended to spout? I mean, I learned his Britishisms in about eight minutes, so he certainly should have gotten our language down. His feigned surprise at realizing nobody understood him was certainly wearing thin.

So, I became his translator. He did his little "I'm foreign!" thing, and I followed behind with a shovel, reassuring people that yes, there was a country in the world where what he said made sense. It wasn't fun. I think it was the tenth time I explained to someone that "spend a penny" meant "go to the bathroom" that I realized I wanted to fight back.

I decided to give Cyril a taste of his own medicine. I couldn't make out any kind of pattern to British idioms -- they seemed to be just a random melange of unrelated words -- so I made up American ones. Like him, I threw them liberally into everything I said.

"What do you want for dinner tonight?" Cyril asked.

"Oh, I don't care," I replied. "Really, it's the pig's moustache."

He glanced at me with furrowed brow. "The pig's moustache?" he asked. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It's colloquial, I guess," I said with a shrug. "Kind of like 'swings and roundabouts.'"

"Oh," he said. "Okay. You want to go to a restaurant?"

"Sure, that'd be fine," I replied. "That sounds like an ostrich tango."

I could almost see his eyes narrow. "How about the French place down the street?" he asked. "I hear it's the dog's breakfast, and cheap as chips to boot."

"Absolutely!" I replied. "But let's get a move on. I could eat the devil's dandruff."

From that point on, it was war. Nothing either of us said made any sense. For weeks we spouted absolute nonsense. We'd start a sentence, then finish it with whatever popped into our heads. We both agreed the latest Woody Allen film was the gypsy's jockstrap. Apple-picking in the Hudson valley sounded like an Amish volcano. When he ran into our neighbor at three a.m. she looked like an astronaut's handshake.

Miming words would have communicated more.

Finally, one day he'd had it. He didn't explode. In fact, I'm not real sure what he did, because as usual I understood about half of what he said.

"Roman," he said, "I love you. You're all fur coat and no knickers."

I smiled. I guessed I'd won, but wasn't positive. Instead I decided that change is seriously overrated. I didn't give a fuck what Cyril said, because in my book he was the cat's tattoo.

Asshole of the Day

There's a special place in hell for those online companies where, when you create an online account, they sign you up for a whole bunch of email lists that have to be INDIVIDUALLY unsubscribed.

I'm talking about MTV, of course. Don't give them your email address unless you want updates about the Black Eyed Peas, Carson Daly, and Sponge Bob sixty times a day. You're unsubscribing to Nick Jr. emails? That's one down, eighty to go.

And I couldn't broach the subject without mentioning Facebook. Register once and now you've got pages of privacy checklists to ponder. Can we give your personal information to bowling alley owners in Chicago? No? How about single moms in Detroit?

But the real problem child today is Zagat. I don't know: maybe I entered a contest, maybe I commented on some page, maybe I typed in a restaurant recommendation. Shortly after I got a junk email from them, and when I hit the "unsubscribe" button I read this:


Yes. That's right. I was being unsubscribed from their "Welcome" emails. Isn't that thoughtful? Now that they know I'm not interested, they've got no more "Welcome" emails for me.

Needless to say, they've got other email lists that still include me. When I hit "unsubscribe" on another note I read this:


Sigh. Okay, Zagat, it's on. You keep emailing me, and I'll keep declaring you Asshole of the Day. Do I have to unsubscribe to "At The Table" and "On The Grill" and "Under The Apron" before they'll leave me alone? Stay tuned. I'm thinking it could be some time before I finally get to that "Tears Upon Parting" email list.

Oh. Got it. Under the new business paradigm, Groupon will be valued higher than Connecticut by turning into an online Pic N' Save.

Wow. I'm totally enamored of this new hot librarian calendar, "Men of the Stacks."


I bet Sol would be gentle with my Special Collection.


Something tells me Gabriel could show me some good Faulkner.


Looks like Zach has licked that Dewey -- oh, fuck it, just buy the calendar.

Hope This Helps

Wow, that sounds interesting. Let's click through.

INTERVIEWER: What do you make of the rumors that Cary was gay?

DYAN CANNON: I just want to tell you that part of our life was very fulfilling, so I don’t know. In Hollywood they talk about everyone in some form or another. If that was the case, I never saw any indication of it.

Dear Fox News:

You have a small grammatical error in your headline. Where you write "DENIES GAY RUMORS" you mean "SAYS 'HEY, HE NEVER FUCKED ANY DUDES IN FRONT OF ME!'"

Hope this helps,
RomanHans

Feds Say Rape Requires Va-Jay-Jay

The definition of rape used by the F.B.I. -- “the carnal knowledge of a female, forcibly and against her will” -- does not take into account sexual-assault cases that involve anal or oral penetration or penetration with an object, cases where the victims were drugged or under the influence of alcohol or cases with male victims. As a result, many sexual assaults are not counted as rapes in the yearly federal accounting.

In Chicago, the police department recorded close to 1,400 sexual assaults in 2010, according to the department’s Web site. But none of these appeared in the federal crime report because Chicago’s broader definition of rape is not accepted by the F.B.I.

Got that, chicks? So next time you want to make the federal statistics, convince the dude you give lousy blowjobs.

Um, whaaa? Does she need somebody to help her douche?

Dear Monopoly Player,

Thank you for buying the new Citibank edition of Hasbro's Monopoly. We know you'll enjoy the ease and convenience that come with electronic banking. At the beginning of each game, your Cash Card will be preloaded with $1,500 just for you. Buy properties and pay rent. Pass Go and collect $200. Instead of the hassle and bother of paper money, simply swipe your Cash Card and we'll do the math for you. What could be simpler than that?

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Enclosed is our new eighty-page privacy policy and user agreement. Please read it thoroughly and keep it in your files.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Your balance dropped below the $2,000 minimum, so you've been charged a $80 maintenance fee, as per our latest privacy policy and user agreement.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Congratulations on your recent purchase of Mediterranean Avenue. Since this is a property with a foreign name, you've been charged a foreign transaction fee of $104 plus 18% of the purchase price.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

We notice you bought Ventnor.

If you're in need of financial advice, please call our Customer Service department between the hours of 10 and 4 Monday-Friday CST.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Our security software recently noticed that someone tried to purchase B&O Railroad with your Pre-Loaded Cash Card.

You already own Reading Railroad, so naturally this purchase was flagged as suspicious. As a security precaution, your card was deactivated and your account frozen.

If indeed you tried to purchase B&O Railroad, please call our Customer Service department between the hours of 10 and 4 Monday-Friday CST.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

Baltic? Really?

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

According to our records, you haven't used your Pre-Loaded Cash Cards for eight minutes, so you've been assessed $204 in dormant account charges.

Citibank

Dear Monopoly Player,

We noticed that eight people landed on Ventnor, and you didn't charge any of them rent.

As you know, dude, we earn a small commission on all transactions processed on your Pre-Loaded Cash Card.

So, once more. Try it once more. And in the mean time, watch out for your little dog.

Citibank

When Not To Say "And/Or"

Looking for a good book about human/dolphin love? Well, consider your prayers answered. Wet Goddess is Malcolm Brenner's tale of his affair with an aquatic theme park dolphin. Thrill to how the tempestuous Ruby seduces the reluctant 20-year-old:

She began raking her teeth lightly against my arms and legs which was indescribably erotic.

Wow. I'm sucked in from the first page. That's one dude who wouldn't scream when I blew him. Naturally their relationship turns sexual, as frequently happens when one gets close to somebody who's already lubricated. Of course, it's not always fun and games, like when Brenner and Ruby are playing in the tank and she tries to put her snout through the wrong hoop. But it truly is a tale of interspecies love, as Brenner so succinctly says:

What is repulsive about a relationship where both partners feel and express love for each other? I know what I'm talking about here because after we made love, the dolphin put her snout on my shoulder, embraced me with her flippers and we stared into each others' eyes for about a minute.

Well, I'm convinced, even though this is pretty much what happened the last time I ordered fish in Chinatown.

Sadly, after nine months, the amusement park closed. Ruby was shipped off to another theme park. You can almost picture their parting scene at the airport: Ruby's eyes are welling up, and Brenner has krill on his pants. He heads to a nearby piano bar to drown his sorrows.

"Go ahead, Sam," he tells the piano player. "You played it for her; now play it for me."

The song? "Under the Sea."

Anyway, I just know you'll give the book five stars, like Amazon's average, though some reviewers don't seem entirely sincere in their critiques. (Really, Franklin, a flirty guinea pig?) And for all those readers who despair that they'll never find four hundred pounds of slick cartilage to love, be heartened by an odd little clue.

Yes, there's absolutely zero attitude. Well, except for the "I'm a fifty-year-old man who enjoys serially fucking strangers" thing.

Following a massive public protest, the Chinese government has banned a traditional carnival in which dogs are eaten after being chopped up alive in the street.

Goddammit. And I'd just come up with the most amazing scam. See, I walk up to a stranger and say, "I bet you $5 I can make your dog shake."

When asked for comment, the baby reportedly said, "Yo yo yo, it's all good."

Scientists Decide Bisexual Animals Don't Have A Sexual Orientation

A five-and-a-half-inch deep-sea squid that lives a solitary life up to half a mile down in the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean is the latest addition to the hundreds of species that are known to engage in same-sex sex.

[Dr. Hendrik J.T. Hoving, author of “A shot in the dark: same-sex sexual behavior in a deep-sea squid,"] was prepared for attention to the same-sex behavior and was ready for people to conflate squid and human behavior and announce the discovery of gay squid.

He fended off that notion, reiterating that the squid has no discernible sexual orientation, and that a tentacled invertebrate that shoots sperm into its mate’s flesh really has nothing to do with human behavior. -- from today's New York Times

Sigh. Plus ça change, blah blah. It's weird: Years ago, the entire scientific world announced that animals were straight. Every single one. Penguins mated for life. Geese actually bought each other engagement rings. On the odd occasion when a scientist would catch, say, a couple male dogs going at it, an explanation was immediately offered:

Those dogs are really confused.

I actually wrote to National Geographic when one of their articles declared that seahorses having homosexual sex were simply confused. "How did your esteemed scientists come to this conclusion?" I asked. "Did the seahorses back off when erections appeared, or did they go 'Oops!' afterward?"

Now creatures that fuck anything that moves aren't bisexual: they simply have no sexual orientation. This strikes me as petty. It's like if you show your Dooney & Burke clutch to a fashionista friend, and she says, "You know, if it isn't Louis Vuitton, it's not really a bag."

As we delve deeper into it, we realize these folks are being awfully petty. They raise all sorts of odd conditions to keep the squid from being homosexual. "The squid aren't actually fucking," they insinuate. "They're just shooting sperm onto each other." Oh. Okay. If that doesn't count as authentic sex, then I've been a virgin since January '02. "These aren't people we're talking about: they're tentacled invertebrates."

Dr. Hoving, meet Dr. E. C. Spada:


The Times is unattractively desperate.

[The male squid] pay no attention to the sex of other squid. Understandably so. They live alone in the dark, males and females are hard to tell apart, and only occasionally do squids pass in the night.

"We'd fuck a dude too if it was dark, and we were lonely," they're saying. I'm not sure how they can glom this generalization onto incommunicado invertebrates, though. Somehow they know that the squid aren't thinking, "Hey, here's a hot little dude!" but rather, "Well, at least I found something to fuck!"

In the end, we realize that nothing has changed. The scientists are nuts, the media is nuts. It's the same old story. Animals are hetero until we can't pretend they aren't, but that still doesn't mean they're gay.

They're simply nothing. Nothing at all.

Which doesn't exactly make progress towards gay equality, but I guess somebody's gotta be in the center of the Hollywood Squares.

It's an hour of yelling, screaming, and tears. Haggard totally thought he could trade his wife for a dude.

I'm not sure if you know this, but Bob Seger is an idiot. And you are too, if you hear the song Old Time Rock and Roll
and think anything other than, "Whoa, what a load of crap."

See, the musical statement that song makes isn't quite what you think. Bob Seger isn't standing up against bad music: he's standing on his porch, Hot Pocket stains on his ragged plaid shirt, shaking his fist at all those damned kids.

Old Time Rock and Roll was released in 1978, when there was a lot of terrific music coming out. You know who released records in 1978? The Clash, the Sex Pistols, the Jam, Isaac Hayes, Elvis Costello, Aretha Franklin, Black Sabbath, and Bruce Springsteen. But let's listen to the old man's whine:

Just take those old records off the shelf
I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself

This intro clues us in to the scene. An old man wants to play his records, but he can't reach them. "Please get them down," he's telling a relative or a home caregiver, "and then leave." You think about offering to make him a sandwich, but you're afraid it might start him ranting about the effects of lettuce on an antsy colon.

Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock and roll

I totally agree. You know what 1978 song is like audio Wonder Bread to me? Shaft.

Don't try to take me to a disco

Yeah, dude, you figured us out. We were jealous of you and your four thousand Yardbirds albums. We only played Clash City Rockers full blast on our car stereos because we wanted to scare you into Oil Can Harry's, where a gay dude with his shirt open to the waist would force you to do the Running Man.

Won't go to hear them play a tango

A tango. You know, that's all that Black Sabbath ever recorded, at least until their accordion player died.

Bob, better sit down for a minute. See, nobody's recorded a tango since 1812. Your radio isn't made of Bakelite, by any chance? Somehow it's still picking up signals from World War I.

Anyway, your worries are unfounded. No one's going to make you listen to a tango. Similarly, you don't need to avoid "Never Mind the Bollocks, It's the Sex Pistols" because the quickstep makes your legs sore, and you don't have to burn your nephew's copy of "Darkness on the Edge of Town" because you just can't abide a waltz.

And to everybody who hears this song as a passionate defense of great music, it isn't. It's idiocy. It's your grandpa watching The Wire and saying that no TV villain will ever be as scary as Eddie Haskell. You know the truth, but you're not heartless. You smile. You help him get his records down. If he's hungry, you heat up a can of pork and beans.

But you're always, always ready to go running against the wind.

I totally thought they were kidding when I heard there was a movie called I Don't Know How She Does It.

I mean, that's not a movie title. That's an expression of admiration. That's wishful thinking. That's what Gladys Kravitz screams on Bewitched.

I'm picturing Sarah Jessica Parker in the phone with her agent. "So," he says, "we got possible new projects for you. You interested in reading Fahrenheit 452?"

Sarah waits until the wrought-iron gates open and makes a left onto Beverly Drive. "That sounds like a total downer."

"Yeah, I gotcha. A Brief History of Time?"

Sarah slides up her sunglasses and glances at herself in the rear-view mirror. "I dunno. I mean, how important is my character if they're not even in the title?"

"Okay, maybe you'll like this one: I Don't Know How She Does It."

Sarah slams on the brakes, making the yellow Yugo behind her nearly swerve into a Bentley. "Get that messengered over to me now."

I've spent all morning on it, and I can't think of another opinion that also serves as a movie title. If You Put Catsup On Pastrami You're An Asshole turns up nothing on IMDB. There's no copyright on Dudes In Bow Ties Make Me Wet. No, this is a first: the most important thing to know about this movie is some anonymous person caught a glimpse of Sarah Jessica Parker and just had to express envy.

Yes, Sarah can do it all! She's that fabled woman who juggles a job, a family, and a beautiful home. And, for a short time, you can watch her! Pay thirteen dollars to admire somebody doing something you'll never achieve, before going home to your hovel and staring at the moldy pickles in the back of your fridge.

Sadly, I think this says a lot about chicks: like, they're masochistic. Dudes won't pay to watch somebody do something they'll never manage. There's not going to be a line for I Can't Believe His Fabulous Sex Techniques. No guy would go see He's Just 23, And Already A CEO. You know what movie would make less than Mars Needs Moms? I'm Just In Awe Of His Posture!

Still, it's grossing millions. The audience is totally there. I congratulate Ms. Parker on discovering a movie franchise that can follow her throughout life, and though I'll probably dodge She Actually Remembered Where She Put Her Car Keys, I wouldn't miss She Ran Two Blocks Without A Piddle.

A hunter was mauled to death by a 400-pound grizzly during a hunting trek through the remote wilderness ofMontana.

Steve Stevenson, 39, died after he yelled out to distract the rampaging grizzly from attacking his hunting buddy, Ty Bell, 20, who had shot and wounded the animal.

Bell thought the animal was a black bear when he shot it, he told authorities. Grizzlies are a protected species in the U. S.

The bear had a similar explanation. "I thought they were trout," he said.

Happy birthday to me.

I never really cared about Oprah protégé Dr. Mehmet Oz before, but now I'm his biggest fan. He's the M. D. equivalent of Entertainment Tonight, except instead of saying who looked like a whore on the red carpet he's going to tell you what fruit juice could kill your kids. Hey, I have a hard time tuning out ET when they promise an upcoming Marg Helgenberger story, and I don't know who the fuck she is.

I don't know why doctors haven't thought of this before. If they can make a small fortune peddling health care one-on-one, can't they make a huge one by selling it to the masses? On Tuesday's TV commercials he could easily have come out and said, "Don't drink apple juice!", but he didn't. He said, "Something is very dangerous. Tune in to find out what!" Clearly Dr. Oz isn't sharing his vital health-care information unless you foot the bill. You've got to watch an hour of his TV show, including eighty-four commercials where an animated bear has toilet paper stuck to its ass.

If public health professionals can do it, I think everybody can. Imagine a judge refusing to render his decision until somebody buys $400 worth of World's Finest Chocolate bars. Congress can refuse to vote on something unless eight million people subscribe to Grit. Even priests can get in on the action. "Of course I'll give you communion," they'll say. "But first, who likes my little black dress?"

Anyway, I look forward to more of Dr. Oz in the future. In fact, I hope one day I can afford to be a patient of his, because that's got to be amazing.

DR. OZ: I'm very sorry to say this, but the tests have come back positive. There's something horribly wrong with you.

ME: No. NO! Dr. Oz, what is it?

DR. OZ: You've got . . . to wait 'til I get back from lunch!