Two activities sprawled throughout the city last Sunday. The first was the Chicago Marathon, an annual event calling together about 35,000 people from across the globe to race throughout the city. The second activity hosted about 1.5 million marathon fans that spent the morning cheering on friends and loved ones from the sidewalks and rooftops.
I decided to attend the marathon in support of my longtime friend Zak. As he was overcoming a minor injury to his foot and I, a native of Chicago, had yet attended the marathon, it seemed fitting to witness the spectacle.
Arriving in Grant Park as the sun was rising, Downtown Chicago felt more like Times Square at New Years Eve. The bitter winds whistled off the lake to greet the throng as thousands in attendance carried on with their preparations.
The running world is intense and deliberate and perhaps a bit crazy. The Hilton Hotel was jammed with tourists stretching on the floor of their lobby. The smell of the thousands of people, up early to prepare for the race - unwashed, sweating and dirty - was palpable from blocks away.
As the speakers at the starting line blared Bruce Springsteen's "Born To Run", Zak left us small group of supporters and took his place at the starting line. It was 7:45 a.m.; the race started at 8 a.m. Because of the amount of entrants at the Chicago Marathon, Zak didn't see the starting line until almost 8:20.
There were four of us in our support group for Zak. We walked down to State Street. and chose t wait near the 2-mile mark in anticipation of our buddy. Despite it being cold and drizzling and early in the morning, the eclecticism of the thousands littering the sidewalks of State Street provided the heartbeat of the morning. One girl explained the purpose of the plastic noisemaking "thunder sticks" she was carrying while a New Hampshire couple discussed their daughter's marathon resume to us.
There was a palpable feeling of excitement. It was generally quiet considering the thrust of people awaiting the first glimpse of runners. Cowbells were in-hand but not ringing. Whistles hung around the necks of dozens, but none were being used. There was no clapping, little shouting. Not yet.
By 8:10 a.m., the quieted scene on the streets shifted drastically when a group of speeding wheelchair-riding racers blazed down State Street. A bomb of cheering detonated in the streets as the pockets of runners poured in, first in a sparse group of world-class elite followed eventually a steady push of the common populace. After 30 minutes, State Street was littered with the discarded shirts and gloves of overheated runners.
At 8:29 a.m. we saw Zak chugging along. Unbelievably he spotted us, smiled and pointed. Then, as quickly as he arrived, he was gone. With no reason to remain on State Street, we climbed onto the Red Line and headed to our next destination at the 10-mile marker.
We arrived in Old Town pleased with the sudden shock of sun bestowed upon the marathon. It was about 35 degrees outside and we weren't expecting Zak for another hour so we stopped by a nearby friend's house to warm up. Sedgwick Street was trashed with discarded cups, a small casualty caused by the nearly 47,000 gallons of Gatorade used throughout the race.
At 9:49 a.m. Zak jogged past and seemed happy to see us, which was the reason we stood in the cold in the first place. Hours later after the race concluded, Zak told us that his biggest regret of the race was not yelling a request for a sausage biscuit the next time we saw him. We would have totally gotten him a sausage biscuit.
Our group doubled from four friends to eight when it occurred to us that we were going to have to cross Sedgwick Street to get to the train station. This process took us nearly ten minutes to complete. Like a nightmare edition of "Frogger", crossing the normally sleepy neighborhood street filled with marathoners might have been the most exciting moment of the entire race. We made it and headed through Chinatown on our way to the final stretch of the race.
Riding on the train toward the South Side of the city, it occurred to me that the winner, who I later found out to be Robert Cheruiyot, had already finished the race.
Standing on the frigid South Side, at 35th Street and Michigan Avenue, with a bundle of Big Macs squatting in my belly, large speakers were in place with everything from Sam & Dave to The Black Eyed Peas propelling the runners down the final stretch. In an odd turn of events, a volunteer helping with the marathon was given a microphone to encourage the runners. For the most part he did a fine job, but every ten minutes or so he interjected a little taunt into his rotation of well-wishing. In a 45-minute-period he was heard saying, "Betcha didn't think it was gonna be this hard!" or, "It's okay to stop if your knees are hurting." The light-hearted taunting continued when a man holding up a professionally printed banner that said, "Nancy, Will You Marry Me?" was challenged by a hastily drawn sign 30 feet away mockingly suggesting, "Nancy, Don't Do It!" The entire city was alive and jovial, everyone a part of the festivities.
A little more than 23 miles after his start, we saw Zak for the final time of the race at 12:10 p.m. He smiled at the sight of his friends jumping like wild baboons. He was red-faced, perhaps blushing at the attention, perhaps just winded. After 45 minutes of searching face after face for the one that matched my friend, seeing Zak running up 35th Street felt - if only for a moment - as if I had spotted the Pope. He was wet with what I hoped was sweat, but standing there in my winter coat, I couldn't imagine anyone sweating.
I recalled something he told me before the race, "Sometimes you hear about the faster runners - not wanting to slow down - just letting the pee fly. But man, the difference between finishing in 4 hours and 30 minutes or 4 hours and 29 minutes while covered in pee… it's just not worth it."
Zak ended with a time of 4:35:47; roughly two-and-a-half hours after Robert Cheruiyot finished the race and nearly four minutes better than his own marathon time last year. When we saw him back in Grant Park, he sidled up to us bowlegged like a range-riding cowboy begging us for a burrito.
We went for burritos. I couldn't think of a better way to conclude one of the more raucous mornings Chicago provided this year.
Zak was part of a multitude of runners raising funds for the American Cancer Society. This year, he raised roughly $1,800 for his involvement with the Chicago Marathon.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Sunday, October 15, 2006
My Last Will and Testament
I first saw him eating a hotdog at a stand downtown.
Next, he was having a smoke in Millenium Park - alone.
An hour later, he walked right past me on the journalism floor of my school.
A day later he was looking at Jim Croce cds while I was looking at Cher... er, uh AC/DC albums.
Four hours later, he entered the 5th floor bathroom, ten seconds after I did.
He had a poc-marked face and squinty eyes. His hair was greasy black and wavy. He wore a lot of leather. I can't be sure of his name, but he resembled a "Rick". You've seen "Ricks" before, they look dopey, but also kind of troublesome.
When he entered the bathroom I was sure he had followed me in there. I was sure he had come to kill me. I wondered who it was that ordered my assassination. I got goosebumps and had a brief moment of happiness at the thought of my beloved goosebumps being the last sensation I felt before the blade cut me cold.
I don't know why I assumed it would be a knife that "Rick" would use, but that's how I felt at that moment of assured death.
I always thought I'd die in a car crash.
"Rick" finished, and left the bathroom without saying anything to me, pretending he hadn't been following me around for the last two days.
"Rick" was good.
He was cold-blooded.
A real professional.
I was sent home that night realizing that it was only a matter of time before "Rick" or someone like "Rick" finished me off.
I was slick, but not slick enough to duck the Grim Reaper twice.
People need to know where I want all my stuff to go after I'm buried in fate's cold, cold ground. Here's how I want it all divvied:
Armin. Armin will inherit every cd I own (except for Springsteen), as Armin is the only person I've ever met who seemed hateful of every song I've ever loved.
Emily (E:1, my sister). My framed Wizard of Oz poster. I cannot recall ever seeing her watch this film, but she claims it's her favorite. So be it. The poster is hers.
I've also decided that she can have my car. She doesn't really need my car, but giving my sister a car after I'm dead and buried seems like a pretty cool brotherly thing to do.
Emily (E:2). When she and I were dating, I bought a sweet Springsteen t-shirt, circa '84, from eBay. What I didn't realize upon purchasing the medium-sized t-shirt, is that:
Size M in 1984 + 18 years of machine-washed shrinkage = a really small t-shirt that didn't come close to fitting me.
I was saddened and heartbroken. I kept the shirt in the back of my dresser with the assumption that my 12-year-old would one day think it was as awesome as I thought it was.
Alas, one day Emily saw the shirt and wanted to wear it and keep it. To my knowledge she still has it and it remains the single best piece of clothing in her entire wardrobe. She also recently nabbed a Mickey Mouse t-shirt from me, begging the question, why doesn't Emily just go to Urban Outfitters like everyone else?
Emily gets all my t-shirts.
Emily (E:4). Emily will inherit my iPod. She once said that she could name various types of breads for five minutes. "Five minutes worth of various breads", I thought, "Impossible!" And for a brief moment, when she moved away from the traditional breads like pumpernickel and rye and moved toward bagels, I realized that she might actually sit there for five minutes naming bread and my iPod would soon be gone.
She couldn't do it, but in the spirit of her attempt, after I am shived dead in the streets of Chicago, my iPod should go to her.
Also, her taste in music is sorry, so it would only be right for her to inherit music that doesn't make me want to vomit with rage. Giving Emily my iPod is like giving Jerry's Kids a check for $9 million.
Dad. My Dad should get all my DVDs because he either already likes the movies I own, or would like the movies I own should he actually watch any of them.
NOTE: I am hereby excluding 'Reservoir Dogs' from the list of DVDs my Dad may inhereit. He doesn't like 'Reservoir Dogs' and will most likely use it as a coaster or an item with which to level uneven table legs.
Jason. Jason will inhereit all my pants. He doesn't have as many pairs of pants as I do, and so I feel he could get more use out of them than anyone else. Also, I've worn in the butts on each of my pants and I think his butt would look pretty foxy in my pants.
Not that I've thought about what his butt would look like in my pants, or even what his butt looks like in his own pants.
I'm just saying.
Mom. Mom will inherit my 2,000+ Bruce Springsteen records, tapes and cd's. I had planned on being buried with all of them, but as I was typing this will, she informed me of her plans to pull the Bruce cds out of my coffin anyway. My mother is nothing if not honest, so I'm hereby bequeathing all my bootlegs to her.
Zak. Zak will inherit my guitars and musical equipment...
...so maybe one day he might learn to actually play them (rimshot).
For the remaining people in my life, I could never forget any of you... but at the moment, I can't remember any of you. So I've devised a plan. I will enclose a list of my remaining friends and family who I feel would enjoy profiting from my death and see to it that you all receive an invitation to my home soon after my blood is washed away from the streets.
Upon arriving, you will each draw a number. The person who draws the number 1 will get to choose any item from my remaining possessions. The person with the number 2 can choose to either pick another one of my remaining possessions or steal the item Person #1 chose.
Some of you might have played this game during the holidays and called it "Elephant Christmas".
When I die, you will play "Elephant Funeral".
The game continues until each of my 14,000 friends have stolen or chosen something that was once a cherished personal belonging of mine.
For those of you deciding not to take part in my will...well, more for the greedy people.
I, A. Justin Shafer, Sr., am of sound mind and body.
P.S. Don't let my Mom sell my Bruce records on eBay. I'm convinced she'll get ripped off.
Next, he was having a smoke in Millenium Park - alone.
An hour later, he walked right past me on the journalism floor of my school.
A day later he was looking at Jim Croce cds while I was looking at Cher... er, uh AC/DC albums.
Four hours later, he entered the 5th floor bathroom, ten seconds after I did.
He had a poc-marked face and squinty eyes. His hair was greasy black and wavy. He wore a lot of leather. I can't be sure of his name, but he resembled a "Rick". You've seen "Ricks" before, they look dopey, but also kind of troublesome.
When he entered the bathroom I was sure he had followed me in there. I was sure he had come to kill me. I wondered who it was that ordered my assassination. I got goosebumps and had a brief moment of happiness at the thought of my beloved goosebumps being the last sensation I felt before the blade cut me cold.
I don't know why I assumed it would be a knife that "Rick" would use, but that's how I felt at that moment of assured death.
I always thought I'd die in a car crash.
"Rick" finished, and left the bathroom without saying anything to me, pretending he hadn't been following me around for the last two days.
"Rick" was good.
He was cold-blooded.
A real professional.
I was sent home that night realizing that it was only a matter of time before "Rick" or someone like "Rick" finished me off.
I was slick, but not slick enough to duck the Grim Reaper twice.
People need to know where I want all my stuff to go after I'm buried in fate's cold, cold ground. Here's how I want it all divvied:
Armin. Armin will inherit every cd I own (except for Springsteen), as Armin is the only person I've ever met who seemed hateful of every song I've ever loved.
Emily (E:1, my sister). My framed Wizard of Oz poster. I cannot recall ever seeing her watch this film, but she claims it's her favorite. So be it. The poster is hers.
I've also decided that she can have my car. She doesn't really need my car, but giving my sister a car after I'm dead and buried seems like a pretty cool brotherly thing to do.
Emily (E:2). When she and I were dating, I bought a sweet Springsteen t-shirt, circa '84, from eBay. What I didn't realize upon purchasing the medium-sized t-shirt, is that:
Size M in 1984 + 18 years of machine-washed shrinkage = a really small t-shirt that didn't come close to fitting me.
I was saddened and heartbroken. I kept the shirt in the back of my dresser with the assumption that my 12-year-old would one day think it was as awesome as I thought it was.
Alas, one day Emily saw the shirt and wanted to wear it and keep it. To my knowledge she still has it and it remains the single best piece of clothing in her entire wardrobe. She also recently nabbed a Mickey Mouse t-shirt from me, begging the question, why doesn't Emily just go to Urban Outfitters like everyone else?
Emily gets all my t-shirts.
Emily (E:4). Emily will inherit my iPod. She once said that she could name various types of breads for five minutes. "Five minutes worth of various breads", I thought, "Impossible!" And for a brief moment, when she moved away from the traditional breads like pumpernickel and rye and moved toward bagels, I realized that she might actually sit there for five minutes naming bread and my iPod would soon be gone.
She couldn't do it, but in the spirit of her attempt, after I am shived dead in the streets of Chicago, my iPod should go to her.
Also, her taste in music is sorry, so it would only be right for her to inherit music that doesn't make me want to vomit with rage. Giving Emily my iPod is like giving Jerry's Kids a check for $9 million.
Dad. My Dad should get all my DVDs because he either already likes the movies I own, or would like the movies I own should he actually watch any of them.
NOTE: I am hereby excluding 'Reservoir Dogs' from the list of DVDs my Dad may inhereit. He doesn't like 'Reservoir Dogs' and will most likely use it as a coaster or an item with which to level uneven table legs.
Jason. Jason will inhereit all my pants. He doesn't have as many pairs of pants as I do, and so I feel he could get more use out of them than anyone else. Also, I've worn in the butts on each of my pants and I think his butt would look pretty foxy in my pants.
Not that I've thought about what his butt would look like in my pants, or even what his butt looks like in his own pants.
I'm just saying.
Mom. Mom will inherit my 2,000+ Bruce Springsteen records, tapes and cd's. I had planned on being buried with all of them, but as I was typing this will, she informed me of her plans to pull the Bruce cds out of my coffin anyway. My mother is nothing if not honest, so I'm hereby bequeathing all my bootlegs to her.
Zak. Zak will inherit my guitars and musical equipment...
...so maybe one day he might learn to actually play them (rimshot).
For the remaining people in my life, I could never forget any of you... but at the moment, I can't remember any of you. So I've devised a plan. I will enclose a list of my remaining friends and family who I feel would enjoy profiting from my death and see to it that you all receive an invitation to my home soon after my blood is washed away from the streets.
Upon arriving, you will each draw a number. The person who draws the number 1 will get to choose any item from my remaining possessions. The person with the number 2 can choose to either pick another one of my remaining possessions or steal the item Person #1 chose.
Some of you might have played this game during the holidays and called it "Elephant Christmas".
When I die, you will play "Elephant Funeral".
The game continues until each of my 14,000 friends have stolen or chosen something that was once a cherished personal belonging of mine.
For those of you deciding not to take part in my will...well, more for the greedy people.
I, A. Justin Shafer, Sr., am of sound mind and body.
P.S. Don't let my Mom sell my Bruce records on eBay. I'm convinced she'll get ripped off.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
The Case Against Kate
Several nights ago, I got into a blowout with Emily.* It was a bad blowout. I don't find myself getting into many large arguments with anyone, but when I do, rest assured the argument will be about something both completely useless and silly.
Case in point: my argument with Emily mostly focused on the general merits of Evangeline Lilly's character "Kate" on the popular ABC drama 'Lost.' Emily and I didn't simply disagree: we raised our voices, caused internal bleeding, knocked a few teeth out, yanked on some hair, I even caught a .22 caliber bullet in the outer thigh and I was so mad when it happened, I didn't even feel it.
It got crazy.
But I've cooled down since then and in the spirit of both closure and fair journalism, I'd like to present Emily's main arguments as evenly and accurately as I can while offering my own rebuttals wherever appropriate.
I should warn those of you continuing to read, that this might not be your favorite blog if you don't follow the show. I promise to write another embarrassing anecdote about my childhood, quirky recounting of some drunk night I recently had, or my subjective insights on what makes women so damn confusing, in a blog coming soon.
Anyway, here's what went down:
* * * * * * * *
1. Evangeline Lilly cannot act.
I will start off with Emily's fairest point. I too agree that Evengeline Lilly strikes more of a physical chord than an emotional one. I'm still not sure why the producers of the show trekked all the way to Canada to find a 27-year-old actress with buck teeth and dimples. She must know someone important. Which is interesting because I was unaware that anyone important would ever befriend a Canadian.
Counterpoint: I know I said that I agree with Emily's assessment of Evangeline Lilly's acting chops, but I also feel compelled to say that judging acting is a subjective activity. I don't think Matthew Fox ("Jack"), or Josh Holloway ("Sawyer") are particularly subtle actors either and they share the bulk of the screentime with Lilly - which is a point of contention with Emily, as you will soon learn.
2. Kate is too young to be with either Sawyer or Jack.
Emily felt that Kate was cast too young. Her feelings of the character's age come into play for two reasons. The first because of the 40-year old Fox and the 37-year-old Holloway they've cast as her romantic counterparts. The second reason being due to her abilities. Kate is too good at tracking, fighting and so-on to only be a 27-year-old woman.
Counterpoint: As far as the romantic angle goes, you should probably ask Catherine Zeta-Jones, Lara Flynn-Boyle, Calista Flockhart or the millions of other women highly attracted to older guys, to get a feel for how much sense that argument makes.As far as her ability exceeding her age... I can conceed that Emily's got a point. We just don't know a whole helluva lot about Kate. I interjected the point (after I pulled a few of the hair extensions out of her head but right before she popped a cap in my thigh) that we don't really have a definitive idea why Locke is so good at tracking and hunting, we don't really know why Michael's experience as a structural architect translates into building a boat (or even thinking he could) and therefore not knowing why Kate can do the things she can, shouldn't be much of a stumbling block.
3. There are three main characters, Kate is one of them and she doesn't deserve to be.
So what has Kate done to deserve going on the numerous expeditions into the jungle? Locke is the hunter, Jack is the doctor, Sayid knows the ways of war.
Kate has freckles.
She only gets to play with the big dogs because the big dogs think she's foxy.
Counterpoint: Okay. But within the context of the show, her forcing her way into the group is all the proof I need that she belongs there. She's rough(ish) and tough(ish). Maybe we're not satisfied with these characteristics, but nevertheless they are her characteristics.
I'm not happy with the musician's main characteristic being that he's hooked on drugs, nor do I like the fact that the one fat guy on the island most wants to please everyone. But hey, it's their show, not mine.
I realized after last night's episode that Kate is a liability.** I can no longer deny it. If I were heading into the jungle and we were doing grade-school "pick 'em" to decide who went, Kate would be picked only before Hurley, because Hurley is fat and the fat kids always got picked last.
What was I saying?
Oh yeah. Kate.
She's a liability, but she's also clever. Emily seemed to be fooling herself into thinking that we don't live in a world where men do things they don't want to do because a woman is nearby.
Adam's BIG tip of the day: EVERY male over the age of 12 has done something they wouldn't normally do because of a girl or woman.
So you can be upset that Jack lets Kate tag along because she's cute, but if it's not realistic that a 27-year-old woman knows how to track and detect boobytraps, how realistic would it be for guys not to give a little leaway toward pretty girls?
Your beef is with the world, not with 'Lost'.
4. The female characters on 'Lost' are either boring or secondary.
Kate is the only main female character and she's mysterious (i.e.: boring). Every other woman - well-written as they may be - lingers on the fringes.
Counterpoint: A funny rebuttal to this would be to suggest that women, in real life, are either boring or secondary, but I'd get in big trouble with too many people to make the joke worth it.
So for the record, I never made that joke.
I cannot prove it, but having watched the bulk of season 2 within the span of a month, I feel confident that Ana-Lucia had more airtime than Kate did last year.
But this is neither here nor there because we're moving into complaining about
the show itself, which is an exercise that doesn't make a whole lot of sense considering both Emily and I really like this show.
5. Kate's backstory is cliche.
I discussed this point with my friends Zak and Jason. Zak tended to agree with Emily's assessment that Kate just doesn't have a whole lot going on. Which isn't to suggest that every character in 'Lost' has an amazing backstory, but Kate's is particularly foggy.
Counterpoint: I haven't got a counterpoint to this one. I can tell you two things. 1) I find Evangeline Lilly attractive. 2) Kate is one of my least favorite characters on the show. And the only reason thing #2 could exist in spite of thing #1 is because the writers are doing a bad job creating the character of Kate.
So Emily wins this one (and Zak too, I suppose).
6. Kate would never get undressed as she did in Episode 1 of Season 3.
In the first episode of the third season, Kate is told by a memeber of "The Others" to strip, shower and put on a pretty dress that they've picked out for her. Emily's argument is that someone as supposedly stubborn and headstrong as Kate would never get naked in that situation.
Counterpoint: This was the origin of our fight. And although in time, I've come to agree with much of what she was saying, (which I regret not doing sooner, as it would have saved me some orthodontia and a stab wound) I remain steadfast that the writers of 'Lost' weren't out of line with this one. There was a brief shot of Kate's nude back, followed by a scene or two of her with wet hair. And when you consider that Eko, Sawyer and Jin are quite often without shirts, a little wet hair doesn't seem chauvenistic at all.
And if it's not her implied nudity that Emily was truly upset about but the character's decision-making... well, Kate is stubborn and head-strong, but she's also intelligent enough to understand that "The Others" aren't playin' around. Kate could have refused to strip, but they more'n likely would have hurt her, maybe knocked her out and stripped her themselves. I believe someone like Kate would have thought about that and felt nude consiousness was way better than nude unconsiousness.
7. Women aren't jealous of good looking actresses, they just hate watching them use their physical appearance.
This is probably a hot button topic for many women watching television these days. Emily continually defended herself against being jealous of Kate. She maintained that she disliked Kate for many reasons that were earned, not just by being pretty.
Counterpoint: Yeah, Evangeline Lilly is pretty. So is Emilie de Ravin and Michelle Rodriguez. But it's important to note that Josh Holloway and Matthew Fox and Dominic Monaghan are also attractive. They're just as good looking as those actresses and they don't bother (nor enhance... ahem) my enjoyment of the show.
Adam's BIG tip of the day (numero dos): people on television are by-and-large attractive. When's the last time you were in a hospital and saw anyone as good-looking as those 'Grey's Anatomy' jerks, huh? When I brought this idea up to Emily, she quieted and inquired as to whether I was being difficult or if I really didn't see a difference between male and female portrayals on television and film.
Yeah.
I get it.
But I think most women need to shift their outlook a little. Woman just have to have a certain body type to compete with other women. We men, contrarily, don't get off so easy. We can be pudgy or bald or short and women still like us.
Why?
Because women seem to care about personality more.
You women can do stomach crunches or apply eyeliner to seem more attractive. But not us, no, no. We dudes can't just hit the gym, we have to work on our entire being; who we are on the inside! Do you hear me? The inside!
I'd rather do a pushup or two. You women should consider yourself lucky.
* * * * * * * *
So what have I learned from all this? I've learned that Emily made several good points that I completely tuned out because of my annoyance. That's half her fault and half mine.
I've learned that Kate really is a weak character. The good news is that I'm not such a "man" that I allow my attraction to get in the way of my honest assessment of her.
I'm also not such a "man" that I cannot admit when I have been convinced by the opposition.
But I cannot and will not conceed that Kate is only in a state of prominence on that show because she is cute. Men just don't pay attention to that kind of thing. We don't really even notice beauty if the plot is compelling enough. And I won't stand for anyone claiming otherwise.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to catch up on old episodes of 'The Gilmore Girls', 'Laguna Beach' and 'America's Next Top Model'.
================================================================
* Usually I create an alias for anyone written about in my blogs, but as I know over a dozen Emilys, it seems fairly safe to keep this blog as is.
** Kate got a gun pulled on her and hindered Sawyer from gaining control of the situation. If you've seen all the episodes up until this point, you'll realize that Kate always seems to get a gun turned on her, which makes the boys stop whatever maneuvering they were doing. This has happened about nine times in 2-plus seasons.
Case in point: my argument with Emily mostly focused on the general merits of Evangeline Lilly's character "Kate" on the popular ABC drama 'Lost.' Emily and I didn't simply disagree: we raised our voices, caused internal bleeding, knocked a few teeth out, yanked on some hair, I even caught a .22 caliber bullet in the outer thigh and I was so mad when it happened, I didn't even feel it.
It got crazy.
But I've cooled down since then and in the spirit of both closure and fair journalism, I'd like to present Emily's main arguments as evenly and accurately as I can while offering my own rebuttals wherever appropriate.
I should warn those of you continuing to read, that this might not be your favorite blog if you don't follow the show. I promise to write another embarrassing anecdote about my childhood, quirky recounting of some drunk night I recently had, or my subjective insights on what makes women so damn confusing, in a blog coming soon.
Anyway, here's what went down:
* * * * * * * *
1. Evangeline Lilly cannot act.I will start off with Emily's fairest point. I too agree that Evengeline Lilly strikes more of a physical chord than an emotional one. I'm still not sure why the producers of the show trekked all the way to Canada to find a 27-year-old actress with buck teeth and dimples. She must know someone important. Which is interesting because I was unaware that anyone important would ever befriend a Canadian.
Counterpoint: I know I said that I agree with Emily's assessment of Evangeline Lilly's acting chops, but I also feel compelled to say that judging acting is a subjective activity. I don't think Matthew Fox ("Jack"), or Josh Holloway ("Sawyer") are particularly subtle actors either and they share the bulk of the screentime with Lilly - which is a point of contention with Emily, as you will soon learn.
2. Kate is too young to be with either Sawyer or Jack.
Emily felt that Kate was cast too young. Her feelings of the character's age come into play for two reasons. The first because of the 40-year old Fox and the 37-year-old Holloway they've cast as her romantic counterparts. The second reason being due to her abilities. Kate is too good at tracking, fighting and so-on to only be a 27-year-old woman.
Counterpoint: As far as the romantic angle goes, you should probably ask Catherine Zeta-Jones, Lara Flynn-Boyle, Calista Flockhart or the millions of other women highly attracted to older guys, to get a feel for how much sense that argument makes.As far as her ability exceeding her age... I can conceed that Emily's got a point. We just don't know a whole helluva lot about Kate. I interjected the point (after I pulled a few of the hair extensions out of her head but right before she popped a cap in my thigh) that we don't really have a definitive idea why Locke is so good at tracking and hunting, we don't really know why Michael's experience as a structural architect translates into building a boat (or even thinking he could) and therefore not knowing why Kate can do the things she can, shouldn't be much of a stumbling block.
3. There are three main characters, Kate is one of them and she doesn't deserve to be.So what has Kate done to deserve going on the numerous expeditions into the jungle? Locke is the hunter, Jack is the doctor, Sayid knows the ways of war.
Kate has freckles.
She only gets to play with the big dogs because the big dogs think she's foxy.
Counterpoint: Okay. But within the context of the show, her forcing her way into the group is all the proof I need that she belongs there. She's rough(ish) and tough(ish). Maybe we're not satisfied with these characteristics, but nevertheless they are her characteristics.
I'm not happy with the musician's main characteristic being that he's hooked on drugs, nor do I like the fact that the one fat guy on the island most wants to please everyone. But hey, it's their show, not mine.
I realized after last night's episode that Kate is a liability.** I can no longer deny it. If I were heading into the jungle and we were doing grade-school "pick 'em" to decide who went, Kate would be picked only before Hurley, because Hurley is fat and the fat kids always got picked last.
What was I saying?
Oh yeah. Kate.
She's a liability, but she's also clever. Emily seemed to be fooling herself into thinking that we don't live in a world where men do things they don't want to do because a woman is nearby.
Adam's BIG tip of the day: EVERY male over the age of 12 has done something they wouldn't normally do because of a girl or woman.
So you can be upset that Jack lets Kate tag along because she's cute, but if it's not realistic that a 27-year-old woman knows how to track and detect boobytraps, how realistic would it be for guys not to give a little leaway toward pretty girls?
Your beef is with the world, not with 'Lost'.
4. The female characters on 'Lost' are either boring or secondary.
Kate is the only main female character and she's mysterious (i.e.: boring). Every other woman - well-written as they may be - lingers on the fringes.
Counterpoint: A funny rebuttal to this would be to suggest that women, in real life, are either boring or secondary, but I'd get in big trouble with too many people to make the joke worth it.So for the record, I never made that joke.
I cannot prove it, but having watched the bulk of season 2 within the span of a month, I feel confident that Ana-Lucia had more airtime than Kate did last year.
But this is neither here nor there because we're moving into complaining about
the show itself, which is an exercise that doesn't make a whole lot of sense considering both Emily and I really like this show.5. Kate's backstory is cliche.
I discussed this point with my friends Zak and Jason. Zak tended to agree with Emily's assessment that Kate just doesn't have a whole lot going on. Which isn't to suggest that every character in 'Lost' has an amazing backstory, but Kate's is particularly foggy.
Counterpoint: I haven't got a counterpoint to this one. I can tell you two things. 1) I find Evangeline Lilly attractive. 2) Kate is one of my least favorite characters on the show. And the only reason thing #2 could exist in spite of thing #1 is because the writers are doing a bad job creating the character of Kate.
So Emily wins this one (and Zak too, I suppose).
6. Kate would never get undressed as she did in Episode 1 of Season 3.
In the first episode of the third season, Kate is told by a memeber of "The Others" to strip, shower and put on a pretty dress that they've picked out for her. Emily's argument is that someone as supposedly stubborn and headstrong as Kate would never get naked in that situation.
Counterpoint: This was the origin of our fight. And although in time, I've come to agree with much of what she was saying, (which I regret not doing sooner, as it would have saved me some orthodontia and a stab wound) I remain steadfast that the writers of 'Lost' weren't out of line with this one. There was a brief shot of Kate's nude back, followed by a scene or two of her with wet hair. And when you consider that Eko, Sawyer and Jin are quite often without shirts, a little wet hair doesn't seem chauvenistic at all.
And if it's not her implied nudity that Emily was truly upset about but the character's decision-making... well, Kate is stubborn and head-strong, but she's also intelligent enough to understand that "The Others" aren't playin' around. Kate could have refused to strip, but they more'n likely would have hurt her, maybe knocked her out and stripped her themselves. I believe someone like Kate would have thought about that and felt nude consiousness was way better than nude unconsiousness.
7. Women aren't jealous of good looking actresses, they just hate watching them use their physical appearance.
This is probably a hot button topic for many women watching television these days. Emily continually defended herself against being jealous of Kate. She maintained that she disliked Kate for many reasons that were earned, not just by being pretty.
Counterpoint: Yeah, Evangeline Lilly is pretty. So is Emilie de Ravin and Michelle Rodriguez. But it's important to note that Josh Holloway and Matthew Fox and Dominic Monaghan are also attractive. They're just as good looking as those actresses and they don't bother (nor enhance... ahem) my enjoyment of the show.
Adam's BIG tip of the day (numero dos): people on television are by-and-large attractive. When's the last time you were in a hospital and saw anyone as good-looking as those 'Grey's Anatomy' jerks, huh? When I brought this idea up to Emily, she quieted and inquired as to whether I was being difficult or if I really didn't see a difference between male and female portrayals on television and film.
Yeah.
I get it.
But I think most women need to shift their outlook a little. Woman just have to have a certain body type to compete with other women. We men, contrarily, don't get off so easy. We can be pudgy or bald or short and women still like us.
Why?
Because women seem to care about personality more.
You women can do stomach crunches or apply eyeliner to seem more attractive. But not us, no, no. We dudes can't just hit the gym, we have to work on our entire being; who we are on the inside! Do you hear me? The inside!
I'd rather do a pushup or two. You women should consider yourself lucky.
* * * * * * * *
So what have I learned from all this? I've learned that Emily made several good points that I completely tuned out because of my annoyance. That's half her fault and half mine.
I've learned that Kate really is a weak character. The good news is that I'm not such a "man" that I allow my attraction to get in the way of my honest assessment of her.
I'm also not such a "man" that I cannot admit when I have been convinced by the opposition.
But I cannot and will not conceed that Kate is only in a state of prominence on that show because she is cute. Men just don't pay attention to that kind of thing. We don't really even notice beauty if the plot is compelling enough. And I won't stand for anyone claiming otherwise.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to catch up on old episodes of 'The Gilmore Girls', 'Laguna Beach' and 'America's Next Top Model'.
================================================================
* Usually I create an alias for anyone written about in my blogs, but as I know over a dozen Emilys, it seems fairly safe to keep this blog as is.
** Kate got a gun pulled on her and hindered Sawyer from gaining control of the situation. If you've seen all the episodes up until this point, you'll realize that Kate always seems to get a gun turned on her, which makes the boys stop whatever maneuvering they were doing. This has happened about nine times in 2-plus seasons.
Monday, October 9, 2006
The First Date Curse
I have only two rules for anyone going on a first date. The first rule is never go for fondue. Fondue, although both fun and delicious, is a guaranteed 3-hour endeavor. Eating for hours on end is fine if you already know you enjoy your date's company, but more often than not, you don't already know that.
The second rule is always, always, always have a backup.
Having gone on another first date three nights ago, I mustered only enough wherewithal to comply with one of the two rules. This should come as no surprise though, as I am absolutely cursed, first date-wise.
There really shouldn't have been any problems. This girl, we'll name her "Amelia" for the sake of confidentiality, and I have been getting to know each other since mid-July. Frankly, this first date was a mere formality. More a romantic gesture of tradition than an honest attempt at wooing. And I think perhaps, that is why I muffed it all up, because I pressured myself into making the night more important than it needed to be.
The entire day started with me trekking to various clothing retailers in hopes of sprucing up my already topnotch wardrobe.* But if you know me, you know that I really should not be shopping alone.
Whether it be my sister, my mother, or a gal-pal, I need help.
And after an hour-and-a-half of staring at three versions of a wool pullover while the an Asian wearing pants more expensive than my car (but no less worn out) sniggered at my indecisiveness, I decided to bite the bullet and buy some threads that were way too nice for the pile of dirty laundry they would inevitably find themselves sitting on in 24 hours.
I have to admit, I ended up seeking help. Not from the smug Asian, but from a kindly young lady who was either five years younger than me or a decade older - these days I can never tell.
Within four minutes of soliciting her help, this girl managed to mention her boyfriend and her boyfriend's taste in clothing no less than two dozen times. Should I have been offended by this? Did she think I was hitting on her? Is that why she kept "dropping the BF" on me? And how can asking a retail employee her opinion on the clothes she's trained to peddle constitute hitting on her? And if she didn't think I was hitting on her, was she trying to make me jealous?
And if she was, are the rest of you women that Goddamned obtuse?
I'm sorry. I don't like shopping. It makes me cranky.
I should have known. I've had several "first-dates" before and something bad happened on all of them.
There was the first date where I spilled fetuccini sauce all over my white shirt three minutes after dinner was served.
There was the first date I got a ticket for running a red light while borrowing my friend's car. His dad ended up paying that ticket.
There was the first date that simply happened without much planning and my girlfriend's sister ended up going to the movies with us.
There was the first date where the restaurant I chose was in such an odd part of town that we were forced to take a cab, and the cab driver went apeshit on some dude walking in front of him.
First dates and I rarely align correctly.
But last night was going to be different. Last night I was going to take Amelia to one of my favorite restaurants in the city, a safe place. A comfortable place...
...A place that had apparently gone out of business since the last time I had been there two years ago.
A little hint about first dates, if you ever find yourself standing on the corner of Rush Street and Ohio Avenue without any clue as to where to go, and the person accompanying you is slightly cold, wearing heels and seconds away from being offered a piggyback ride as appeasement - you've failed the planning stages of the date.
Rule #2: always, always, always have a backup.
More than once, Amelia suggested that we forgo all other plans and just head over to ESPN Zone.
I've had bad dates, but never "settle-for-ESPN-Zone-bad".
Pissed at Google for giving me the address of a restaurant that no longer exists, we made a mad scurry back to the parking lot, got my car, paid six bucks to, in essence, walk around the downtown area for twenty minutes, high-tailed it to the exact opposite side of town (because in my fury, I was blind to all other nice rerstaurants in the vacinity) and proceeded to lose my f-ing mind in the forty minutes it took me to find my way to my backup restaurant.
Then, for reasons I could not explain even during the moment, I decided that even though we were a block away from the new restaurant, now would be a good time to take a gander at the school I attended when I was young. I drove past the restaurant and down another series of streets and in my head, I'm screaming, "Asshole, you were supposed to eat forty minutes ago, you've been a sourpuss for the last fifteen minutes, you've gotten lost three times on the way over here and now... now you're deciding to whizz past your old elementary school, wherein you will most likely get turned around and cost you both another forty minutes of aimless driving?"
That's what I said in my head, but outwardly, I drove on in silence.
I am not a smart man.
We found my school, drove into the parking lot, saw two people engaging in some sort of shady doings at the playground, and I quickly drove off. At this point, I started feeling like DeNiro in 'Taxi Driver' when he took Cybil Shepard to the porno theater only to realize that girls don't feel comfortable in porno theaters.
"Oh, I'm sorry Amelia. You mean, you'd rather not see two junkies shootin' dice on the grounds of my elementary school? Oh. Okay. My mistake. I thought it'd make a nice apertif to our meal."
Then got lost for another twenty minutes just like my inner thoughts assumed I would.
For the sake of this blog, I'd like to continue relaying how poorly this supposed slam-dunk of a date ended up. For the sake of this blog, I'd like to tell you that Amelia was cold and bitter and that I cried while searching for a parking spot. I'd like to tell you that I spilled hot butter on my pants and cried about that too. I'd like to tell you that the waiter hit on my date and swept her off her feet. I'd like to tell you that a hobo robbed me of my wallet and shoes while I headed back to my car alone.
For the sake of this blog, it would seem fitting to tell you that, but that's not what happened. Almost ninety minutes after we were supposed to start eating, we actually started eating. And once Amelia made me promise to forget the beginning of the night, the rest of the night went just about how it should have.
But that's because she willed it to be that way. If it were up to me, I'd still be standing somewhere on Rush Street looking for a restaurant that I used to go to, back when it was in business.
================================================================
* And by "top-notch", I clearly mean a dresser full of board shorts and band shirts.
The second rule is always, always, always have a backup.
Having gone on another first date three nights ago, I mustered only enough wherewithal to comply with one of the two rules. This should come as no surprise though, as I am absolutely cursed, first date-wise.
There really shouldn't have been any problems. This girl, we'll name her "Amelia" for the sake of confidentiality, and I have been getting to know each other since mid-July. Frankly, this first date was a mere formality. More a romantic gesture of tradition than an honest attempt at wooing. And I think perhaps, that is why I muffed it all up, because I pressured myself into making the night more important than it needed to be.
The entire day started with me trekking to various clothing retailers in hopes of sprucing up my already topnotch wardrobe.* But if you know me, you know that I really should not be shopping alone.
Whether it be my sister, my mother, or a gal-pal, I need help.
And after an hour-and-a-half of staring at three versions of a wool pullover while the an Asian wearing pants more expensive than my car (but no less worn out) sniggered at my indecisiveness, I decided to bite the bullet and buy some threads that were way too nice for the pile of dirty laundry they would inevitably find themselves sitting on in 24 hours.
I have to admit, I ended up seeking help. Not from the smug Asian, but from a kindly young lady who was either five years younger than me or a decade older - these days I can never tell.
Within four minutes of soliciting her help, this girl managed to mention her boyfriend and her boyfriend's taste in clothing no less than two dozen times. Should I have been offended by this? Did she think I was hitting on her? Is that why she kept "dropping the BF" on me? And how can asking a retail employee her opinion on the clothes she's trained to peddle constitute hitting on her? And if she didn't think I was hitting on her, was she trying to make me jealous?
And if she was, are the rest of you women that Goddamned obtuse?
I'm sorry. I don't like shopping. It makes me cranky.
I should have known. I've had several "first-dates" before and something bad happened on all of them.
There was the first date where I spilled fetuccini sauce all over my white shirt three minutes after dinner was served.
There was the first date I got a ticket for running a red light while borrowing my friend's car. His dad ended up paying that ticket.
There was the first date that simply happened without much planning and my girlfriend's sister ended up going to the movies with us.
There was the first date where the restaurant I chose was in such an odd part of town that we were forced to take a cab, and the cab driver went apeshit on some dude walking in front of him.
First dates and I rarely align correctly.
But last night was going to be different. Last night I was going to take Amelia to one of my favorite restaurants in the city, a safe place. A comfortable place...
...A place that had apparently gone out of business since the last time I had been there two years ago.
A little hint about first dates, if you ever find yourself standing on the corner of Rush Street and Ohio Avenue without any clue as to where to go, and the person accompanying you is slightly cold, wearing heels and seconds away from being offered a piggyback ride as appeasement - you've failed the planning stages of the date.
Rule #2: always, always, always have a backup.
More than once, Amelia suggested that we forgo all other plans and just head over to ESPN Zone.
I've had bad dates, but never "settle-for-ESPN-Zone-bad".
Pissed at Google for giving me the address of a restaurant that no longer exists, we made a mad scurry back to the parking lot, got my car, paid six bucks to, in essence, walk around the downtown area for twenty minutes, high-tailed it to the exact opposite side of town (because in my fury, I was blind to all other nice rerstaurants in the vacinity) and proceeded to lose my f-ing mind in the forty minutes it took me to find my way to my backup restaurant.
Then, for reasons I could not explain even during the moment, I decided that even though we were a block away from the new restaurant, now would be a good time to take a gander at the school I attended when I was young. I drove past the restaurant and down another series of streets and in my head, I'm screaming, "Asshole, you were supposed to eat forty minutes ago, you've been a sourpuss for the last fifteen minutes, you've gotten lost three times on the way over here and now... now you're deciding to whizz past your old elementary school, wherein you will most likely get turned around and cost you both another forty minutes of aimless driving?"
That's what I said in my head, but outwardly, I drove on in silence.
I am not a smart man.
We found my school, drove into the parking lot, saw two people engaging in some sort of shady doings at the playground, and I quickly drove off. At this point, I started feeling like DeNiro in 'Taxi Driver' when he took Cybil Shepard to the porno theater only to realize that girls don't feel comfortable in porno theaters.
"Oh, I'm sorry Amelia. You mean, you'd rather not see two junkies shootin' dice on the grounds of my elementary school? Oh. Okay. My mistake. I thought it'd make a nice apertif to our meal."
Then got lost for another twenty minutes just like my inner thoughts assumed I would.
For the sake of this blog, I'd like to continue relaying how poorly this supposed slam-dunk of a date ended up. For the sake of this blog, I'd like to tell you that Amelia was cold and bitter and that I cried while searching for a parking spot. I'd like to tell you that I spilled hot butter on my pants and cried about that too. I'd like to tell you that the waiter hit on my date and swept her off her feet. I'd like to tell you that a hobo robbed me of my wallet and shoes while I headed back to my car alone.
For the sake of this blog, it would seem fitting to tell you that, but that's not what happened. Almost ninety minutes after we were supposed to start eating, we actually started eating. And once Amelia made me promise to forget the beginning of the night, the rest of the night went just about how it should have.
But that's because she willed it to be that way. If it were up to me, I'd still be standing somewhere on Rush Street looking for a restaurant that I used to go to, back when it was in business.
================================================================
* And by "top-notch", I clearly mean a dresser full of board shorts and band shirts.
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
The Daring Devilish of Dated Damsels Dueling
Sometimes our lives twist and turn in ways we cannot possibly imagine and therefore cannot defensively ward off.
A week ago, my current girlfriend and my ex-girlfriend went to see 'Marie Antoinette' together, after which they planned to have dinner. I had nothing to do with this outing, as a matter of fact, I was unaware of its development until a day or two before it was - as Young Joc might say - goin' down.
Imagine this for a moment, okay? An old girlfriend chatting with a new girlfriend without moderation by me whatsoever. And I let it happen. Quite pointedly, I ended up encouraging it, which in hindsight seems like a foolish thing to have done.
I write about it here in the hallows of MySpace because this very site had quite a lot to do with how this all came to be. Y'see, both ladies are very kind souls, with little jealousy or ill-will toward most people. Therefore, upon their sporadic meetings within the last month, they became friendly (not friends, mind you, just friendly) quickly and comfortably.
This, frankly, is to be expected amongst women. Women generally hate each other. That's why you always see one of them haging out with, like ten guys. To the undiscerning eyes however, you'd think these two hypothetical girls were best friends. After a series of compliments on shoes and purses and hairdos, one girl will leave the earshot area, leaving the remaining girl to rip her to shreds on just about everything.
"Can you believe her? She's so two-faced. I just can't stand her. And who is she kidding with that dress? Does she know her fat ass is hanging out the back of it?"
Ouch.
The fact is, I'll never know how these two girls really feel about one another. Neither of them talked much about the encounter and I dared not ask. Added to which, they are both too respectful of my feelings to complain about each other to me.
Or maybe they really enjoyed each other's company. Who knows? *
How did this all happen, you ask? Well, the damndest thing... neither of the girls especially wanted to hang out with one another, but their politeness trapped both of them into a Thursday date.
It always starts with drinking, doesn't it?
Yes.
It does.
Both girls were drinking at a party and felt it acceptable to act like dawgs-4-life. They exchanged phone numbers in their drunken state and New Girlfriend texted a courtesy thank-you the next morning to Old Girlfriend.
Slightly confused by this action, Old Girlfriend flippantly invited New Girlfriend to be MySpace friends.
People, if you can't see the enormous social movement that this website has wrought on the world, you need to wake the fuck up. Months ago, I railed against the vagueness with which our society defines "hooking up". Is it kissing? Is it marriage? What is it? Well, hooking up ain't nothing compared to "friendship" versus "MySpace friendship".
The long-and-short of it is, Old Girlfriend doesn't pay too much attention to MySpace and has any number of people as friends on it. New Girlfriend has mostly close friends and thought it strange that Old Girlfriend thought their relationship was further along than it was.
Wanting to make the thing honest, New Girlfriend e-mailed Old Girlfriend with the suggestion that they hang out and get to know one another.
So what could Old Girlfriend do? Say no? That wouldn't be very nice.
And remember, no one is nicer than girls trying to put on an act.
And where the hell was I while all this was going on? I must have been playing Xbox or relacing my shoes or some damn thing, because it was only after I tried to make plans with New Girlfriend on Thursday that I was informed of her filled schedule... with one of my best friends.
Shit. What information do they have on me that could come back to haunt me?
Shit.
Shit.
So this is weird, right? Shouldn't I be able to veto this?
The best part of it all was on Thursday afternoon, when I talked to both of them seperately, they both tried subtley weaseling out of this whole mixed up situation.
"Adam, you're bothered by this aren't you? I'm gonna cancel. I'm just gonna say I can't come."
"Adam, does this wierd you out, because I can totally just come up with some reason not to go."
To both of them I just crossed my arms and smiled, like a hog in shit. How deep that shit would end up being, I still haven't found out.
Remember when you were younger and you came home from school to find your hidden stash of whatever you didn't want your parents to find, found? Whether it was porn or pot or food or slutty clothing or a corpse, we all had something hidden in our rooms we didn't want Mom and Dad to find. But Mom and Dad always found it and we, as good little monsters, would sit in our room waiting for the thunder to be brought down upon us.
Would I be grounded for a month? No allowance for a year? Extra chores? No more car? No more t.v.? No more flute lessons? Oh God, what did they have in store for me?
And most of the time, our parents did come up with a punishment, but every once in a while... they didn't.
Nothing.
Not that day, or the next or the next, or ever. But they knew. They found the pot, the mini-skirt, the dead body... they knew. And the waiting for the punishment was agony.
It's been a full week and neither girl has mentioned any details of their nearly five hours together.
I have lost complete control over what goes on around me.
================================================
* In typing this, I can feel both girls chomping at the bit to defend themselves. Hackles up! Hackles up!
A week ago, my current girlfriend and my ex-girlfriend went to see 'Marie Antoinette' together, after which they planned to have dinner. I had nothing to do with this outing, as a matter of fact, I was unaware of its development until a day or two before it was - as Young Joc might say - goin' down.
Imagine this for a moment, okay? An old girlfriend chatting with a new girlfriend without moderation by me whatsoever. And I let it happen. Quite pointedly, I ended up encouraging it, which in hindsight seems like a foolish thing to have done.
I write about it here in the hallows of MySpace because this very site had quite a lot to do with how this all came to be. Y'see, both ladies are very kind souls, with little jealousy or ill-will toward most people. Therefore, upon their sporadic meetings within the last month, they became friendly (not friends, mind you, just friendly) quickly and comfortably.
This, frankly, is to be expected amongst women. Women generally hate each other. That's why you always see one of them haging out with, like ten guys. To the undiscerning eyes however, you'd think these two hypothetical girls were best friends. After a series of compliments on shoes and purses and hairdos, one girl will leave the earshot area, leaving the remaining girl to rip her to shreds on just about everything.
"Can you believe her? She's so two-faced. I just can't stand her. And who is she kidding with that dress? Does she know her fat ass is hanging out the back of it?"
Ouch.
The fact is, I'll never know how these two girls really feel about one another. Neither of them talked much about the encounter and I dared not ask. Added to which, they are both too respectful of my feelings to complain about each other to me.
Or maybe they really enjoyed each other's company. Who knows? *
How did this all happen, you ask? Well, the damndest thing... neither of the girls especially wanted to hang out with one another, but their politeness trapped both of them into a Thursday date.
It always starts with drinking, doesn't it?
Yes.
It does.
Both girls were drinking at a party and felt it acceptable to act like dawgs-4-life. They exchanged phone numbers in their drunken state and New Girlfriend texted a courtesy thank-you the next morning to Old Girlfriend.
Slightly confused by this action, Old Girlfriend flippantly invited New Girlfriend to be MySpace friends.
People, if you can't see the enormous social movement that this website has wrought on the world, you need to wake the fuck up. Months ago, I railed against the vagueness with which our society defines "hooking up". Is it kissing? Is it marriage? What is it? Well, hooking up ain't nothing compared to "friendship" versus "MySpace friendship".
The long-and-short of it is, Old Girlfriend doesn't pay too much attention to MySpace and has any number of people as friends on it. New Girlfriend has mostly close friends and thought it strange that Old Girlfriend thought their relationship was further along than it was.
Wanting to make the thing honest, New Girlfriend e-mailed Old Girlfriend with the suggestion that they hang out and get to know one another.
So what could Old Girlfriend do? Say no? That wouldn't be very nice.
And remember, no one is nicer than girls trying to put on an act.
And where the hell was I while all this was going on? I must have been playing Xbox or relacing my shoes or some damn thing, because it was only after I tried to make plans with New Girlfriend on Thursday that I was informed of her filled schedule... with one of my best friends.
Shit. What information do they have on me that could come back to haunt me?
Shit.
Shit.
So this is weird, right? Shouldn't I be able to veto this?
The best part of it all was on Thursday afternoon, when I talked to both of them seperately, they both tried subtley weaseling out of this whole mixed up situation.
"Adam, you're bothered by this aren't you? I'm gonna cancel. I'm just gonna say I can't come."
"Adam, does this wierd you out, because I can totally just come up with some reason not to go."
To both of them I just crossed my arms and smiled, like a hog in shit. How deep that shit would end up being, I still haven't found out.
Remember when you were younger and you came home from school to find your hidden stash of whatever you didn't want your parents to find, found? Whether it was porn or pot or food or slutty clothing or a corpse, we all had something hidden in our rooms we didn't want Mom and Dad to find. But Mom and Dad always found it and we, as good little monsters, would sit in our room waiting for the thunder to be brought down upon us.
Would I be grounded for a month? No allowance for a year? Extra chores? No more car? No more t.v.? No more flute lessons? Oh God, what did they have in store for me?
And most of the time, our parents did come up with a punishment, but every once in a while... they didn't.
Nothing.
Not that day, or the next or the next, or ever. But they knew. They found the pot, the mini-skirt, the dead body... they knew. And the waiting for the punishment was agony.
It's been a full week and neither girl has mentioned any details of their nearly five hours together.
I have lost complete control over what goes on around me.
================================================
* In typing this, I can feel both girls chomping at the bit to defend themselves. Hackles up! Hackles up!
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