To discuss a Weekend Update: Open letter edition

Dear Food Network:
It is patently unfair for you, at 1 a.m., to play an episode of Diners, Drive-ins and Dives about the best places to get Southern barbecue, when you know I can't do anything at that late hour to make said barbecue appear before my very eyes. Next time, why don't you just dangle adoption papers in front of one of Sarah McLachlan's abused puppies?

Dear state liquor store owner:
If you're trying to drum up business, perhaps you shouldn't play the Christian praise and worship song, "I Can Only Imagine," on the overhead speakers whilst people try to decide how to get drunk. I know Jesus drank wine, but I doubt he drank rum.

Dear Chili's:
I would like to congratulate you on your honey chipotle chicken tenders. My titillated tongue had so many orgasms that my teeth asked if it was faking them.

Dear bloggers:
I had a hunch there were lots of you who had taken a blogging hiatus in 2009, which is why I set up my last post to help you get the word out about your return (it's been constantly updated with all of your news). I just didn't realize my hunch was so right on ... wow. Thanks for all the updates, and thanks to those bloggers (see, KAT?) who made it through all of 2009 with nary a break. You will be rewarded in heaven with 72 virgins or 72 virgin daiquiris, depending on your preference.

Dear Capricorn:
You successfully became the first person ever to get me to drink that much in one sitting. What's more, the neighbors likely enjoyed me trying to drunk walk the dogs. I consider it an all-around success. The only thing we failed at was making MTV "True Life" into a drinking game; "House Hunters" would have been much easier. "Jersey Shore" would have resulted in alcohol poisoning for all involved. P.S. Love you

Dear Kohl's:
I don't know how to say this. I've never done this before, and my confession will likely land me in the slammer. Here goes. *deep breath* For some reason, you had a perfectly fine $120 cashmere red sweater on sale for $17. I couldn't resist, and I bought it. I basically stole that sweater from you. Please don't hold it against me.

Dear Andrew from the "Real World: DC":
Stop trying to sleep with every female cast member. And tell Ashley that Mike is gay, so she should stop trying to be with him. She has the wrong parts. Unless she will reveal next episode she's transgendered, but c'mon, this is Real World, stuff like that nev ... Hmm ... On second thought, Andrew, hold on to that last request.

To discuss shopping, crying and my foot in my mouth

Last week was a long, long week for me. Not because it was any harder than the others, any harder than yours, any harder than Michael Phelps. It was just one of those weeks.
And so, for no particular reason other than it seemed like a good idea and it was convenient, I decided to drink alone on Friday night.
A contextual thought: I'm not a drinker. On my 21st birthday, I was the designated driver. And on my ex-fiance's 21st birthday, which may be my favorite story to tell (and one day will be told here), I was completely sober. I don't like beer (and if you say you do- Liar!). I don't like drinking anything that doesn't taste good, so that rules out drinking something just to get plastered.
Back to Friday. I bought a six-inch Subway Melt on honey oat, then walked over to the liquor store. Nobody asked for my ID, which either means it's the high schoolers favorite spot, or I'm aging faster than Amy Winehouse. While browsing the aisles, a kid who may or may not have been young enough to try out for High School Musical tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a bottle. "Man, uh, can you tell me if this is Jagermeister?" I guess the German threw him off; He was probably looking for something called "Yeah Grr My Stir."
I didn't have the heart to lie to him and point to a bottle of Captain Morgan instead, so I told him yes so he could hurry out and drink it in a back alley, free to feel inebriated with friends, pee in public and mistakingly think a hot girl's interested in him. Should be a good night for him, indeed.
I then grabbed old standbys- Kahlua and Bailey's Irish Cream (told you I'm not a big drinker), paid and went home.
Now if you're going to drink alone, you really gotta drink alone. You have to watch a movie by yourself or some other isolated activity (I watched '21.' A review is likely coming soon). You have to look somber. And you have to have no other real purpose. I drank three huge glasses of that stuff. Another highlight of my year, brought to you by isolation and depravity.
I slept in like a college student on Saturday, until past noon, when I heard a lot of voices outside my apartment, which is in a complex. My dog, who had been holding in pee so long that kidney damage likely set in, licked my face a few times, eager to go outside. I tossed on some mesh shorts and stumbled outside.
That's when my dog ran into somebody. Because, right beside my apartment, in a huge open area, a major community yard sale (tag sale for you New England folk) was going on. And I was standing in the middle of it, half-naked, half-awake, with a dog unleashing golden kidney fury beside a table full of Hummel collectibles.
I quickly came back in, took a quick shower, and came back outside to look at all the activity.
And that's when I took an unexpected trip down nostalgia lane. A few items I found but did not purchase (tell me if you've owned these):

• Mall Madness... I've played Mall Madness before. Several times, actually. For some unknown reason, there was a Mall Madness game inside my Chemistry classroom in high school. We played all the time instead of doing lab work. In a related incident, I got my worst grade of high school in that class. I blame it on the periodic table.
• Dream Phone... Seems kind of antiquated now that there are cell phones, right?
• EZ Bake Oven... That thing must cause cancer. It just has to. It can't be safe to whip up some chemical ingredients and cook it in a pink plastic deathtrap.
• Abs of Steel... I passed on this, since I have more versatile Abs of Cotton- the fabric of our lives.
• Clue... WTH. Did you hear that this classic board game is being revamped, with new characters? They are making everyone more modern. No more Colonel Mustard. He's now Jack Mustard, a former football player. Miss Scarlet is now a celebrity named Kasandra Scarlet* who, for Clue purposes, is essentially Paris Hilton. Mr. Green is now a black guy. And no more revolver, either. It's been replaced with another weapon- perhaps the ebola virus or an EZ Bake Oven- I didn't check.

I did, however, buy a Christmas compilation record, "Classic Noel." And I do mean record. That's how I roll.

But, oh, if that were the end of things. I had to go to the mall to use a gift certificate at Old Navy, and I ended up looking around afterward for black dress shoes. While looking through the aisles, a customer associate was helping out a middle-age Hispanic man, who also wanted black dress shoes, but didn't like the price of his favorite pair. After faking like he was going to leave twice, the associate gave him a 30 percent discount. Nice, right? You gotta make a sale, after all.
I was excited, because I was basically looking at the same kind of shoes. When I went up to check out, the same associate asked me if I found everything I needed.
Me: "Yeah, I believe so. But I was really hoping this pair would be on sale. The price is a little high for what I need."
Associate: "I don't believe these are on sale, sorry. But they're really nice."
Me: "Hmm. Don't you think you might be able to help me out a little with the price (wink wink)."
Associate: "Sorry, sir. I am not allowed to adjust the price. I can't give any discounts. Real sorry."
Me: "(Ummmmm... what?!?!) Uh, you sure?"
Associate: "Yeah, that's our rules."
Me: (Did I miss something?)
I'm a little girl, so I bought them anyway.

I also saw a hair salon nearby, so I strolled in to get a hair cut. I had been putting off a hair cut weeks, in part because I don't enjoy the hair cutting experience. There's a lot of awkward conversation, and the person is always right next to your face, and has the power to make you look like misplaced crotch.
A girl about my age took me to the chair, and as she began, I scrambled to think of conversation topics. Seeing how capital punishment and abortion would be a little over the top, I went the safe route and asked about the photos on her mirror. On the left, a buff guy held a cute looking dog.
Me: "Oh, is that your dog?"
Her: "No, that was my boyfriend's dog."
Me: (noticing a different guy in photo on right side of mirror) "Oh, who's that?"
Her: "That's my current boyfriend. The other guy on the left is my ex."
Me: (Using that old Andy charm and wit) "Well, I hope the new guy works out. You're going to run out of sides of the mirror to put boyfriends up."
.... Pause....
Her: "Well, the guy on the left is dead."
Me: (slowly inserting foot in mouth, despite her trimming by my ears)
Her: "Yeah, he died in a snowmobile accident."
Me: "Oh, I'm so sorry. When was that?"
Her: "February. The guy on the right was actually his best friend."
Me: (Oh Sweet Jesus. I'm never talking again).

So she wraps up the hair cut, which really did look nice- a mini faux hawk style (not emo though).
Me: (looking down at all the hair on the floor) "Guess I really needed a hair cut."
Her: "You look A LOT better than when you came in, that's for sure."
Uhhh...Does that mean I looked like a Wookie when I walked in? Was that a backhanded compliment? Is she still upset that I told her not to keep sleeping around beyond her dead ex-boyfriend of seven years and his best friend?

To top the weekend off, I watched "Tropic Thunder" on Sunday, which was very enjoyable, although almost uncomfortable at points because of what you're laughing at (again, review likely to come). I finished off the night watching "The Notebook." Yes, that one. With the romance. And Ryan Gosling. And Rachel McAdams (who is just gorgeous in a classical sense). That, dear friends, is one of the few movies that consistently makes me cry. I'll admit that. I'll man up to that. Because it reminds me of my grandparents, who both passed away.
When the old couple lays (lies? laid? lain?)... uh...rested together at the end, holding each other for their last living moments, man that gets me.
When my grandmother died (Alzheimer's, mostly) several years ago, my grandfather knew he wouldn't last much longer. You could tell he was only lasting as long as he needed to for her sake.
As he stood at her grave on the morning of the funeral, he said something I will never forget.
"I'll see you soon..."
And that's why I cry during The Notebook.
I need a drink.

* Good catch by Logarithmic, as I put Miss Violet initially. That's what happens when you try to type through tears.

To discuss what happens in H-Vegas...

I spent last night in Harrisburg, which I've since learned goes by H-town, H-Vegas and the 'Burg, among others. From what I saw, it shall heretofore be called Ho-ville.
I met up with my quasi-cousin (called that because she and I only found out we had an aunt-in-law in common a month ago, so we're not sure if we're related or not) to go bar hopping. I've never been much of a bar hopper, probably because I'm not much of a drinker, and even more, I'm not much of a spender. I am, however, a single, young male, so I've been told this is what I should be doing.

Things I learned since last night:

1. Trendiness is relative. When I go to Wal-mart at 3 a.m., I feel relatively trendy, due in part to the straightness of my teeth, the color coordination of my clothes and the lack of an urge to buy huge t-shirts with animal prints. When I go to Ho-ville, there are scores of 20-somethings wearing trendy clothes that they likely can't afford, drinking $8 mixed concoctions and talking about trendy things, like global warming, Darfur, pollu....oh, who am I kidding, they're talking about boobs. But, still, in a trendy way. I have yet to figure out how to be that kind of trendy. From what I can tell, for the girls it involves wearing very, very low cut shirts that will wardrobe malfunction enough to make the FCC have a heart attack, and tanning a lot. For the guys, it involves gelling your hair enough to make it a weapon, pouring on cologne and pointing at "bitches."
   
2. A guy who looks like George Costanza, down to the tie, khakis, glasses and eagerness to be accepted, should not sing "Pour Some Sugar on Me" for karaoke. No panties will be thrown. None.
3. I had better come to grips that I'm working in a niche market. I talked with Quasi and her friend about interior design, drank a Smirnoff Ice, and sang "New York, New York," (to rave reviews and raucous applause, mind you). There is no amount of football talking, weight lifting or stubble growing that will make me seem less gay. So, as a straight guy, my market continues to be, "Hey, have you always wanted to date a guy with all the qualities of a gay guy, but without the love of other guys' crotches?"
4. All bars use the same iPod mix. AC/DC. Bon Jovi. Poison. Journey. Which makes me wonder- if you went to a bar in, say, 1975, what did they play? Was Sinatra's "Come Fly With Me" considered the "Don't Stop Believing" song that everyone starts singing together as soon as it starts? I don't even really like Journey, but damn if I don't sing that song every time it comes on. It has like 3 key changes to it. It's like the guy's trying to reach God by the final note.
5. Ramen noodles could, arguably, end world hunger. For the first time in years, I had a package, with Quasi, and I forgot how much I love that salty goodness. And it costs, what, 10 cents? I can't even think of anything else that costs 10 cents anymore. When the guys who created Ramen were brainstorming, what was the thought process? "Let's create the cheapest food product possible that will lure people in with its powerful taste... that way, we'll make almost no profit AND falsely lead people to believe they are eating dinner when in fact they are eating salt water." Mission accomplished, gents.