AJ's Piece o' The Web

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 am the Top Nerd at the DMV.

Using only my elbows, I push open the greasy doors of the Santa Monica Department of Motor Vehicles and suddenly hope that I have a few handi-wipes in my glove box. In the DMV lobby, I quickly spin in a half-circle, getting my bearings.

 

Like a zombie to brains or a lamb to the slaughter, I follow a pack of unwashed and undocumented toward at kiosk labeled “Information / Información”.

“Driver’s License appointment?”, I ask.

A disinterested drone grunts and gestures toward a different line. Obediently, I get in line. Another disinterested drone grunts and hands me a ticket which reads “F 0181”. He then tells me to sit down and wait for “F 0181” to be called.

If I had company, I would have said, “Look, my ticket says ‘Eff! Oh, I ate one!” But, alas, I was alone. And the woman sitting next to me was too involved with her gaggle of children to be interested. Besides, “Carumba! Yo comí uno!” has nothing to do with “F 0181” so the humor would probably have been lost on her.

From hidden speakers, a haunting female voice calls out letters and numbers. “C 1203”, “F 0175”, “H 3031”. Her voice is not quite robotic, not quite human. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I expect her to say “Capricorn 15’s. Last day. Capricorn 15's. Carousel begins.”

My number is called and I head to counter number 3. There waiting for me is the most polite DMV employee I’ve ever encountered. Though sporting a head of intimidating cornrows, he shocks and dazzles me with phrases like “please”, “sir”, “thank you” and “Mr. Gentile”. Truly a first. Cornrows and I chat for a bit, do some paperwork and then it’s time for my vision test.

Ala Vanna White, He waves a hand toward an eye chart hanging behind him.

“Mr. Gentile”, he says, “I’m going to cover your left eye. When you’re ready, please read line C-3.”

“Ok”, I take a deep breath and say, “E – A – T – M – E”

He squints at his answer key, puzzled. Then turns around and looks at the chart. Finally, he laughs.

“Aw, shoot! Ha ha!”, he calls over to Shelia at counter 2, “Sheila! Sheila, this guy just spelled Eat me! Ha ha!”

Sheila responds unimpressed, “Mmm hmm… y’all got yourself a funny one, huh?”

I guess Sheila’s already seen it all. Ah well.

I quit goofing off, pass my eye exam and head over toward the final challenge. The Written Exam: 36 multiple choice questions taken from the California driving manual.

Thanks to the Intarweb, preparing for the “Written” (as we say in the biz) is pretty easy. You watch a Flash tutorial, then take a few sample tests online. Most questions are common sense:

1) When a blind pedestrian is crossing the street in front of you, you should:

A) Drive around him

B) Wait for him to cross the street

C) Tell him it’s safe to cross

Seriously. I’m not being funny. Most questions are like that. There are a few “real” tidbits of information like knowing what a “red curb” is and what the legal blood-alcohol limit is, but mostly it’s just choosing the answer that *isn’t* ridiculous.

I approach the counter, hand the attendant my paperwork and she gives me a long, thin sheet of paper with 18 questions on either side.

I ask her if cheating is allowed.

She replies, “Only if you get caught.”

I smile. I like her. I contemplate using my “Eff! Oh, I ate one!” joke on her, and then I think better of it. We leave each other wanting more.

“Take a number-two pencil and have seat”, she offers, “You can take as much time as you need.”

I consider the can of number-two pencils with suspicion. Using my finger tips only, I fish out the least chewed, least sticky pencil in the can. Again, I’m hoping, nee, praying that there are handi-wipes in the glove.

 

I grab a seat in the front like the good nerd that I am and crack my neck. It’s go time.

Immediately I see that the questions are EXACTLY the same as the questions online. Same questions. Same stupid answers. Same everything.

“C… C… B… A… B… Are you kidding me?”

I’m cruising now.

“C…, duh. A… B…. A… C…. ”

“Written”, I say to myself, “You are my bitch.”

I finish the test in LITERALLY four minutes. Most questions don’t even require reading fully because I’ve already studied them at home. My biggest concern is seeing if any of my answers spell “ABACAB”, my favorite song by Genesis.

I get up and head back to my witty proctor friend. I notice that the tall dude at the desk next to me is annoyed that I’ve finished so quickly. Ah, just like so many grammar school tests. I waggle my eyebrows at him.

As I return to the front desk, the attendant says, “Damn. You cheat fast.”

I really like her.

She takes my test, and holds it next to an answer key.

Check, check, check, check… all correct. 18 for 18. Of course.

She flips my test over to check the remaining 18.

“Oops, you missed one.” She places a red line through question 24. “35 out of 36. Best score today.”

She walks off to print out some paperwork as I stand there in stunned disbelief. Immediately I hope the tall dude didn’t hear that I missed a question. My rep, you know.

Astounded, I take a closer look at the answer key. Then at my test. Then at the key.

SHE MIS-MARKED IT.

I really got question 24 correct.

24) It’s night. The car coming toward you has its high beams on making it difficult to see. You should:

A) Look toward the left edge of the road

B) Look toward the right edge of the road

C) Look straight ahead in your lane

I chose “B”, the correct answer. She marked it wrong. I feel my face and ears flush.

I’ve got a dilemma. Here I am: the Teacher’s Pet and the Class Nerd with the high score of the day. I’ve aced this thing. But I am TORMENTED by that red blemish on my test. I need to say something. I need her to see that I got a perfect score. I need her to know that I got the best score of the day, the month, ever!

She returns with a slip of paper and says, “Here’s your temporary. Your real license will arrive in the mail in a week or two.” She takes my imperfect test away before I can say a word.

I reach a hand out. “Uh. Can I keep that? I want to put it on my fridge”. That red mark is like a sharp pebble in my shoe; driving me mad.

“Seriously? You want it?”

I paused for what seemed like a long time, then sighed and said, “Nah. You keep it. Put it on *your* fridge.”

She laughs. I laugh. I walk out with my new California State Driver’s License trying to shake off my neuroses.

I pass another group of unwashed/undocumented. Or were they same ones? I traverse the lobby and exit the slimy doors.

The sun hits my face and salinated ocean air fills my lungs. I feel like I almost belong here; like California is becoming my home.

I plop in my car, toss aside my stack of papers and immediately open the glove box.

Damn it.

No wipes.

Neuroses - 2, AJ – 0.

 

Email, Witchcraft, Hang Loose

Do you do this? You’ll be talking to a friend when suddenly you start describing an e-mail conversation that you had with someone. Then to illustrate that it was an e-mail conversation, you will hold both hands out from your body, palms down, then wiggle your fingers.

“So I e-mailed him as soon as I got home, ‘Dude, you are like, so lame for saying that.’”, said Jane as she wiggled her fingers.

Think about it. Do you do this? I definitely do. (Although I try not to)

The wiggling of one’s fingers is the universal sign for describing an e-mail conversation. (This is also the universal sign for “magic spells” and “ghost haunting” but those are beyond the scope of this post.)

The universal sign for “telephone” is that gesture where you make a fist, then extend your thumb and pinky in the shape of a receiver. However, when relaying a phone conversation, we never use this gesture. (This is also the sign for “hang loose, dude” but also beyond the scope of this post.)

What is it about the e-mail conversation that makes it necessary to gesticulate in such an odd and animated way? When describing a written conversation, I don’t pinch my thumb and index finger and wave it about like I'm conducting a symphony. Or describing something said on the radio, I don’t mime headphones and a microphone.

I find it fascinating that certain gestures make their way into our culture as perfectly acceptable ways to describe or emphasize an emotion or action. Maybe it's because I'm half Italian? When Italians have a conversation it makes deaf people dizzy.

What gestures have you noticed?

Kneel Before Zod

Got a shoe shine today.

When I'm out and about, I wear good shoes and keep them pristine. Why?

Women.

Women *always* check out your kicks. Always.

You can wear the standard Male Uniform, “T-Shirt and Jeans” whenever you like(*). Simply sport spiffy shoes and you’re golden. Trust me; if you slide into a pair of polished Ferragamo loafers, everything above is forgiven.

Now, as much as I love those shiny shoes, I don’t like the actual “act” of getting them shined. I feel so awkward sitting atop my wooden throne while someone rubs and buffs my tootsies. It smacks of supplication and submission and, frankly, makes me uncomfortable.

I can’t relax during a shoe shine. I’m too tense. With my rigid body and feet placed gracelessly upon the metal mounts, I look like I’m about to receive a gynecological exam. It isn’t pretty.

What’s more, I glance to my right to see a heavyset, balding businessman casually reading his paper while his “boy” strokes and buffs his wingtips. I swear I half expected the old man to snap his fingers and call for a plate of mutton. Or worse, demand that I dance for him.

The thing is, he’s fine. You’re supposed to just sit there. Me? I have to make conversation. I need to show this person kneeling before me that I’m an everyman (or in this case, woman). I’m a working stiff. Plebian, just like you.

“So”, I say trying not sound like a man getting his prostate examined, “How long you been shining shoes?”

That’s freaking brilliant.

I despise small talk. I’d rather have silence. And here I am firing the opening volley; marking myself as the guy-with-nothing-to-say-but-is-too-uncomfortable-to-just-sit-here-while-you-service-him type.

I don’t know what was said next. I heard the sound of my voice, but my Boring Filter had kicked in. I might have asked how long she’d been in Shoe Reclamation and Revitalization. Maybe a sentence or two about the weather. I’m not sure. My Boring Filter works both ways: reception and transmission. Hardly anything gets through.

Then something slipped through the filter: “I’m also an actress.”

With that, I suddenly heard a *click* and saw a flash of white light. Next thing I know, I’m stepping down from my perch. Immediately, I knew what happened: my Boring Filter was overridden by my AADS(**).

It was over. Thank God.

The shoe shine cost $7. I gave her $15 and told her to keep the change. I was hoping that a 100%+ tip would assuage my guilt.

It didn’t.

But seeing my reflection in my black shoes did the trick.

 

--
FOOTNOTES:

*Male Uniform of T-Shirt and Jeans assumes a decent, non-man-stained shirt and a pair of dark jeans.

** AADS is Aspiring Actor Defense Shield. This safety mechanism allows you to stay in a conversation with an actor by forcing you to nod and smile in the right places. With the shield turned to maximum, you will also repeat the last word of ever other sentence and laugh. This shield also prevents *any* information from leaving your mouth that identifies you as working in the entertainment industry.

The AADS shield is not unlike the Girlfriend Telling You About Her Day At Work Screen (GFTYAHDAWS) which functions almost identically. But with the GFTYAHDAWS, you will also periodically furrow your brow, nod and say “you’re absolutely right” and “I can’t believe she did that.”

Hey Chaci, the 80s called. They want their hairstyle back.

It’s been about, oh, three weeks so I figured it was time for a haircut. Actually… that’s not true. I didn’t figure anything. When people start asking me why I’m wearing a brown hair-helmet, I know it’s time.

Don’t smirk. Most guys are like this.

And as for hairstyle: we will wear it *one* way *forever*: until we date someone who makes us change it. Then it stays *that* way *forever*: until we break up. And thus, the cycle.

So, fellas, if you’ve been dating the same girl for 10 years, you might still have that awful mushroom haircut that she thought was *sooooo* cute. If you do, it’s time to dump her and get a new coif.

Today I spotted a couple of guys who are obviously in long-term, committed relationships. I know this because they were sporting the “Luke Skywalker” and the “Richard Marx”, respectively.

Some women are also guilty of frozen-in-time-fashion. But I think gals try to capture that time in their lives where they felt they looked their best. My stand-up comic friend, JS, wears the same basic ensemble *all* the time. She is reasonably attractive, in her 40s and intelligent. JS will only be seen wearing the following outfit:

• Hair: Big, bulky and high. Bangs: check. Aquanet: about 6 inches.
• Always hasOversized Champion sweatshirt. Sometimes worn inside out. Hangs below her ample hips.
• Painted-on, skin-tight jeans, tapered to the ankle. They are extra faded, light acid washed. Sometimes she wears the “half and half”: blue acid washed front, black acid washed back. Like a pants version Victor-Victoria.
• Shoes are always white Keds
• Oversized bulky socks (which consistently match her sweatshirt), pulled up and OVER the jeans.

What’s your guess? 1988? 89?

What’s interesting is that these styles still take *effort* to create. These people don’t just wake up and go. They take the time to layer their hair perfectly like Markie Post from Night Court or to get that Fonzarelli pompadour.

I’m not saying that everyone should wear the latest trendy hairstyle. (I sure don't) But I think a 4-5 year window is reasonable. If you are still trimming your beard and mullet to match that picture of Kenny Loggins… you, my friend, are on the Higway to the Danger Zone.

Netflix, Love and Hate.

Preface: Films spoilers ahead. Famous films, but spoilers nonetheless.

I *love* Netflix. Love, love, love. If you've been under a rock or still actually go to a (cough) video store for movies: get with latest, Fred Flinstone. Netflix is the best twenty bucks a month I spend. The logistics of how Netflix works is beyond the scope of this post. Click over there to learn more.

Now the hate.

Not long ago, I convince AF to watch one of my favorite Western's, "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance." I love movies new and old and AF doesn't have much exposure to the classics, so I try and make recommendations. That week, it was Liberty Valance.

Ok. We finish the movie and I'm all grinny and excited, "Wasn't that cool?? Jimmy Stewart built his whole career on the legend that *he* shot Valance, but it was really JOHN WAYNE!"

She says, "I know."

I take a beat and make a face like something smells funny. Then shock. "What? HOW? They never even hint at it. There's no way you could know."

"It was written on the sleeve of the DVD," she says. Her matter-of-fact tone makes me explode.

"WHAT??"

In a frenzy, I jump up, grab the offending sleeve and read it. Sure enough:

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962): Senator Ransom Stoddard (James Stewart), while practicing law on the frontier, runs afoul of feared gunslinger Liberty Valance (Lee Marvin), whom he kills in a showdown. His political career launched, Stoddard marries local beauty Hallie (Vera Miles) only to learn it was ruthless-but-honorable outlaw Tom Doniphon (John Wayne) who really slew Valance.

I'm rarely one to swear, but: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

You do not put spoilers on the GODDAMN DVD sleeve!

I was so SO angry. I remember when I went to see "Sixth Sense" for the first time in the theaters. I knew nothing about the movie except that it was about ghosts. When you suddenly find out that Bruce Willis *is* a ghost? Oh my god. Incredible.

Liberty Valance isn't quite the same as Sixth Sense, but I still felt robbed. Sure, *I* knew the ending. But I was robbed of that cool feeling of watching someone else's "wow" moment.

Netflix has to get their act together and fix some of their movie sleeve descriptions. I did some poking around on their site. You wouldn't believe it:

The Sixth Sense (1999): Cole (Haley Joel Osment) lives in a world beyond imagination, filled with ghosts and madness. Bruce Willis is the empathic child psychiatrist who tries to heal the child, only to find that he himself is a ghost.

Terrible.

Planet of the Apes (1968): Bewildered astronaut George Taylor (Charlton Heston) crash-lands on a strange planet ruled by intelligent apes who use primitive humans for experimentation and sport. Taylor quickly finds himself among the hunted as he struggles to escape the apes' power -- and uncover their darkest secret: the strange planet is really Earth in the future.

Come on!

Star Wars (1977): Intrepid Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill), his trusty droids, and smuggler Han Solo (Harrison Ford) face off against Darth Vader (James Earl Jones) who's actually Luke's father.

They spoiled two movies with that one. Nice.

The Usual Suspects (1995): Verbal Kint (Kevin Spacey) is interrogated by pushy fed (Chazz Palminteri) who wants to know why Spacey is still alive. And by the way, Spacey is also Keyser Soze.

The Crying Game (1992): Jaye Davidson receives a Best Actor Oscar nod for his portrayal of Dil.

Se7en (1995): Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head winds up in a box.

The Godfather, Part II (1974): It was Fredo.

Just awful. They need to fix those. And fast.

  

I AM A GOLDEN GOD!!

Actually, no. I'm not. But I *am* a Nerd God as determined by this Nerd test.

Yeah, yeah... I *hate* online tests, too. But this one is short. And I just had to know how nerdy I am. Naturally, I knew I'd get a good score: I mean I *do* use SSH every day. But I didn't think I'd be Nerd God.

How can that be? I have had sex. (And still do; now and then) Yes, with OTHER people. Er... another person. Never mind. I also don't live in my parents basement (anymore). I really didn't think I fit all that many nerd stereotypes.

But this test says that I'm way nerdier than I thought. But, I'm no nerd GOD. At best, I'm a nerd demi-god with a +4 Charisma, -3 Intelligence and +8 Stamina.

;-)

If you want to totally make my day, take this QUICK test and post your score. I'd love to hear from other nerds.

"It's their time. Their time! Up there! Down here, it's our time. It's our time down here."

My Goyish Charm?

August 28, the year of our Lord 2005.

Dear J-Date:

Thank you for sending me my latest J-Date matches everyday. After carefully scrutinizing the matches you've chosen for me, I've noticed a few problems which might lead to some future confusion.

1) I am not Jewish. Yes, growing up on Long Island makes me an honorary Jew. I've been raised with (literally), lived with (once), loved by (twice) and generally been around Jewish folk all my life. I like them. They like me. But guess what? I am *NOT* Jewish. As such, all these lovely ladies that you're using to tempt, titillate and tease me: THEY DON'T WANT ME. I'M GOY.

2) I don't live in Vermont. I've never lived in Vermont. I've been to Vermont a few times. Green. Nice. Good syrup. But I've never called it home. You claim that these sexy, single Vermonters are within some radius of my location. Unless that radius is, oh, 3013 miles, these gals are a bit too long distance for me.

3) I'm not Jewish.

4) I've never signed up for your service. Until tonight, I've never been to your site. Why haven't I signed up? It just didn't seem like it was for me. (See problem #1, #3)

5) If you look up MY NAME in the dictionary... you get:

gen·tile     P   Pronunciation Key  (jntl)
n. often Gentile

1. One who is not of the Jewish faith or is of a non-Jewish nation.
2. A Christian.
3. Archaic. A pagan or heathen.

() So, by DEFI-FREAKIN-NITION, I should not be receiving matches from J-Date. I'm a heathen for Chrissake! What nice girl wants a heathen? (Grrrrrrrrrowwlll)

In closing, please stop sending me daily matches for women who do not want to date me, are too far away to date me, or only want to date me to get back at their parents.

Yours truly,

AJ "the Gentile" Gentile

 

The Dumb Things White Guys Do

I ordered Thai food tonight because frankly there is no good Chinese food in Los Angeles.

How can that be?? No good Chinese Food??

I'm 2,000 miles *closer* to China than I was in New York City. And yet, "New York Chinese" is far superior than "LA Chinese". It's frustrating really. What I wouldn't give for the Chicken w/ Broccoli from Grand Szechuan around the corner from my 34st apartment. (sigh) That place was the best, Jerry. The best.

See, I didn't expect to find decent Italian or pizza (I haven't, there isn't)*. But I really *did* think that any and all Asian would represent.

I was wrong.

The Viatnamese chow is good here. But I wasn't Pheeling the Pho, so I went with Thai tonight.

The delivery man arrives, The check is $14.50, I lay a $20 on him and tell him to keep it. Yeah, I'm a good tipper like that: (I'm a former service industry slave).

He smiles and NODS "thank you."

He nods. Make sure you get that. He NODS.

I smile and BOW "you're welcome."

Yep.

I freakin' *BOWED* at this man.

ACCIDENTALLY.

It sorta... just... happened.

I'm such an idiot.

Why do I do that? (This is not an isolated incident)

As I bowed, I could hear that Chinese Gonnnnnnnnnng in the back of my mind. (Or maybe it was a Gong Show gong. Not sure.)

What am I doing? Why am I bowing to this stranger? We are not about to engage in Mortal Kombat: flying tree top to roof top locked in some battle of good versus delivery.

I'm not this man's grasshoppa. He is not my Mr. Miyagi.

He's not even my Arnold from Happy Days. Or my Chaci. Or my Charles in Charge. Or ANYTHING. He's just a nice fella who brought my dinner.

I'm bowing at this poor man.

But he's a nice, polite Asian gentleman. So what does he do? Naturally, he bows back.

What?!

So, completely mortified that I may offend him *further*, I bow in return.

And then he bows. Again. So here we are, in my doorway: he with a fistfull of cash, me with a fistfull of noodles: bowing, bowing, bowing at each other.

And I feel like an moron.

(But the noodles were great.)

I just hope, for my own sake, that they send a white guy next time. Then we can high-five or throw each other the goat or pound fists or do whatever-the-hell it is that we weiße Völker do. Anything. ANYTHING to keep me from making cross-culture ass out of myself yet again.

Or maybe I can just order Mexican.

* Before you tell me where the good LA Italian food is, please identify yourself as being BORN in New York or Chicago. Anyone else: With respect and gratitude, please move along as you know not of what you speak.I can test you on this.