Posted by Toby at 12:32 PM | Permalink

Ethan Gray writes about his "date" with a porn actor:

... Orchids. The sweet smell of purple orchids and my name written on a small envelope. Breathe in. No one's ever sent me flowers before. Who's it from? A phone call. His voice on the other end of the line. An invitation to dinner and a movie.

He picked me up in a convertible. A quick drive to the theater. No, he wouldn't let me pay. Not for the tickets, not for the popcorn, not for the French food or the California wine. He was shy, sweet, attentive. A gentleman who drove me home and parked the car so he could walk me to the door. A hug, a kiss on the cheek, a bashful smile. A date with a porn star.

What! Am I being lead to believe that porn actors not only are people, but also go on dates? Hmm. Sounds like your average outcall service to me, even with the all-inclusive orchids and boxed wine.

Oh, who am I kidding - Ethan went on a date with a porn actor and I'm jealous. Whatever, dude. I have my own little get-togethers with Michael Lucas, Chad Hunt and Bruce Beckham every single night - and at least things end with an orgasm!

But back to the orchids. Ha. So cheesy, right? So cheesy, and yet so rarely given, at least to guys - gay guys, especially. Flowers are just so obvious - too obvious - that we think of other ways to convey affection for our boyfriends. Expensive dinners at fancy restaurants, expensive clothes from fancy stores, expensive bracelets from fancy jewelers. The $10 bouquet is just so ordinary that it's never even factored into the equation.

I remember the last time a guy gave me flowers. The last time was the first time. It was my 19th birthday (only three years ago, people) and when I came back to my dorm room from class, there was a small bouquet of flowers on my desk. "Frankie left those for you," said my awful, awful, awful roommate, who was there to accept the flowers in my absence since he'd never leave the room. "And there's a card, too." Cool.

I opened the card and - um, wow. You know, I don't remember what was written inside the card! It was something really touching and sweet, I know that. But I honestly don't remember what it was. Ha! Finally! I am one step closer to getting over my second-semester-freshman-year boyfriend. It's about damn fucking time.

Anyway, what I do remember is the intoxicating rush of butterflies I felt in my stomach, just from having been given flowers from a boy. It was such a simple, charming, perfect gesture that I imagined the only logical denouement to be a shared milkshake at a diner. Make sure I'm home before midnight, Frankie. And get that hand out from under my blouse.

Ah, those stupid fucking flowers. Boy, did I fall for it, or what?

Posted by Toby at 01:14 PM | Permalink

Can you guess the pre-op celebrity below?

Give up? Oh, come on, it's not that hard!

Way to go, Matt Dillon. This is an example of a very good nose job. I can't wait until I'm old enough to have plastic surgery!

Posted by Toby at 07:15 AM | Permalink

God hates me because it rained today — just as I was leaving my top-floor corner office with a view. I stepped outside at 6:30 p.m., and as if on cue, the skies parted like the legs of whatever whore my ex-boyfriend is fucking these days, showering me with resentment and indignation. Fuck you, rain. Fuck you the maximum amount!

Whenever it rains, I can usually expect a text message from Stephen. The rain turns him on, or so he texts. "You know the rain makes me horny. I want your tight hole." Um, okay. That is just plain gross. I don't need to read a text message like that when I'm in the middle of shopping for ground beef at Safeway. "Who just texted you?" my roommate will invariably ask, noticing my widening eyes gawking at my cell phone. Oh, no one. Just Stephen.

I call him Stephen because, well, that's the name he gave me, although my friends say he is a male escort, so who knows what his real name is. But what kind of male escort would go out of his way to have sex with me, for free? And what kind of male escort would have a penis the size of a baby carrot? Sorry, that was mean. But, come on, it was small. Own it.

Stephen is a body builder. Did I mention that yet? That's right — a body builder. He'd flex while fucking me. I'm not even kidding. While on his bed and my back, I took a break from wondering when I'd get a chance to smoke my next cigarette to look up at him and see that he was actually flexing. I told myself then and there that I would never have sex with him again. I broke that covenant only twice. Sue me.

Deep down, I like Stephen, but if his salacious text messages are any indication, he wants me only for sex. I don't play that game. Besides, he is apparently married to a woman in Philly, and given his rumored extracurricular activities as a male escort, this is one body builder who I don't need flexing his muscle inside of me.

By the way, Stephen, if you read this, disregard everything I just wrote and TEXT ME AS SOON AS GOD DAMN FUCKING POSSIBLE. It's gonna be, um, pretty rainy tomorrow.

The story of how Stephen and I met is actually pretty ridiculous, so if you want me to write about it, let me know and I'll blog that shit.

UPDATE: Yes, I know that my layout is all fucked up in Internets Explorer. That is what happens when you get drunk and start fucking around with HTML. If anyone knows CSS and can help me make sure that the left part of my blog stays at the TOP where it belongs, please e-mail me. Thanks!

Posted by Toby at 10:52 PM | Permalink

This hottie impressed the judges on "So You Think You Can Dance?" tonight. The only cute gay guy on the show so far.

Hmm — what is worse? Watching reality TV, or being a TOTAL FUCKING STALKER?

Posted by Toby at 08:49 PM | Permalink

He takes the morning bus to the Van Ness Metro station, then gets on the train. But after the day is over, he gets off at Van Ness and walks the distance to his apartment. I wonder if he knows that transfering from a Metro train to a bus is cheaper than a bus to a train — much cheaper! He probably doesn't even notice the charges to his Metro card. He's the kind of guy who'd close his eyes while getting raped. He just doesn't want to know. Hell, I'd keep my eyes wide open. I want to own the injustice. It's why I monitor my Metro spending so carefully.

But, yeah. I see him every morning on my bus. For about two minutes. Our brief love affair begins and ends with the brief glance we exchange as he boards. Who even knows if he's looking at me — he's wearing some faggoty pair of sunglasses. Yes, wearing sunglasses on public transportation is pretty damn gay, but it doesn't necessarily mean that you're checking me out. But, let's be honest, who wouldn't check me out. The pickings on Metrobus are slim, so I have at least that going for me.

The payoff comes at the end of the day, when the odds of spotting my Metro boyfriend are in my favor. We must leave our respective offices at the same time, because we're often on the same train home. We get off at the same stop, and yet, as I transfer to the bus, he walks. I want to scream, "Take the bus, Forrest! Take the bus!" But instead, he walks.

Behind your gay sunglasses are what I imagine to be green eyes. I like your expensive haircut. I like the way your ass fills your black pants. I like the way you run across Connecticut Avenue to catch the morning bus, as if you're casually completing the Tour de France.

Sit next to me tomorrow.

Of course, if we actually spoke, the relationship would stumble along for three months and then end in disaster, just like all of my other relationships. I'm not in a position to date anyone right now. But it's still nice to have a Metro boyfriend, especially one who doesn't have the misfortune of knowing that I exist.

Posted by Toby at 10:58 PM | Permalink

Not that I've ever signed onto Gay.com, conversed with a man twice my age, driven to his condo in Hoboken, shared a tediously requisite coffee at Starbucks, walked back to his place, and...

Well, that's neither here nor there. BUT —

If you've ever been on the receiving end of hastily delivered fluids from a star-crossed Internet hookup, then Michael Lucas' "Auditions 4" may hit just a little bit too close to home. Ah, "Auditions 4." So hot, yet so uncomfortable. So sexy, yet so humiliating. So charmingly exploitative, yet so socially awkard.

Consider Michael Lucas' smooth-as-your-first-time-getting-fisted segue into intercourse with the red-haired albino Blu:

Michael: What is Enid [your hometown in Oklahoma] famous for?
Blu: Uh, well, the reason I was there was for my parents, for oil fields.
Michael: Oil fields, eh? Pumping, pumping, pumping...

Wow. Subtle. The only thing worse than that pun is if it had been scripted.

You know what, though? Who cares about the dialogue! Sure, it reminds you of the craigslist casual encounter from hell, but Michael Lucas is involved, so the appearance of a rock-hard 10-inch dick is virtually guaranteed. But can you put up with Lucas' kinkiness? Like, for instance, his penchant for incest?

Blu: [On his first fuck] My uncle's tenant.
Michael: [Disturbingly intrigued] Your uncle fucked you...?
Blu: Um, no. My uncle's tenant.
Michael: [Deflated] Oh. Tenant.

Sigh. Michael's fantasy of sleeping with a victim of interfamilial romance has, for the time being, been squashed. But give the man five minutes and he's over it — more pressing matters have come forward, that being Blu's gaping manhole. To be honest, I scanned forward — salute the Japanese flag and you'll see what I mean.

Overall, "Auditions 4" is an excellent DVD. Sure, Michael's vignette with Blu is a bit strange, but the multiracial threeway more than makes up for it. Also, there's a sexy surprise at the end. I won't say what it is for fear of being labeled a pervert. But it's pretty hot.

Having watched all of "Auditions 4," I still don't know what to think of Michael Lucas. I certainly would never have sex with him. Reminds me too much of an ex-boyfriend. But there's something cute about him. Maybe it's the lips. Or the language barrier. Or the 10-inch dick. Well, he'd want you to think it's the 10-inch dick, but it's something else.

Haven't put my finger on it, but maybe after watching "Auditions 4" again tonight, I'll come up with the answer. ;)

UPDATE: Michael Lucas e-mailed me to clarify his creepy "pumping" pun:

When Blu said that his parents owned oil fields, I couldn't help but think of the line from the movie Sunset Blvd, when Gloria Swanson said, "I am a rich woman. I have oil fields pumping, pumping, pumping." But I guess my Gloria Swanson impression wasn't that good.

I forgive you, Michael. You're only human.

Posted by Toby at 10:12 PM | Permalink

Oh my god.

How am I not hung over?

Sure, there are the usual morning-after questions. What did I do last night? How did I get home? Why is there water spilled all over my dresser?

But seriously. How am I not hung over?

IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!

Posted by Toby at 10:43 AM | Permalink

Why do crackheads ride Metrobus at night? Because they're crackheads, and that is what crackheads do best: make poor life choices with no mind paid to reason or consequence. Granted, crackheads have nowhere to be on time — they have nowhere to be, period — so I guess it does make sense for crackheads to depend on Washington's public transportation system for all of their travel needs. But I'm a man on the go, I have places to be, damn it — so there is no excuse on God's green earth for my attempting to take a bus to Cleveland Park tonight.

The bus is supposed to come at 10:04 p.m. Its first stop is only a mile up the road, so there is no possibility of traffic congestion pushing back this time. I get to the bus stop at 9:55, because if Metro isn't late, it's early. Of course, more than 30 minutes later, I realize that Metro arrives neither late nor early — it just doesn't show up at all! Thanks for ruining my night, Metro! Gold stars all around.

You know, I was really looking forward to getting wasted at Atomic Billiards and seeing my friend Blair, who is visiting from New York. But like a rehabilitating crackhead, I must fight recidivism and instead take a god damn fucking cab next time. Ah, if only the D.C. Taxicab Commission operated in the interest of those who actually live here rather than the tourists who spend all of their time in a five-mile radius of the White House.

But that is an entry for another time. Good night, and don't even think of riding the bus.

UPDATE: I am not alone in my hatred of all things Metrobus.

Posted by Toby at 12:13 AM | Permalink

1. Entering your long-lost ex-boyfriend's screen name.
2. Entering your long-lost ex-boyfriend's other screen name.
3. Entering your long-lost ex-boyfriend's boyfriend's screen name and interpreting his astronomical score as an indictment of the motherfucker's sluttiness.

Read the Washington Post article, then FIGHT!

My screen name is vividblurry. Did ya beat me?

Posted by Toby at 08:23 AM | Permalink

I'm sorry, but I could have told you this two years ago. He spoke to my politics class when we visited Sen. Santorum's office on the Hill. The guy's speech was pretty boring, but a defense of Santorum's opposition to LGBT rights is always entertaining when uttered with a lisp.

Posted by Toby at 08:21 AM | Permalink

What do you do when you have so much on your mind but when you sit down to write, nothing comes out?

I should start a LiveJournal or something. Sometimes I think that this blog is more trouble than it's worth, you know?

Hmm. Basically, there are days when I feel like being entertaining, and there are days when I feel like writing about my feelings, my troubles and my mother. Today is one of those days — ha ha.

I watched "Nanny 911" tonight. What a truly amazing show. The mother reminded me of my own. She didn't know how to communicate with her children. She couldn't teach them to express their feelings because she didn't know how to express her own feelings. It was so sad.

I cried at the end. Nanny Deb was brought to tears by the mother's achievements. And by achievements, I mean sitting down with her daughter and saying that she loved her. The nine-year-old girl had exploded into tears. It was so sad.

All this talk of expressing one's feelings and "using one's words." One memory jumps to mind of when, out of character, I expressed my feelings and "used my words" in front of my mother. It was the night before I left for my freshman year of college, and my mother wouldn't let me leave the house to say goodbye to my friend. I said to her face that she was a bitch. At the time she was, even if she didn't know he was my boyfriend. (Although, mothers always know.)

Needless to say, I don't always recommend "using your words" in front of your mother!

This blog probably isn't the best place for these rants, for a few reasons. Mainly because they are so fucking boring. LiveJournal sounds pretty sweet to me, baby.

Honestly, are you bored by these entries? Or would you rather I be all drunk, all bitter, all the time? I don't know.

Posted by Toby at 09:35 PM | Permalink

1. "When he's looks into my eyes, I'm so powerless."

2. "I don't think there's any girl out there that wouldn't do what I did."

3. "From the moment I met him, it just felt like I'd known him forever."

4. "When he's looking into my eyes, it's like he's looking into my soul."

5. Regarding the first date: "It was perfect."

6. "I've found the man of my dreams."

7. "I've never, ever felt this way."

8. "I think the passion we experienced is very dangerous."

9. "I don't think a lot of people understand him."

10. "He's my man! He's my man!"

[Answers: Anna: 1, 2, 4, 5, 8, 9. Katie: 3, 6, 7, 10.]

BONUS: Occupations of "Hunks" on "Average Joe," According to NBC

1. Waiter/ Model
2. Club Promoter/ Model
3. Former Ballet Dancer/ Bartender/ Model
4. Fitness Trainer/ Model
5. Distribution Company Owner/ Model
6. Bartender for Elton John

The Pink Floyd buddy icon is fellow blogger Rhiannon.

Related: Pearl of Young Bradford’s Wisdom, or Hilary Duff Lyric?

Posted by Toby at 08:27 PM | Permalink

Let me begin this entry with some sad news: Freda, the wife of Don Geronimo from the "Don & Mike" radio show, died Sunday in a head-on collision in Ocean City. I found out about this last night on the evening news, and I couldn't help but cry, because as a commenter on DCist wrote, it's like I've lost an extended family member. Freda would always call into the show and lovingly scold Don for being such a crazy retard, and Don would end each show by saying "Love you, Freda; Love you, Bart" (his 20 y.o. son). I listened to this show all the time in high school and Don's sense of humor is reflected in my blog every day. Keep Don and his family in your thoughts today!

Moving on...

Oh man, my "Starve Wars" T-shirt finally arrived in the mail yesterday, and I want to wear it sooo badly, but ironic apparel is not allowed in the office, so I will just wear it on the weekend when I go back to the Green Lantern (just kidding). But seriously, the shirt looks great on me (my god, it's a size medium, I am getting so FAT) and I owe it all to Trent for pointing it out. P.S. It's his birf today!

Anyway, wanna guess what HASN'T come in the mail? No, not more porn from Michael Lucas (he sent me his latest Auditions DVD, I will post a review later this week). Actually, it's the CEO of Marvelous Market who has failed to apologize on behalf of the bitch manager who works across the street from my lofty pre-war apartment with hardwood floors and a doorman.

Surely you remember this fiasco. Obviously, it's been, like, two weeks so I'm totally over it, but it nevertheless pisses me off that I sent the letter over a week ago and I still haven't heard back from anyone at M.M. Now, I'm not really one to talk, since whenever you guys send me e-mails, it takes me like 6-8 weeks to reply, but this is slightly different.

Oh well, who cares. So I must tell all of you about the greatest achievement in Western Civilization since the advent of reality television programming: it is called "CVS selling alcohol!" Oh my god, it is simply brilliant. I live right near one of the few CVS stores in The DC that sell beer and wine along with greeting cards and feminine products, and it is just too convenient for words. Yesterday after work, I needed to pick up some self-tanner and hairspray at the CVS, which justified a quick detour just two aisles over to the wine section. I picked up a $6.99 bottle of red spumante, popped it in my freezer when I got home, and enjoyed it one hour later during the very-special episode of "Hell's Kitchen" aka THE BEST SHOW EVS.

If you haven't seen this show, then you are missing out. The host - Chef Ramsay - is such a huge frightening asshole that Fox airs a parental advisory before each episode. The great thing about this show is that you not only see the pressures put on the chefs and wait staff, but you also see the obnoxious patrons who bitch about their ceasar salad not being cut to their liking and are just totally oblivious to the drama in the kitchen.

When I first watched "Hell's Kitchen" and saw Chef Ramsay tear into the contestants, it was enough to make me cry. I remember last summer when I was waiting tables, and the head chef would just scream at anyone who made a little mistake, and even though you wanted to defend yourself, you COULDN'T, because it would ruin the flow of the evening and everything would get messed up. It was definitely not unusual for me to break down crying on a particularly stressful Friday night shift. So when I watch the contestants on "Hell's Kitchen" take the abuse from Chef Ramsay like little bitches, I can totally understand. It's hard work being a chef, and "Hell's Kitchen" makes that clear.

Augh - enough about reality tv. Before I go, I want to share this little anecdote about my bus commute this morning.

Every day, I sit in the same seat on the bus, with my black messenger bag, my bagged lunch, and my iPod plugged neatly into my ears. Usually I listen to something shitty and unbecoming, such as the Lindsay Lohan CD, which is why I keep the volume down, to avoid offendeing fellow passengers and to also avoid embarrassing myself.

So half way through the route, some limp-wristed specimen boards the bus and sashays to the seat behind me. He has an iPod too, but even with mine plugged in, I can STILL hear the awful sound of techno music blasting from his earphones. Oh my god, it was a total auditory abortion, like the soundtrack to the life of an aging meth addict. And of course, everyone on the bus can hear it, and they all turn to look at ME, as if I'M the one playing my music too loud!

So for the entire bus ride, passengers keep turning their heads to me with dirty looks, openly judging me for my awful taste in music (which I will own up to, since I was listening to Lindsay at the time) but ALSO for my terrible manners, which is RIDICULOUS, because all the blame rests on the guy behind me!

Augh, anyway, I figure that once I get off at my stop and the awful music remains blasting, then my name will finally be cleared. But of course HE GETS OFF AT THE SAME STOP AS ME, so everyone on the bus still thinks I'm a crazy homo who's stuck in a k-hole and is convinced it's still Saturday night at Nation.

Not that I care what anyone who takes public transit thinks of me, but still.

Have a great day, everyone!! Is there anything fun going on tonight?

Posted by Toby at 09:29 AM | Permalink

Ahoy, mateys! Yet another glorious work week approaches on the horizon - are you ready for it? I'm not!

Just kidding - I'm actually in a really great mood and I have a feeling that this will be one of those awesome office-classy, evening-sassy weeks (I stole that from an infomercial for women's slacks, it was either that or watch Joel Osteen talk about fighting depression through prayer - personally I prefer auditing for all of my psychiatric needs).

Anyway, so, in the spirit of free speech and the First Amendment, I have decided to bring back comments for a limited time only. Or maybe they will stick around forever, who knows. But over the weekend I upgraded my site to the new version of Movable Type and installed a plugin that blocks spambots from leaving retarded comments on your blog, so I thought, why not allow my readers to express their love/hatred of my blog in a public forum? But seriously, play nice, everyone.

Did anyone watch "Princes of Malibu" last night? I was sort of excited about it because I tend to be attracted to guys who wear shit-eating grins and walk with big-dick swaggers, but while watching the opening credits, I was just like, WTF?? First of all, their rich "dad" isn't even their dad -- he's their step-dad (their biological father is - brace yourself- Bruce fucking Jenner).

Second, I don't even think the step-dad is that rich. I strongly question the finances of someone who needs to whore out his family on some Fox summer replacement reality show to pay the bills (or, more specifically, his wife's collagen injections). Oh god, the mom's plastic surgery is SO BAD. Her face looks like a tomato. Augh.

Third, Fox depicts brothers Brandon and Brody as living this wild 'n' crazy life, when in fact my life is MUCH crazier. It's like, wow, you play drums in a band, you come from a broken home, and you drive your dad's car all over the front lawn. Um, yea, the last time I checked, that's called being WHITE TRASH. Personally, I've engaged in some pretty zany antics, and I don't need somebody else's money to do it.

Just consider what happened on Friday night. My friends and I go to the Green Lantern where my friend is bartending, and there is this $9 all-you-can-drink special, which I interpret quite literally and drink practically all the vodka-sodas short of warranting a medical transport. (Always drink vodka-sodas - no calories!)

After my fourth drink, I look around and realize that everyone is standing around in their underwear - hey, it's Underwear Night! Now, the first thing I said to my friend before we left my apartment is that under NO circumstances should I be allowed to take off my shirt, let alone my pants. Well, this covenant was promptly broken, and I removed my polo for all the bar patrons to see. My friends just rolled their eyes, though I don't understand how they didn't see this coming seven miles away.

Now, don't continue reading if you are easily offended: Shirtless and smashed, I skip over to a group of guys to say ahoy. Well, I won't get into details, but I was essentially molested, not that I can blame the jolly sex offenders for their actions. However, I removed my shirt to express myself, not to be felt up, so I left the bar and met my friends at a bar across the street...

Wait, did I say bar across the street? Because I surely meant brothel across the street. Let me explain: My friends had left the Green Lantern and went into this nearby bar. When I join them, I see this woman talking to my friend, and the bartender approaches us and shows my friend a Polaroid - IT'S A NUDE PICTURE OF THE WOMAN TOUCHING HERSELF. The bartender says "You like? What happens here stays here," so using that as our cue to leave, we graciously decline his offer and get the hell out of Dodge.

Oh god, it was just so awful, and when I woke up the next morning, there was a half-eaten waffle stuck to my face. Classy!

Sorry that my entries have been so scattered lately, but I write them before going to bed, so I'm always in a rush. Have a great Monday!!

Posted by Toby at 09:18 AM | Permalink

Oh man, the greatest thing happened on the bus to work this morning, and no, it didn't involve a bomb (thank god) or the fat, nasty, unfriendly driver or even one of the many local (not that they have a home, they just linger around the area) bus-riding crackheads. This story involves a pale, tubby, middle-aged commuter wearing BLACK JEANS who did something that I would normally feel bad about but will blog about it instead because, c'mon, the guy was wearing BLACK JEANS, okay?? He had it coming.

So as we all know, it is monsoon season here in The DC, and this morning it was raining donkeys and elephants (please write that joke down, you don't even have to give me credit if you use it). Because the average age of Metro buses is about 45, water was leaking through some of the windows and pooling on the seats. And if you think the driver did anything about this (me thinks a possible solution might have involved CLOSING THE WINDOWS), then you are charmingly mistaken because he couldn't even be bothered to change the electronic display screen above the windshield from Irish rock band "U2" to the proper bus route "L2." Thus every single person who boarded the bus would ask, "Is this the L2?" and the driver would be like, "Yea, this be the L2," as if it were the stupiest question to ask and driving a bus in circles all day was the most emotionally draining occupation of all time.

Anyway! Back to my story.

So the guy in black jeans gets on the bus only to find that Metro only accepts exact change. Oh, no, well, that isn't exactly true -- Metro will GLADLY accept a $20 bill if you don't have the exact $1.25, but if you think for even a second that the driver will make an exception for your exact-changeless ass, then you are shit outta luck, buddy boy. Case in point: One time it was snowing and I only had one dollar in my pocket, and the bitch driver wouldn't let me on. So I had to walk a mile in the snow to get home. This is why I hate Metro with the passion of a thousand religious extremists.

Moving on - the guy eventually finds some change (presumably in the pockets of his awful jeans) and then proceeds to the middle of the bus to find a seat. If you have even the slightest grasp of the literary element of foreshadow, then you know what is about to happen next: The guy sits down and then BOLTS out of seat, screaming, "Ewwwww! I'm wet!" He turns around and lo and behold, there is a nasty wet mark on the seat of his black jeans. Hahahaha! That is what you get for wearing black jeans, and I guarantee that they will still be damp come 5 p.m.

The hilarious thing is that after screaming like a girl for two minutes, he tried to play it off real cool, as if soaking your ass in a stagnant pool of rainwater is just one of the many costs that cool, hip people must put up with on a daily basis. Meanwhile, I continue to stare at him and wonder without any real interest what he must be thinking to himself.

"God! I'm such an IDIOT! I'm so STUPID!" See, if it were me, I would have not taken any responsibility for my actions and blamed the entire thing on the busdriver, and it's quite possible that I would have written a nasty letter about it, too. Though, on the other hand, if it were me, I would not have been wearing black jeans and I most certainly would not have been retarded enough to sit in a pool of water.

Augh, I wanted to vent about my traumatic cab experience last night, but that can wait for later. Today is Friday, so once 6 p.m. rolls around, I can barrel towards fuckedupness like there's no tomorrow. Let me know if anything fun is going on, peace out.

Posted by Toby at 09:29 AM | Permalink

Can you believe that I payed $1.35 for a fucking green apple this morning?!

The Chinese lady at the market across from my office rang my purchase and looked up at me, surprising even herself that a god damn apple could cost $1.35. I caught a trace of confrontation in her eyes, like she was just daring me to protest what was essentially a fiscal rape as far as I'm concerned. But I paid anyway (you know how much I love apples), because bickering over a dollar and change would be the most classless thing I've done since, well, last night, when my bladder nearly exploded in a cab.

Okay, so the Nationals game was totally awesome, but I must insist to all of my readers that urinating BEFORE you leave the stadium is an absolute hands-down must, especially if you were operating on a beer-per-inning schedule. Otherwise you will end up like me, squeezing together your legs in a cab as if the Olsen twins are crowning from your urethra.

After enduring what had to be the longest cab ride of my life, I emerged at McPherson Square, bolted into my friend's office building, ran through the lobby while simultaneously unzipping my pants, and then relieved myself in the men's room to the sound of a thousand angels singing George Michael's "Careless Whisper" (it was in my head at the time). I am forever indebted to my friend for letting me use his office bathroom because if it had not been for him, I would have simply unleashed the impatient fury of my loins unto the nearest alleyway. And then I would have spent the night in jail.

I am definitely going to the next Wednesday homegame cuz tickets are just $5 for those with college IDs, even expired ones such as mine. If you decide to go, hopefully you don't have a fear of crowds, beers that cost $6, or people from Virginia, because those all seemed to be recurring themes last night.

Posted by Toby at 10:15 AM | Permalink

I am off to see the Nationals play the Mets tonight at RFK!

Ha ha, don't I sound like I know what I'm talking about? Oh man, I was there last week and had to ask my friend to help me read the scoreboard. I was seriously like, "Um, where is the thing that tells me what the score is?" And I hadn't even had a beer at that point!

At the time, my friends and I were sitting among families and small children, and I was like, "Whoa, check out that beer vendor, he is so...um, cool..." Boy, I'm just so tragically closeted when placed in a stadium filled with heterosexuals, but whatever, I wasn't really in the mood for a poppin' fresh hate crime courtesy of some redneck from Virginia. Tonight we will be up in the nosebleeds, so if you hear anyone shout, "NICE ASS, PATTERSON!" that will most likely have been me or my four gay friends.

GO TEAM!

P.S. Sorry for the awful pun in the title, sorry sorry sorry!

Posted by Toby at 05:39 PM | Permalink

You may not know this, but I consider myself to be a consumers’ rights advocate in every sense of the title. Sure, I was known to be occasionally rude and aggressive to guests during my brief stint as a server, but I still believe that the customer is always always always right and should get his way no matter the circumstance. And although no one likes the frazzled mother of seven who verbally abuses the teenaged cashier because TJ Maxx does not accept personal checks (TJ Maxx may or may not accept personal checks, I obviously have no empirical evidence to offer here), it must be said that even the most battered customer service representative should have the “soft skills” necessary to placate the world’s more difficult customers.

Which brings me to my next point: I am not a member of the world’s more difficult customers. In fact, I am rather polite to those in the service industry, which explains my expectation to be treated with at least a mutual degree of respect. It dismays me, then, that I must share with you the harrowing tale of my most recent visit to the Marvelous Market (“marvelous” in corporate title only), when I was shunned – shunned! – by a shrewish manager who refused me entry to the store a mere 10 minutes before it was scheduled to open.

Well, after sharing with her my life story and concluding with a compelling reason as to why I needed to purchase an apple at 7:20 a.m., I was permitted into the decidedly unmarvelous Market. But what took place upon my entering the threshold was just so awful that I immediately set to writing the CEO of M.M. a letter when I made it to work that morning.

I am posting the letter below. I will let you know if the CEO ever replies!

To the CEO of Marvelous Market,

Although I’ve enjoyed your selections of fruits and baked goods in the past, I’m disappointed to say that this morning’s visit to the 5035 Connecticut Ave., N.W., location of Marvelous Market fell far short of marvelous.

Out of habit, I begin my mornings with apple slices and peanut butter. I usually buy apples from the Safeway on Connecticut Avenue, but today I ran out, so I dashed to the Marvelous Market across the street from my apartment before catching the bus to work.

When I opened the door to the store, a woman curtly greeted me.

“Sir, we don’t open until 7:30 a.m.”

I looked down at my watch.

It was 7:20 a.m.

“That’s in 10 minutes,” I said. “I just need to buy an apple. Is that alright?”

The woman sighed and let me into the store. I thanked her, selected an apple from the cooler, and walked to the register.

My voyage from the door to the cooler to the register had taken no more than 15 seconds, but it was enough to aggravate the woman who had initially greeted me.

“See, this is why I don’t open the store early,” she said, without elaborating.

Her coworker behind the register was equally gruff. “I haven’t even counted the money drawer yet!” she exclaimed.

Now, I came into the store to buy an apple, not to be humiliated by the staff. I took two dollars from my pocket and placed it on the table.

“If this is really such a huge problem, you can take my money and I’ll just leave.”

The woman at the register admitted that the apple was just 69 cents. I took back one of my dollars and bolted for the door, with no intention of ever returning to the store.

Listen – I’ve worked as a sales associate at [clothing store], a server at [restaurant - NOT a chain], and a promotions assistant at [somewhere]. I know what it’s like to deal with difficult customers. However, I subscribe to the belief that the customer is always right, and I’m sure you’ll agree that politely asking to buy an apple from a store 10 minutes before it opens is not an outlandish request. The staff at your 5035 Connecticut Ave., N.W., store is rude, and they did a very good job this morning of alienating a potential customer and ensuring that he’d never shop at the store again.

(However, I absolutely love the staff at your 1511 Connecticut Ave., N.W., location, and since it is near my office, I will continue to shop there for my daily muffin and Diet Coke!)

Sincerely,

Toby Halliwell

If you aren't choking back a tear, then you have no soul!

Posted by Toby at 01:18 PM | Permalink

I spend most of my evenings making a nice dinner for one and then sitting down for an hour or two of reality television. It's not very glamorous, but I must admit to getting a little excited when my favorite show comes on. (I absolutely love "Hell's Kitchen," and "Trading Spouses" has been really good lately!)

Why dinner for one? Well, I do have a roommate. But instead of returning to the apartment after work or meeting up for happy hour, she journeys to her alma mater to sit in on evening classes. She says she is merely fulfilling her (belated) desire to "learn," but I'm not sure where this desire was three months ago when we were getting wasted at noon and skipping our 2 p.m. block classes. Whatever. I feel appropriately challenged at work, and I have no intention of reuniting with the inner academic I had four years to get out of my system. That chapter of my life is closed — for now.

So now it's 9:30 p.m., and if I had the nerve, I'd put a glass of water on the windowsill and go to bed. But that is a dangerous trend I refuse to spark. My grandmother isn't even in bed by this hour! I would go out to a bar, but I am one of those people who needs to be in bed at a decent hour (read: 11:30 p.m., the absolute latest) if he is to be even remotely functional the next morning. I bet you had no idea just how lame I am, did you?

Hmm. I think my current situation is the reason why God invented marijuana.

Before I go, let me just say that I've seen a fuck-ton of movies lately. "Bewitched" sucks; it is wholly unwatchable. (Five people left the theater within the first half hour!) "Herbie" is excellent, if only because Lindsay Lohan looks strung out in every scene. And finally, I must give two thumbs up to "Saving Face" — Chinese people are crazy but hilarious.

Yawn — time for bed. I'm not sure what my roommate is "learning" in class tonight, but if it is related to the inquisitive phrase she typed into my Google search bar this weekend, then I don't want to know:

Posted by Toby at 10:03 PM | Permalink