Confessions: Movies

In the good spirit of continuing the Spoonful of Secrets series, this entry is dedicated to the movies I wouldn't tell my friends I enjoy watching. And don't worry, none of my true friends care enough to even read this blog. So I guess I'm safe.

So let's get this ball rollin, shall we?

Number 1. When Harry Met Sally. As far as I'm concerned, this is Billy Crystal's defining role.
"Had my dream again where I'm making love, and the Olympic judges are watching. I'd nailed the compulsories, so this is it, the finals. I got a 9.8 from the Canadians, a perfect 10 from the Americans, and my mother, disguised as an East German judge, gave me a 5.6. Must have been the dismount."

Thanks to this movie, I learned at a young age that men and women can't just be friends. Eventually, one of them wants to sleep with the other. Thank you, Billy Crystal. But let us not forget Meg Ryan. Famous fake orgasm scene. Thanks to this movie I also know how to tell one of those from the real thing, too. So thank you, Meg Ryan. By the way, she's still certifiably boneable.

Number 2. The Breakfast Club. Two words: Emilio Estevez. Long before coach Gordon (AKA "The Mighty Duck Man") Emilio was a bona fide badass. Check out this dialog between his character, Andy, and the rebel Bender:

Andy: If I lose my temper you're totaled, man.
Bender: Totally?
Andy: Totally.

And let the people say OOOOOOFFFFF! You don't screw with the Estevez. It's science.

Finishing off the list at number 3 is Dirty Dancing. Why, you ask? The Swayze. P Swiz. What a G. Beyond his superb (questionable) acting skills, he dropped a couple beats on the soundtrack. She's Like the Wind. And I bet you can't find a girl over 17 years old who isn't familiar with the newly-rehashed term, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" The movie had it all, really. Wealthy parents, one bimbo daughter selling herself to the wealthiest man she could find, the good-girl that's really not-so-good, abortion, dirty dancing, betrayal, sex and love. Talk about complexity. And here's the kicker...Jennifer Grey is a babe. And just to end this with a pun, I would definitely put Baby in a corner ;)

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Confessions: Music

First off I'd like to survey the topic of music. Sure, I rock out to Tool and Brand New, not to mention all things 80s. But there's much more to my many-layered musical-onion self. I often feel that music is more me than me, if that makes any sense. But some of it just doesn't seem appropriate to share with my friends, or even complete strangers. While I may well enjoy many such artists, I'd like to now focus on the greatest. Numero uno.

You ready?

Barry Manilow. The man is a musical genius. Sensational, even. In a world of Wu-Tang Clan and Backstreet Boys overnight-phenomena, listening to a little Manilow can really take the edge off. With hits like Mandy, Weekend in New England, and my personal favorite, Ready to Take a Chance Again, it amazes me that some people don't bow to this Manilo-ific legacy.

Number two on the list: Britney Spears. Yeah, I said it. Oops, I did it Again, I mean, it started off as a teenage boy fantasy. Let's be real. Schoolgirl outfit. Hot girl. Bam. Music video sensation. But a few of my cousins listened to those CDs nonstop. It wasn't long before I meandered the streets thinking, "Isn't she lucky, this Hollywood girl?"

Finally, my number three secret music icon is Elton John. I don't even feel embarrassed really. I feel liberated. A lyrical genius. Too many hits to name. The first time I went to third base with a girl, I remember The Way You Look Tonight playing in the background. Is it awkward that I associate nude, interpersonal touching with Sir Elton John? Sure, maybe a little. But I wouldn't have it any other way. I barely remember her name. But those lyrics will be with me forever.

What are some of your musical confessions?

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Confessions: A Prequel

We all have secrets. There are things we like that we don't want anybody else to know we like. For example I wish I had a secret language that only my friends and I could speak and understand. I'm not so much afraid of the dark as I am afraid of sticking my hand down the garbage disposal.

I saw it once in a scary movie and never felt the same.

So I have decided to start a series of confessional entries. It will be my Spoonful of Secrets, one haunting/embarrassing/awkward confession at a time. The topics will not be of explicit, HBO at 2:00 in the a.m. soft-porn nature. Rather, they will be an insight to the things I find myself a closet follower of.

It is my hope that you, loyal readers, will reply with a comment of your closet likes as well. I'll see you soon.

OMG! SOOOO ANNOYING, right!?!?!?

OK, OK, you got me. I'm a texter.

Yep, I said it. For the most part I prefer texting to talking on the phone. SERIOUSLY!! Granted, sometimes talking on the phone is necessary, sometimes it's even enjoyable (albeit rarely and in extremely moderate amounts.) I prefer to avoid confrontation whenever possible.

But you know what really gets my goat?

Do ya?

Over-ecstatic texting. You may be familiar with my already-existing views on text message shortcuts, but this is a little different.

If you are like me - a lost soul with only a passing sense of what's going on around him at all times because you had to move home with your mother, which brought to a very sharp point your already dry, sarcastic sense of humor (so you call it) because you crashed your car into a wall - then you probably have a friend who likes to text even more than you. But that's not so bad.

What gets me is when EVERYTHING they say is SO EXCITING!!!

My example friend, we'll call him Bruce, simply because I don't know anybody with that name and it sounds gangster -- "Hey pretty lady. I'm Bruce. Wanna go back to my mom's place, throw a sock on the door and get this party started?" See, that is irresistible to women, because the guy's name is Bruce. I digress... So my friend Bruce texted me the other day.

Bruce: Hey buddy! What are you doing tonite?? I just got into town, let's hang out later!
Me: ok. call me after dinner.
Bruce: Sweet. We're gonna get CRAZY!

My friend Bruce never gets crazy. He'll have one beer then say he's tired. I know the story. But yet he never fails to get super excited for nothing. If you were to hear the guy speak in person, never once has he gotten THAT EXCITED!!! SERIOUSLY!

But this goes beyond text messaging. At work, where I play solitaire or IM my friends for the good majority of the day, I get instant messages of the same caliber.
Me: Hey, how's your day?
Another person: OMG!!! i can't stand this FREAKING PLACE!! why do i stay?!?!?! and sam called me last night, he was being SUCH an ass!
Me: oh
Them: I KNOW, RIGHT?!?! anyhow, how are you?!?!

Being the largely impatient person I am, that shit gets me really excited, not in a good way. I start sweating, heart beating uncontrollably. I sometimes even pee a little. Why would you do that to me? Why?

Case in point, don't become overexcited with me. I like a good laugh. But if you abuse your privileges you're likely to get a picture text message of my man-piece. It's happened before, and I don't intend to stop any time soon. Exclamation points are for emphasis, not for pissing me off.

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It's cheaper to rent

I don't date. Well, I am not currently dating, I should say. Until about a year ago I never really cared to be in a relationship. You are probably familiar with the adage, "Why buy a cow when you get the milk for free?" But given my life experiences, I have been yielded what I call Chain Vicious, so you can't really blame me. It goes a little something like this.

Meet girl at bar. Get drunk. Random hookup. Random hookup becomes regular booty call. This becomes relationship. Both people are surprised at how fast things have moved, so they start cheating on each other. But still have sex with each other. Without protection. They get knocked up. She starts popping babies out, he starts working double shifts at the local McDonald's to buy milk. They still cheat on each other. One day they may get married. Then again they might not. Either way, they hate their lives and are worse off for having met.

I know, I know...you are probably thinking that's a little extreme. And it is. But my brain has two functions when it comes to the art of seduction.

1.In this mode I tell myself I don't envision the relationship going anywhere, that I am just meeting this girl to enjoy myself, in whatever capacity that may be. I am relaxed, and tend to start these stories off very well.

2.In this mode, I have asked the girl on a date because I have a huge crush and actually found her able to carry a conversation without talking about her best friend Tammy. But I get nervous. Do I be myself? She seems a little conservative, I wouldn't want to offend her right off the bat. But does she want to be offended? Why is she twiddling her hair? Quick, say something funny. No, not that! You bumbling idiot. Great, now she probably thinks you're an idiot. Oh shit, I'm sweating. Uncontrollably. Why is this happening? Look, she's laughing at me. Or was it the joke? Don't be stupid, nobody would laugh at that joke. Welp, you fucked it up. Good job, dummy.

This all takes place in the first 20 minutes or so. So, if I act like this, it's considered a compliment. Remember that you little vixens.

But that's what I think about when I meet a girl I like. I don't wonder why I'm single...these ramblings are plenty of reason. But recently I have thought, hey, maybe I should at least try to date somebody for a while. It always starts that way, then on the first or second date I always get "the feeling." And it is a curse, this feeling. I could be having the time of my life, laughing, making her laugh, intelligent, deep, thoughtful and penetrating conversation and then it happens. Without looking for it I find one flaw I can't let go.

Some more notable flaws of the past have yielded
Rachel: Eyes continuously opened large, like she was ALWAYS surprised
Lisa: a laugh like dolphins mating feverishly
Raychel: Walked to the fullest extent, up onto the tippy toes of each foot, with each step. There's no reason for that
Erin: 1.Had a stupid laugh 2.Didn't know what psychology was 3.Always looked confused
Kim: Used the nose wrinkle when she well shouldn't have. The nose wrinkle is reserved for a select few, at only a select few times. It's powers should not be exercised unless you're a complete bitch or trying to get me in the sack, which, I'm still waiting for...

Anyhoodle, the last time I dated I spent a lot of money and was dissatisfied with the results...she stopped answering my calls. That's when my boss, who annoys me at work but is wise in worldly ways, gave me the motto by which I now abide.

If it flies, floats or fucks, it's cheaper to rent.

Thanks, boss.

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I lost my virginity today

I lost my virginity today. Much to my dismay, it didn't involve whipped cream and assless chaps. It lasted much longer than I expected, and hoped, and ended briefly with my valiant effort gently dismissed.

Today, I went to jury duty.

I have never before been to said duty of jurors. I have received a summons a time or two, but either was busy fighting massive infernos, curing diseases in remote sections of western Africa or keeping Tahoe blue, so I was never able to attend. Until today.

Well, actually my summons requested I call in Monday night to see if I was to be called. But the message told me I was on juror standby (apparently the court system can drag you along for up to five days with this uncertainty). So I called yesterday, and sure as gravity I had to show up today. At 8 a.m.

The courthouse foyer was much like an airport security area, just without the possibility of escaping your cruddy life for a few days. I was directed to a hallway where a line of summons-toting Joe-do-gooders waited to enter "the room." The perky juror summons assembly congregation receptionist badge-taker ladies herded us like cattle into the room - a large, square space with many chairs arranged (permanently) in no particular order. They were half-moon configured with the top of the arc in the back of the room. Random tables and chairs dotted the empty spaces. It was like a puzzle with no answer. So we waited in line - mooo - and waited some more.

After being permitted to sit down I realized I had forgotten my book at home. For the next 20 minutes we watched informational and encouraging videos on the benefits of the "privilege," I believe was the term used, of sitting in a jury. One man, whom I initially considered a vagrant, was clothed in a Coors Light baseball cap, ripped T-shirt, ripped shorts, and completed with the faux pas sock/sandle combination. Really? When I walked by him i caught a whiff of booze. It smelt like this gentleman had enjoyed his 7:30 a.m. martini - judging by his outfit would have constituted a 40 of Natty Ice.

This is how it relates to sex.

Eventually 50 of us are called and we go to the court room. We take a recess, come back, take lunch, come back, take another recess, then at 3:30 I am called to sit in "the box." To me, this sounds an awful lot like dating. No complete exposure. Stop-and-go. Listen to a bunch of shit you don't really care about, all in hopes you win the prize.

Up until that point I had been scheming a way to get out of jury duty. I thought of pretending I was extremely racist or saying that I knew one of the witnesses. But then I decided to man-up. Besides, there were no black people in the courtroom and only one Mexican guy. But he left before I had a chance to insult him. Selfish bastard. That is to say you realize there are heightened expectations, certain attachments that won't easily be broken. So you think about telling a lie, just to test the waters. Always come prepared with an escape plan.

By this time I have heard so many stupid people comparing their life stories to the case and the attorneys explaining in depth how their history shouldn't interfere...whatever. So I tell I can be fair, don't have biases, blah blah, and all seems well. So what started off as a lie has merged its way into the truth. Win-win, right?

Then, two minutes later, the plaintiff's attorney read the words I thought I would never hear, "We'd like to thank and excuse juror number 12." And to tell the truth, it came as a bit of a surprise. But when I really got to thinking about it, I think I was a little sad because I would have rather endured the trial and complained about it than not having to serve at all. And here it is. The two minutes of the most unsatisfying satisfaction you'll ever experience, hopefully. The almighty, "Um, okay. Why don't you get off of me and never call me again" scenario. After all, you probably won't see her again. Nor will you see the jurors. Which is good because she (other jurors) will probably tell her friends you are no good in the box.

Case in point, I lost my jury duty virginity today. It was everything I expected, and not a bit more.

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This one time when I was drunk...

I am a man of stories. Sadly, none of those stories has anything to do with me saving infants from a burning building or dedicating every waking minute of my free time to curing a disease. No, no, nothing of the sort. And with my college days not far behind me, I remember some of those stories quite well.

They usually started off with, "This one time, when I was drunk..."

So, this one time, when I was drunk, I was out with my roommate. We'll call him Dub. Dub and I spent the afternoon at the beach tossin' back a few [many] brewskies. It should also be known that at this time in my life I regularly partook in the activity known to many as "getting stoned." And given the fact (yes, it's science) that smoking pot is often considered a social activity, we were regularly in the company of bikini-clad passerby with just a whiff of that lofty aroma. Anyhow, we befriended two of these young dames and agreed to meet up with them later.

Went home, showered, then went back out.

We, Dub and I, had a couple drinks with dinner and met up with the girls. Turns out, one of them had just had a run-in with her pseudo-boyfriend, not a big deal. Then she told us he had broken into her car a couple days before and was at the bar looking for her...too much drama so we bounced. We unintentionally did a pub crawl and by midnight we were ready to go home. So we hailed a cab.

When we got in the cab, I saw a dark-skinned driver who uttered something with an accent. Being in southern California such as we were, I assumed him to be of Mexican descent.

I'll tell you right now, I am most certainly not fluent in Spanish.

But that didn't stop me. I, in terrible, slurred and broken high-school level Spanish, gave him directions to our house.

Izquierda! No, derecha! Derecha!

Some 20 minutes later we made it the two miles to our house. Dub ran inside to get some cash and I waited in the cab. And I waited. And I kept waiting. So I said, "Es--esppp--espera un minuto, poourrrfavoooor" and ran inside to see what happened. Dub was passed out on the couch, sitting Indian-style, a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. I took money from his shirt pocket, that had apparently been there all along, and ran it out to the cab.

"Lo, lo siiento seniouwwr," I tried to apologize. When I looked in the window to hand him the money, a startling revelation. I jumped back in defense. This was not a Mexican-blooded man. He looked at me and screamed, "I'm Chinese. No Mexican! Chinese!" He ripped the money out of my hand and layed rubber.

To this day I still feel bad. If you ever encounter this nationality-shifting cab driver, please extend to him my deepest apologies.