To discuss Aeropostale and the panty table

First, a footnote.*

So I actually got to go shopping last week. I never go shopping anymore. If it's not food or gas or the occasional cocaine binge with a one-eyed drifter, I don't buy it.

But Aeropostale was having one of its 50 percent off sales, so I stopped in. Quick question: If you are constantly having sales, is it still a sale if nothing is ever regularly priced?

I ended up buying a new messenger bag that is very Joseph Gordon-Levitt in (500) Days of Summer, but without an accompanying Zooey.

But my shopping trip only concluded after I was reminded of one indisputable and increasingly obvious fact, one that I have mentioned on here before but bears repeating: I am getting too old to shop in some of the stores of my youth.

Aeropostale, if you don't know, is kind of like the Gap but without the insistence that jeans cost $70 to manufacture. It also caters to teenagers. Heavily. But they always have nice jeans on sale, and hoodies and t-shirts and that kind of thing, so whatevs, beggars can't be choosers.

But it's to the point now where I feel like I have to apologize for shopping there.

Teenage girl: "Aren't you a little old for this store?"

Me, holding up a pair of jeans: "Me? No! These are for my, err... son. He's... um... two-elvnty years old, and he's big for his age and wears... well, evidently, a 32X32."

All of the sales staff need a photo ID to get into rated R movies. And PG-13 movies.

And worst of all, there's the panty table. Now here's the thing about Aeropostale: They always have a giant, round table with tons of brightly colored panties strewn about. And that table is always right near the cash register. So every time I want to buy something, I have to stand beside some 13-year-old girl holding up a pair of pink panties that say "Cutie" on the butt. They couldn't move that table elsewhere? No?

The thing is, I don't want to have to start shopping in the "men's stores." I don't want to buy chinos and oversized polo shirts with sea bass prints.

And you wonder why I mostly stick to buying vintage clothes at Goodwill. No panty table.
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* I've never started a post with a footnote before, but I've also never written so little as I have in the past few weeks. Well, my musical opened, with no more practices, so I'll have a life again for the first time since the spring. And I also am starting to feel humorous again, so that helps. Nice to be back, kids.
Sidenote 1: I think in a few weeks, I'll actually, truly, honestly do my first open mic night. I'll keep you updated and post a video.
Sidenote 2: I'm no longer dating Belle, who I mentioned a few posts ago, but we remain friends. As my sister put it, I am an expert on being the friendly ex-boyfriend. Just not good at being the boyfriend.

To discuss a two-week Weekend Update, Part One

The past two weeks have flown by... in that time, we've crowned a Top Model and an American Idol, my computer died, I was told to grow a mustache and I visited one of America's finest imported retailers.
To catch up on lost blogging (see: died, computer), here's a two-part Weekend Update, starting off with my trip to a nearby amusement park, Hershey Park, that, coincidentally, is not too far from where Jon and Kate Plus 8 Plus 1 Mistress live. I did not see them, although at least if they do visit, they have an even number of kids for the rides. I think it would have been acceptable, if they instead had quintuplets, to go for one more baby to even that out. Or to "forget" one near a hospital entrance. Whatever is easiest.
Weekend Number 1:

• My last visit to Hershey Park about 13 years ago. I have since have become an old man. At least, that's what I infer from the age bracket most of the tweenage park visitors seemed to belong to, a bracket full of "Oh my God you guys!" "He, like, likes me, but I, like, like his friend or whatever" and "I'm not fully aware yet that it's inappropriate for me to show cleavage like this in public, since I only developed cleavage three weeks ago and now I'm jail bait's jail bait."

• Some men determine their manhood through such trials as football, ultimate fighting or wearing loin cloths. I believe I determined mine on the first roller coaster, Fahrenheit, which immediately takes you straight up into the sky. Straight Up.* At one point, I saw Jesus, then determined it couldn't have been Jesus because Jesus, historically speaking, would not have been tall enough to be on the ride... I think I retained my man card on the coaster, as I didn't cry or scream.***
• Capricorn and I rode four roller coasters... but she didn't get scared until she noticed an approaching thunderstorm and was convinced a bolt of lightning amidst the towering steel would strike us all dead. Although that theory only works if you are Wile E. Coyote, we ran for shelter nonetheless as the storm poured on. Next time, I'll skip the admission tickets and just rent "Twister" to give Capricorn the same level of excitement and fear, plus a pre-famous Philip Seymour Hoffman, a pre-Big Love Bill Paxton and a Mad-About-You Helen Hunt. Now that, friends, is the perfect storm.
• Capricorn informed me I'm not allowed to become a carny.
• Why can't public transportation replicate the thrill of a roller coaster? We'd solve this energy crisis and increase light rail use if we could make the rides include loops, powered launches and steep drops.****
• Speaking of which, the visit inspired me to play a computer game for the first time since my Oregon Trail days. And, if you read the ensuing post, you know what happened next with Roller Coaster Tycoon. Epic Computer Fail. Epic Virus Win. At that moment, I hated all roller coasters not named Ben.
• Not an Epic Fail: This photo of Capricorn and I on a wooden roller coaster. Fortunately, I was wearing my adult diaper.

* Now tell me, are you gonna love me forever?**
** Oh Oh Oh.
*** Just kidding. I haven't had a man card since I first walked into Express Men.
**** Also, if there were fewer creepy people who twitch and grin at you with four teeth.

Come back for part II midday...

To discuss a birthday gift from down under

I'm 26 today. For the record, I was 9 pounds, 11 ounces at birth, a fact my mother reminds me of with great frequency, as if I was chomping on Twinkies and HoHos in the womb. Mom, it was all water weight- I felt so bloated that day.

While I adjust to life in my late 20s, I decided I'd let Southern Belle takeover with one of her now infamous Aussie definition posts. For the occasion, she even busted out an entirely appropriate Wild ARS Chase word. Enjoy, and I'll check back with you all later, after several pieces of cake and the regrets of 25 years of wallowing in self-loathing. I'm sure there will be a post full of reflections soon.
So, thanks, Southern Belle. I knew I gave you an award for a reason.
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Aussie Dictionary: Fart-ARSing around

[OK, normally we don't capitalize the ARS is the middle of fart-arsing, but since this is in your honor, WildARS, it had to be done.]

to fart-arse around: (verb)

1. to mess around with something, possibly even though you're not quite sure what you're doing.
As in "We had to call a plumber after my husband decided to fart-arse around with the pipes under the sink."

2. to generally waste time in various meaningless activities. Similar to pottering around.
As in "There wasn't much to do at work today; I spent most of the afternoon fart-arsing around on the internet."

Also to piss-fart around.

[Happy Birthday, Andy WildARS!]