AJ's Piece o' The Web

I love hot fish.

HOT FISH. Yep, that's the HOT FISH truck.

I happened across this gem during my St. Louis / East Alton adventure.

Who was the marketing consultant on this one? They have taken something good and made it sound kinda gross. Hey, I love hot fish. Give me a baked bass or fried flounder filet and I'm in hog heaven. But I wouldn't call it "hot fish." I wouldn't walk in the door and say, "Honey, I've got a hankering for some hot fish tonight, how 'bout you?"

It's all about sales.

Take, for example, "wet meat." I also love wet meat. Pulled pork, beef brisket, lamb stew, etc. But if someone came cruising down the pike with a "wet meat" truck, you can be sure as sirloin that I'd keep away from it. "Sticky Poultry" and "Pork n' Juice" are also to be avoided.

So, East Altoners (Altonites?)... you have to learn to "sell the sizzle, not the steak."

That's my gem for the day.

I'm a dusgusting human being who needs to be separated from society.

I have a wart. There. I said it. It's on my right thumb. Don't bother looking; you won't be able to see it. Just trust me: it's there.

I don't know where it came from. How do you get warts? I didn't handle any frogs (that I know of) or come in contact with any witches (that I know of). So... how?

Trying to stave off panic, I immediately begin my Internet search for "wart remover" to find out what I should purchase to get rid of this. (NOTE: Do NOT Google ANYthing with the word wart or warts. Ick.)

After sifting through a few pages of research, I learn that I can either BURN this thing off my finger with Salicylic ACID (ouch) or I can FREEZE the thing off with Liquid Nitrogen. Burn or freeze. Freeze or burn. Hmmm. I decide to go with burn. I remember what that liquid Carbonite did to Han Solo and I don't want to wake up blind in some loan shark's palace (who does?).

Off to Rite-Aid I go!

Once inside Rite-Aid, I desperately search up and down the aisles.

Nothing.

I search up and down. Every aisle.

NOTHING.

OK, I search every aisle except ONE. You know that aisle I mean.

It's the "aisle of lost souls". It's the aisle with all the products that people are too embarrassed to buy (much less ask where they are). The aisle contains (besides wart remover), everything to do with gross growths on your feet, vaginal odor, anal fissures, rectal suppositories, halitosis, head lice, public lice, private lice, etc. Any and every product that would serve to offer relief to we medical outcasts of society -- it's in this aisle.

WHY DO THEY DO THIS?

Why force us all together in one lane? If I were in charge of "embarassing product placement", I would separate the products -- spread them all over the store. I'd put the "topical sphincter analgesic ointment" in the candy aisle. That way if I were shopping for rectal relief and another shopper cruised by, I could grab a bag of Baby Ruths and distract them. Or I'd put the vaginal odor products in the same aisle as, I dunno, salad dressing. (You go ahead and make the connection).

The point is, I'm already ashamed of my ailment. I don't want to announce to the world: "Look at me! I'm in aisle 14! Yeah! You know the aisle! It's 'the-aisle-of-which-we-do-not-speak!' I'm a disgusting freak! Flee while you can! Run away now before my disgusting freakishness causes you to break out into boils or sores or bellyaches!"

I just want a little, y'know,  privacy. Just me and my wart.

Just the two of us.

Lesbians hate me and think I'm useless.

I'm sitting in Starbucks this morning and I'm surrounded by lesbians.

And not in the good way.

The two clerks, excuse me... the two "BARISTAS" are lesbian, and there is a large gaggle of gal-on-gals sitting behind me.

These are not the lesbians that you see in the movies -- that is to say: these are not the lesbians that *I* see in MPEGs late at night when Nic is asleep. These are the "other" kind. The kind that wear their hair short. The kind that sport big, clunky sneakers. The manly kind. The kind that scare men.

Why are we afraid of them? I think it's because we, as men, feel useless. We have nothing they want. I mean, I'm blessed with this equipment and these unshaven ladies want nothing to do with it. Hey, I don't want anything to do with *their* equipment either -- but even though you don't want to go to the party, you still want to be invited.

When I walked over to the condiment station to cream and Splenda my "tall drip with room", I was instantly chilled in their presence. No, they were not mean to me -- no dirty looks, no man-hating screeching, no chanting of "we're here, we're queer, we won't disappear!" None of that.

They ignored me.

But I know... I KNOW that under the surface, they are laughing at me. I know that beneath their friendly banter and casual "g'mornings", they are really saying: "Look at you. Big man with a penis. Ha! You are pathetic! Pouring half-and-half in your cup like you are some chieftain! We scorn you and your love of lattes! We are not your harem, Mr. Man! Take your phallus and fly, my friend -- we're having none of it! We don't need any man to provide for us, protect us, or penetrate us! For we are LESBIAN! Lordesses of the dance!"

Yeah. I know that's what they're saying.

Manicure is the gateway drug to Metrosexuality?

Here's how it usually goes down: Nic gets a manicure-pedicure. I sit and do crossword puzzles on my Treo 650. Today would be different.

We enter the Fancy Nail Joint (FNJ) and are immediately greeted at the counter by a well-dressed Asian (Chinese?) man. I look around. This is a lot nicer than the typical turn-and-burn nail shops. Usually, it's all flourescent lighting, grey carpet and drop ceilings. FNJ is different. Marble countertop. Plasma TVs. Stone pillars.

Nice.

Our Asian friend whisks Nic off to a large massage chair in the back of the shop. Suddenly, an Asian (Japanese?) woman appears from nowhere (ninja?) and starts rolling up Nic's pants.

Time to exit.

There's a BestBuy across the parking lot, so I'll use this opportunity to check out some X-Box games and pick up a new optical mouse. I wave to Nic, nod (bow?) to the Asian proprietor and spin toward the door.

As I'm walking out, the Asian man calls to me, "You rike-a manicure, too?" (I'm not racist. That's what he said damnit.) I smile and say, "No thanks." He looks disappointed. I'm out the door and BestBuy bound.

I return 20 minutes later to find Nic laying back in the massage chair, eyes closed, a blissful look across her face. Apparently this chair knows tricks that I don't. Her pants have been rolled up to her knees and her exposed legs are wrapped with towels of some kind. It looks like she's wearing two soft casts. I try not to look horrified and sit back down -- to my crossword.

The Asian man says, "You wife say you-ah get manicure, too."

I smile and say, "No thanks. I'm fine." He nods and offers me a cold drink, which I decline. He floats away and I'm back to trying to remember the 4-letter word for "Japan's first capital." For a brief moment, I consider asking the Asian man. I hesitate. Bad idea.

Next, I hear loud WHACKING sounds coming from the back of the shop. I stand up for a look. An Asian woman is literaly SMACKING (karate?) Nic's feet and ankles. Nic still wears a face of bliss so I assume that this is normal. I shake my head and return to my seat.

Asian man: "You wife say you-ah get manicure, too."

I smile and say, "No thanks." and try to seem really interested in my puzzle. I bet he does know the first capital of Japan. Damn him.

Then the Asian man unexpectedly walks around the corner and stands before me -- a show down. "You wife say you-ah get manicure, too." I suddenly realize that he is not smiling and this is not a question, but a statement. If this were an episode of Kung-Fu, there would be a loud GONG sound and then a tight close up on my face as I consider his challenge. Then we cut back to the Asian man, whose serious look would melt into the slightest smile. Then cut back to me -- I narrow my eyes. Back to the Asian man who nods very slowly and extends his hand.

I sigh. "Ok."

I follow him to a nail-fixin' table and sit -- alone.

I'm nervous.

I've never been on this side of the (great?) wall. I'm a MAN, damnit. Aren't we supposed to have gnarly, chewed nails? I'm being sarcastic. I have heard women say over and over again about how good a man looks with nicely manicured nails. But when I hear that, I usually mumble something about those men being "gay" and go back to biting my fingers.

I sit uncomfortably in the chair and shoot a look to Nic who nods at me approvingly. I scan the table: it's covered with chemicals, sharp objects, tiny knives, gauze, tissues. What the HELL is this?? I feel like I'm sitting at a Civil War operating table.

I'm nervous.

A different Asian (viet-namese?) woman appears from nowhere. (How do they do that?) She brings me a bowl of steaming, bubbly green water. She sets in front of me. GONG. Close up of me looking at the bowl, then back at her -- I narrow my focus. Close up of her as she smiles slyly. Close up of me looking at the bowl puzzled. Close up of her as she bows slightly and says "soak". Close up of me as I awkwardly say, "I'm sorry? I've never done this before." Close up of her eyes. Close up of my eyes. Suddenly she takes my hands and puts them in the bowl.

OW.

HOT.

Jeez. Women love to torture themselves, don't they?

My Asian nemesis disappears again and I'm left alone at the Torture Table (TM) soaking my fingers in boiling hot, green, bubbling goo.

From across the room: Nic giggles.

The Asian man appears over my right shoulder from thin air. "You rike-ah watch TV?" He gestures to a gorgeous 50-inch Plasma TV hanging on the wall directly in front of me. "TV? Sure!" I say excitedly.

The Asian man pops a DVD into a player on the wall and the Plasma flashes to life. I shift in my seat and smile. There's something about Plasma TVs and men. I think that Plasma televisions emit some type of radiation that stimulates the testes and causes increased testosterone production. I don't even LIKE football, but power up a Plasma HD set and I'm all "Go Raiders! Take it to the cooker! Roast his duck! Julianne those carrots!" (Or whatever football fans say)

The Asian man produces a remote and smiles at me.

In my mind, I'm Homer Simpson: "Mmmmm remoooooote."

The Asian man deftly works the remote and navigates to the main menu of... oh no...

...

"Rumor Has It..." starring Jennifer Aniston, Kevin Costner and Shirley McLaine.

UGH.

The Asian man puts the remote away and nods (bows?) at me as he floats back to the counter.

ASIDE: I have a personal rule about movies. I will not watch any movie where a castmember of Friends has a leading role. Think about it. Stick with this rule and you'll spare yourself from movies like: Ed, Lost In Space and Along Came Polly.

My Asian nemesis returns. Without a word, she sits, takes my right hand from its scalding bath and begins to stab at my fingers with a tiny knife (katana?).

I'm nervous.

All I'm doing at this point is hoping that when it hurts (and I know it will) that I don't react. I can not make a face, I can not shift in my seat, and DEAR GOD I can NOT make a sound. My honor is at stake. My manculinity is on the line. My manhood hangs in the balance. I try not to look at Nic, but I know she's watching me.

Thankfully: it does not hurt. (that much)

Asian lady switches to my left hand and repeats the stabbing and slicing. She is cutting and shaping my cuticles. (They do that? Huh. Who knew?)

She works silently which makes me somewhat uncomfortable. I feel like I should be talking to her. I've been in nail salons many times before and have always observed women chatting and gossiping. Isn't that what I should do? For a moment I consider talking celebrity gossip with my Asian caretaker. Then I realize that there are two obstacles: (1) she doesn't speak any English besides "soak" and (2) I don't know any celebrity gossip. Ah well. I go back to watching (sigh) "Rumor Has It..." Oh look, Mark Ruffalo is in this, too. Yay.

Next, a strange nail file or buffer of some kind. Is that even a word? "buffer"? I have no idea what I'm talking about. Finally, my keeper speaks: "you rike-ah pah-rish?" I don't know what she is asking me. She sees the puzzled look on my face and in her frustration changes the question to a statement: "Pah-rish. You will-ah rike it."

Oh... "polish." All this time she is saying "pol---" WAIT.

Before I can say something to the effect of: "No thanks. Nail polish is really gay. Please don't.", she is slathering my fingers with a stinky, sticky glaze.

Crap.

She finishes pah-rishing my nails, smiles, nods (bows?) and vanishes like a mystical character of the Kabuki. I'm left at the Torture Table (TM) alone. I consider my nails. Hmm. Not bad. Clean. Not too gay. I'm happy.

Nic nods approvingly. Seems as though I passed.

Next installment: my first hot stone pedicure experience, my inaugural facial (with extractions) and my maiden voyage on the SS Thalossotherapy Seaweed and Paraffin Wax Wrap.

One letter makes all the difference.

Nic and I were headed into a local dive for breakfast this morning when today's specials caught my eye.

I didn't order it. I wasn't in the mood for sausage.

The Aisle of the Socially Awkward.

At Barnes & Noble Bookseller in The Grove Mall, Los Angeles, CA.

Very interesting (and admirable) that the "Sci-Fi/Fantasy" aisle is directly across from the "Romance" aisle.

This way, lonely men and lonely women are forced to share the same space.

I wonder if love was ever in the air here?

Before you ask, YES, I was browsing the Sci-Fi lane for some reading material to take on my flight to New York.

So?  Naughty Nerds need love, too. (Didn't Samantha Fox say that?)

You're British and You Stink.

I ordered from my beloved Yummy.com yesterday. Groceries, snacks, dishwasher detergent and made-to-order deli sandwiches. All delivered in 30 minutes. Perfect. This is convenience that rivals many New York outfits.

The only drawback to Yummy is its delivery staff. They make me feel ugly and inadequate. Each guy is handsomer than the next. It's like the WB opened its gates and sent forth its attractive actor army to work as sandwich delivery guys. Hey, it's a side-effect to living in Hollywood: the service industry is overwhelmingly dominated by The World's Prettiest (and often Dumbest) actors.

I hear the car door slam out front and my mouth instantly waters in anticipation of rare roast beef smeared with horseradish on pretzel bread. Mmmm… pretzel bread.

I tear myself away from Battlefront Online and hop up to answer the door.

I see him walking toward my apartment and my heart sinks into my growling stomach. The dude looks like a young Pierce Brosnan with a wavy pony tail. Six feet something, chiseled features, dressed in black. If I were gay, I'd probably have heard violins or something. Instead I just heard my Inner Man say, “Good thing there are no chicks around to see this dude.”

I greet him at my door. He smiles and says, “Good ahftah noon sir.”

AN ENGLISH ACCENT?

Are you effing kidding me? This guy is probably swimming in so much tail he needs water wings. “Probably gay”, I thought. (Hey, all men do that. Makes us feel better.)

My James Bond delivery boy is polite, articulate and intelligent. (Inside I'm furious with jealousy. I was hoping for another dummy.) Then, as I'm signing my credit card receipt it hits me: B.O.

This dude STINKS.

I'm being surrounded by it now. My head is swimming. I can't believe the odor of this guy. Doesn't he notice it? Hasn't anyone told him about it? I'm holding my breath but it seems to permeate my skin. As if someone doused me with a bucket of hot sweat: I'm saturated; drenched.

When he turns to walk away, he stirs up an almost-visible swirling mist of man-stench.

Dizzy. I shut the door.

My first thought is, “Ha! Nobody's perfect. Take THAT pretty boy.”

But my feelings of triumph quickly morph into panic as I realize that I still smell him! ACK!

In a frenzy, I search my memory… Did I touch him? Did he come in contact with ANY part of me? Any part of my house?? Was he INSIDE?? I don't think so. But B.O. is one of those smells that lingers: it's hard to tell if it's actually PRESENT or if it's just your mind conjuring the malodorous memory.

I put away my packages and finally sit to enjoy my beef-radish-pretzel-wich.

It's no good.

Everything I eat tastes like Stench Charming.

His odor somehow even overwhelms the taste of Wasabi-flavored roasted almonds.

God damn it.

I push away my plate, get up from the table and head off to shower.

I Help the Homeless for the Holidays.

Yesterday...

EXT. ENGLEWOOD 7-11 - DUSK

PARKING LOT

AJ (33) and his friend JOSH (32) bounce out of their SILVER HONDA and briskly walk toward the 7-11 entrance. They glance around dubiously, eyes darting. Rough neighborhood. Street people mill about panhandling from aloof customers. In the distance: a scream, a siren, a car BACKFIRES.

                        JOSH
                    (skittishly)
                Was that a gun shot?

                        AJ
                Car backfired.

                        JOSH
                Really? You think so?

                        AJ
                No.

INSIDE 7-11

                        AJ
                Hang on. I need the ATM.

                        JOSH
                Are you out of your
                fucking mind?

                        AJ
                What?

                        JOSH
                That's like throwing blood
                in the water, man!

AJ puts away his wallet.

                        AJ
                Fine. Coffee's on you.

Josh considers this for a moment.

                        JOSH
                Only take out twenty.

THE COFFEE STATION

Josh prepares two coffees. AJ walks over holding a package of TWINKIES.

                        JOSH
                What's with the cake,
                health boy?

                        AJ
                I'm going to feed the
                homeless.

                        JOSH
                You're going to feed the
                homeless Twinkies?

                        AJ
                Tis the season.

THE PARKING LOT

Head held high, AJ strides toward a filthy HOMELESS MAN (60) who laughs and talks to himself. A step behind, Josh scans the parking lot in fear.

The Homeless Man notices their approach and extends a hand.

                        HOMELESS MAN
                Hey brother. Help me out?

AJ proudly hands him the Twinkies.

                        AJ
                Here you go. Merry
                Christmas.

The Homeless Man takes the Twinkies and stares at them as if he was just handed a dead rat.

                        HOMELESS MAN
                Thanks, but I'd rather
                have some change.

AJ places his hand over his heart as if about to say the Pledge.

                        AJ
                Change, my friend, comes
                from within.

A moment while the puzzled Homeless Man stares at them.

                        JOSH
                     (annoyed)
                    Let's go.

IN THE CAR

                        AJ
                Ungrateful bastard.

                        JOSH
                You really are an asshole,
                you know that?

                        AJ
                Yeah?

                        JOSH
                Yeah. Would it have killed
                you to give that guy fifty
                cents? Don't you realize
                how easy we've got it?

                        AJ
                If we've got it so easy,
                why did you shoplift that
                PowerBar?

                        JOSH
                Saw that, did you?

                        AJ
                Yeah, I did. So you just
                stole money from some
                small business man. Who's
                the asshole now, PowerBar
                thief?

Josh says nothing. He looks guilty.

                        AJ
                Split it with me.

Josh smiles.

FADE OUT.

I'm not down with any sort of shizzle, home slices.

I have no problem with colloquialisms or expressions. Hell, I think everything is "awesome" or if it's really great it can be "teh aw3some". I call people "bro" way too much and I'm "rockin" a little too often for my own safety. I say "whoa nelly", "gadzooks" and even "egads". I make no apologies. These words fit my personality. But there is some slang that doesn't fit me at all. Read on.

Slang is defined as "nonstandard words or phrases which tend to originate in subcultures within a society" or "phrases familiar within a group or subgroup".

Americans, as a group, have their slang. Brits have local lingo. Aussies have some colourful (sp) lexical innovations.

Within these groups exist even smaller subgroups; each with their own respective parlance. Back in the Bronx we'd greet each other with "Ay! Oh!" and in response: "Oh! Ay!" Texans say "Howdy, ya'll." In Boston things are "wicked awesome" and "wicked bad".

American blacks have many idioms, as well. And why shouldn't they? It's a natural evolution of language within an ethnic subgroup.

But here's where I get irked: I have a problem when one subgroup tries to commandeer another's lingo.

There are a couple of guys I "know" who insist on calling each other (and everyone else) "dog". "What's up dog!" "Let's roll, dog!" "That shit is wack, dog."

These are white guys. Middle-class white guys. Who work for a mortgage bank.

Fellas, "dog" is for Americans-of-African-descent. It's not for you. Ever. And "that shit is wack"? I don't know. You lost me at your first "dog".

My showbiz elite friend Trixie ran into a couple Jewish producer-guys who call each other "homie" and still enjoy the "wassssup". Still with the wassssup, huh? No wonder they didn't get her number.

Urban expressions and street-talk can certainly be enjoyed by white people, but they can not be used by white people. We are not down with the hype tip, g-money grip. See? See what I mean? How ridiculous did I sound just then?

Let's, as Caucasian-Americans, appreciate the "shizzle" and the "nizzle" from afar. Let's cherish the "bee-atch" from a distance. And let's be charmed by "pimpin' hos" as spectators only. Let's never adopt these terms as our own.

You'll never hear American blacks saying that movie was "bitchen" or "boss" or "rad". You'll never catch an urban youth calling another a "putz" or a "kvetch" or even a "shmendreck". A boy from the ghetto won't exclaim "rats!", "good grief!" or "fiddlesticks!"

They respect the boundaries of the lexical subgroup. Shouldn't we all?

Tickle Me, Emo.

Can you emo-LA-hipster dudes quiet down a little? Seriously. I'm just sitting here in the coffee shop trying to do a little writing and I'd appreciate it if you could keep your ridiculous conversation to yourselves.

Honestly, I couldn't be less interested in how the Garden State soundtrack is the perfect mix tape. (It isn't.) I don't care how the last Dashboard Confessional album was the “story of your life”. (It wasn't.) And I hate to break this to you, but every song by The Shins sounds the same—just like every boy at your table sounds the same.

Please stop lamenting about your pain and how life has been *so* unfair to you. Each of you is WHITE, MIDDLE-CLASS, AMERICAN and MALE. Guess what, it doesn't get much easier than that. If you don't think you're doing well enough in life, try cutting your jet-black-moppy hair. And the bulky black-rimmed glasses with the clear lenses? No. Just. No.

We don't think it's funny when you quote Napoleon Dynamite. Yes, Jon Heder was hilarious. Sure, I'd vote for Pedro. But dude, if you “gawsh” one more time, I'm going to use this biscotti like a Ninja throwing star. You want to see “sweet skills”? You're gonna taste my chocolaty wrath.

Nobody in this café cares how many MySpace friends you have. Your webzine sucks. And no, I don't want to read your blog. I can already guess what your web page looks like. Here's your checklist:

• Various poorly-lit pictures of you, taken by yourself in the mirror at odd angles. (you aren't smiling in any of them)
• A music video from My Chemical Romance or Something Corporate that AUTOMATICALLY plays when I go to your page and makes FireFox freeze while I wait for it to load.
• Depressing song lyrics
• A poem (that you didn't write) or
• A poem (that you did write which sucks)
• A review of a Dave Eggers book. (that you didn't read)
• An icon describing your mood: "sad", "depressed", "rejected", "lost", "misunderstood"

Hey. I sincerely believe that people should be free to do whatever they want to do. Hell, I'll be the first to admit that I've got issues and opinions. But I don't FORCE them on people.

You are going out of your way to make sure we know that you're hip and trendy. It's obnoxious. You're in a STARBUCKS in HOLLYWOOD, for chrissake. How underground do you really think you are?

Please, emo-hipsters, take your cappuccinos back to your Mini Cooper and leave the rest of us drones in peace.