Mom, That Guy from That Movie Is Staring At Me

So, I went to the local mall today for lunch. It was a pretty routine lunch break, really. I'm not feeling well, so I walked a little slower than normal today when I walked back to my car after lunch. Rhetorically speaking, I kick and scream, I cuss and gnash my teeth.

Well, the kicking and screaming part is rhetorical, but I actually did cuss a bit. I do this, while the boring, responsible adult inside of me imposes its will on my impulsive side and forces me to go back. Just the thought of having to return to work while feeling sick is a struggle.

Anyway, as I fight this epic internal battle, I notice someone in my peripheral vision staring at me, and thought, "What the hell is he looking at..."

I keep walking. Well, it's more like slowly sloging along, really. I trudge along a few more feet, trying to ignore it, but there he is.

Just standing there.

Staring.

"What the hell is that guy's problem." I start getting very annoyed. I'm in no mood to deal with jackasses today.

"This is a provocation that will not go unchallenged!" I say to myself. So I come to a complete stop, look over to my right, and there he remains. Totally still. Staring at me with his beady little eyes, as if to mock me. I was totally prepared to tell this guy off, but now I'm both slightly amused and a little creeped out.

It was a life-size cardboard figure of what's-his-name from that movie, "Twilight," placed by the door of an FYE music store. You know, the really pale white teenage vampire dude. Well, card-board figure or not, I still didn't like him staring at me.

I might have to knock him over next time I pass the music store. Stupid life-sized cardboard thingie.

The Saints Rise Again

(warning: adult language & theme)

I'm a huge movie buff. As a general "rule of thumb," I probably watch a few movies a week, thanks to Netflix. Unfortunately, I haven't been out to the movies very much lately. I'd say it's because I can't seem to find the time, but in reality, I think it's just easier to watch them on DVD before bed.

In other words, I have no life and I'm basically a lazy ass.

There, I said it.

But this lazy habit of watching movies at home after work will change very soon. In fact, October 30th, 2009, is the date this new habit will begin. I'll tell you what is so special about October 30th: it's the date the movie Boondock Saints II is released in theaters (at least for me, locally).

I guess I should go ahead and mention that I'm a big fan of the first movie. Not in a mentally unstable female teenager with a bumble-bee haircut who's screaming and in tears at a Beatles concert kind of way--but a fan, nevertheless.

My appreciation for the movie basically started about the day the movie was released on video. I used to be a manager for Blockbuster Video a little over ten years ago. So, whenever new movies came out on video, I would help the reps who worked for me prep the new movies for public display on the shelves. This was back when video store shelves were still stocked with VHS movies.

Wow, do I feel old. Pretty soon I'll be complaining about teenagers and drinking Metamucil.

Anyway, I don't remember the exact year it was when I first saw the VHS version of the movie with its black cover box, and the now infamous picture of Norman and Sean (the 2 main actors) on the front, with their guns pointing down in the same direction. But I do remember that it definitely caught my attention.

I believe it was sometime between 1998 and 2000, I'm not exactly sure. I remember thinking the cover reminded me of the cover box for Reservoir Dogs, for some reason. Somehow, pictures of dudes with guns in random, unrelated movie ads usually get affiliated together in my brain, because, well...they're dudes with guns, I guess.

And dudes with guns are basically considered bad-ass in the eyes of most males between, uh, about the ages of about 2 to 99 years-old.

True story.

Falling into this demographic myself, I was of course, drawn to the bad-ass looking cover box at first. Then I watched the movie. Long story made short, I loved every minute of it. Maybe I just have low standards, or maybe I just 'get it,' depending on who you ask.

Whichever it is, all I know is I found the writing fun, very refreshing, witty, and quite funny in many ways. I liked the Irish humor, the way it was directed, the characters and actors were great, and I thought Sean and Norm were perfect for their roles.

I also remember thinking how much I liked the whole jeans, t-shirt, tattoos, sunglasses, and p-coat thing--it was totally my style.

Now that I think about it, I think this movie is what put Boston on the map for me. And then when I went, I absolutely fell in love with the city the moment I stepped foot on the ground at Logan International Airport. Since then, I've been to Boston several times and it's one of my favorite places to be. In fact, I partly credit the movie for making me a Boston Red Sox fan. If it weren't for the movie, I may never have gone there, and may never have gotten to see a game at Fenway Park.

Or should I say, Fenway Pahk. What a wicked pissah good time Boston is, man. It's a great, great town.

In any case, back to the movie. I definitely related to it, somehow. This despite not being Irish or from Boston. But then again, I've always loved all things Irish for some reason. It's strange, but I've always felt a strong kinship with every Irishman I've ever met. The movie influenced me in many ways back then, and it definitely strengthened my already strong love of Irishness in general.

Hell the movie influenced me so much back then, I was even inspired to wear a rosary under my shirt for a while.

Oh, to be 28 again.

Damn, I feel old.

But alas, here I am, ten years later and about to see the sequel in about a week.

From those days of blurting out lines from the movie with my buddies, up to now, I've seen and read a lot of negative things about the writer/director Troy Duffy, and have also read a lot about how people either love the movie or hate it.

Now, I can understand if someone isn't really into it because it's not their type of movie--you can't please everyone--but to actually hate it? I mean, seriously?

I must say, in total honesty, the only people I've ever encountered that actually hated it, also happened to be total douchebags.

Coincidence? I think not.

Now, I have lots of friends at work who happen to be homosexual. I respect them not only because they're cool people, but because they're not afraid of people knowing that they're gay. They've got a confident, 'we're here, we're queer, and we're proud of it' type of attitude--a genuine 'here's what I am, take it or leave it' kind of thing going on, which I admire.

It takes balls to do that. Plus, I tend to appreciate authentic people more than most.

But the guys I've known who've actually hated the movie--the total douchebags--well, they were mostly latent homosexual frat-boy types who were in total fear and denial of their ravenous love and sexual desire for men.

True story, but I digress.

As for the writer, Duffy, I can't help but think the guy got a bad rap...and a raw deal. Only he can really say whether or not his misfortunes, either partially or entirely, are a result of his own actions. But I have to give it to the guy. He got it done, against all odds. Twice.

So when I see him in his Red Sox hat, I always think about how he, in many ways, is an embodiment of the Red Sox prior to 2004 (at least in my demented mind).

Two words:

Perenial. Underdogs


Boston fans and natives know what I'm talking about. They remember all too well the dreaded Curse of the Bambino.

The Red Sox were the team that for about 86 years, were often winning...before they lost it all. They were the team that people like myself, who always cheer on underdogs, couldn't help but hope that someday they'd make it back to the top.

They eventually did.

And I hope Duffy has the same good fortune.

All kidding aside, if you haven't seen Boondock Saints, you should keep an open mind and give it chance. For the sake of full disclosure, I will say that it's not for little kids or people who dislike adult language and a good deal of action/violence. But if you've got a sense of humor, an open mind, and just love movies...you just might like it.

Then again, you may actually love it.

So check it out before October 30th, then go see Boondock Saints II when it comes out. I doubt you'll be disappointed if you're open-minded or young at heart.

In the meantime, I have to go "make like a tree, and get the fuck outta here!" Those damn teenagers next door are making too much noise. That, and I need to see about this Metamucil stuff so I can go take a crap.

*If you had no idea what some of the quoted references were, see the movie and you'll get it. Other references to being old and crapping were just me being a moron.

On Thick Heads and Mustard

There are two things that change in my general behaviors when I’m feeling down or going through a spell of melancholy:

(1) I desperately seek the humor in everything, and (2) I am constantly irritated by stupidity, annoying behavior, and things that generally require me to think or work more than I’m inclined to at any particular moment.

The first thing is my only saving grace sometimes and gets me through whatever daily doldrums I’m dealing with. These days, I’m constantly squeezing the humor out of situations that would otherwise not occur to me in different circumstances.

However, I fear the second thing may possibly turn me into a crotchety old man before my time, if gone unchecked.

This is why anytime I catch myself feeling down or getting annoyed by something I’ll try to put a twist of sarcastic humor in my comments or complaints, then I’ll post them as a status update on one of those social networking sites.

It helps me feel a little better when people react and respond because it reminds me that I’m not the only one who has rough days or is constantly encountering the bottom 1% of society, in terms of common sense and/or intelligence.

On a typical day, I’ll share things like:

“Just had a random discussion with some little old lady regarding Mr. Darcy and other Pride & Prejudice characters. Currently being chased by the Man Card Repo guy, who appears to be as fast as Carl Lewis.”

"Damn, I wish every girl I dated in high school had one of these: http://bit.ly/R1Jt8 #doublefistedhandjobs"

“I truly enjoy running and exercising. And by running and exercising, I mean binge drinking and passing out.”

"Recent surveys say the 1st thing men notice in a woman is her eyes, and women say the 1st thing they notice in men is they're a bunch of liars"

But back to the subject of stupid people…

I went to Canes Fest this weekend, which was held at Land Shark Stadium here in South Florida. Canes Fest is a gathering of the South Florida sports media, the University of Miami Hurricanes college football players and coaches, as well as fans of the team.

It was actually a forgettable experience in all honesty, but the conversation I had while we stopped to get lunch on the way still sticks with me. Every time I think of it, I’m still in disbelief that it actually took place.

Here’s the scoop:

We walk in to a local sub-sandwich shop, and I approach the counter to order.

The girl at the counter asks, “Hello, do you know what you want?”

“Yes, I’ll have a small roast beef on white, with provolone cheese.”

She grabs the bread and fumbles with the knife to cut the bread as she asks, “You want mayo and mustard?”

“No, just mayo” I said.

She continues fumbling around, then grabs the cheese and roast beef from its bin.

“Mustard?”

She places the meat and cheese next to the bread.

“No, only mayo,” I replied, again.

“Ok.”

She grabs the mustard, and just before squeezing the plastic bottle, she pauses and asks, “Just mustard?”

Exasperated at this point, I sigh, my blood pressure instantly rises at least 20 points, and I respond, “No mustard!”

Finally, after repeating myself yet again, it registers at the last second that I don’t want mustard.

This conversation actually took place.

True story.

I paid for my sandwich and look at my friend with a ‘what-the-fuck’ face on the way out. I was speechless, and all I could keep saying was, “Dude, seriously?”

Over and over again.

All he could do was raise an eyebrow, throw his hands up and shrug while responding with a pithy, “Wow. Just…Wow.”

Apparently, good listening skills are no longer a requirement for working in some customer service oriented environments.

"Shut Your Face Ari!"

I got a chuckle from this today. Haha...

Sausage le' Male

Looks like the Counting Crows are playing Central Park in September.

Figures, I'll be there just in time to miss it the week after, on the 10th. Dammit!!!

In other news, Borders is apparently the le chique le cool place for lonely, single men to be on Saturday nights in my town.

Granted, I'm neither lonely nor single (well, single, but taken), but it was just me at home on a very boring Saturday night, and I was getting stir crazy.

I decided to go there after a quadrupel espresso at Starbucks. I was feeling lively and upbeat from the coffee, but after a few moments, I found something about the place a bit strange.

Then it hit me -- there wasn't even one female in the entire store.

It was a total sausage-fest.

As far as I'm concerned, a little eye candy couldn't have hurt the situation. It's not like I went to check out women, but it's nice to have some good scenery, at least.

It would've been a much better experience if I had something worth looking at besides the wiener-roast of about a baker's dozen of South Florida's most unattractive, hairy men.

I mean, even if I were gay, these guys wouldn't have made the cut.

Now, you may be wondering why I would go to a book store to cure my boredom instead of say...going to a Club, Pub, or Bar -- which is a fair question, and one which I am now asking myself as I type this.

The truth is, I wasn't in the mood to drink and I wasn't in the mood to be around people who were drinking either -- this being another choice that I'm now questioning myself on, since I find that drinking tends to make a lot of seemingly uninteresting people, well...interesting.

But, in all fairness to seemingly uninteresting people, I'm sure they're probably not really uninteresting, per se (some really are, though, as I know a few).

The drinking just enables introverts to loosen up and reveal themselves more. I'm part of that group, so I should know -- in fact, I'm probably uninteresting to people who don't know me, in all honesty.

In any case, I came across some interesting books while I was looking to see if they had a copy of Mat Kearney's new CD, City of Black and White.

They didn't have the Mat Kearney CD, but I was amused by one of the books I came across, which was titled, The Bro Code.

It's full of stupid, but funny so-called 'rules' (a.k.a., the ones that are part of the secret world of men, which is apparently not so secret) that guys follow. It was actually quite witty and definitely provided some light reading, as well as a few laughs.

Here's one for example. This is one is by no means the best 'rule' of the bunch -- I just happened to pick it because I like to wear baseball caps, and I can relate to this opinion:

"Article #24 of the Bro Code: when wearing a baseball cap, a Bro may position the brim at either 12 or 6 o'clock. All other angles are reserved for rappers and the handicapped."

Nice. I never could understand the young guys who wear them in strange, sideways type of angles. To each their own, I guess.

And a few more:

Bro Code, Article #101: "If a Bro asks another Bro to keep a secret, he shall take that secret to his grave. This is what makes them Bros, not chicks."

Self explanatory and true, if only guys were not like chicks -- and they are most of the time when it comes to this rule.

Bro Code, Article #89: "The mom of a Bro is always off limits, but the stepmom of a Bro is fair game if she initiates it, and/or is wearing at least one article of leopard print clothing."

I would add that she is required to be a MILF, otherwise, all said rules referencing stepmoms being fair game are null and void.

See, just look and marvel at all the useful information I acquired this weekend.

Now, if I happen to discover the shangri-la of girl hangout locations, where only attractive, single women that are worth conversating with congregate and spend lots of time -- I'm going to be really pissed off that I didn't find it when I was 'available.'

Seriously.

The Tobacco Incident

I have such a diverse circle of friends and acquaintances that I rarely even pay much attention to the things that make us different. I simply accept people for who they are, regardless of how different, strange, or eclectic they may be.

If you ask me, diversity is part of the spice of life.

However, as accepting of people as I am, I really have a difficult time with abnormally stupid people.

Take for example a co-worker of mine named Jim.

I went to have sushi for lunch today with a few people from work. It’s usually just my friend Anton and I, but apparently he invited one of his peers, who in turn invited another peer—that person being Jim.

Now, I like Jim, I really do. He’s a nice kid—probably 24 or 25 years-old, physically speaking. Mentally, I’d say he’s more like 14-15 years-old. I kid you not.

He does have his moments though. He’s actually fairly amusing, in a Lloyd Christmas kind of way—for about 30 minutes. After that, he really wears on your patience. And for anyone to test my patience is quite a feat, as I usually have an abundance of it.

Usually.

The problem is that the more he speaks, the more painful it becomes to listen. I can literally feel my IQ dropping like Lehman Brothers’ stock with every word that comes out of his mouth.

Take for example the conversation he initiated on the way back to work.

Anton and I get in the car, both of us in front. We grab an Arturo Fuente Cubanito, light up, and lean back in our seats as we pull out.

“I didn’t know you guys smoked cigars. At least you don’t have to worry about nicotine like you would if you smoked cigarettes.”

Anton and I look at each other simultaneously, wide-eyed with disbelief and holding back our laughter.

“Someone slap him!” said Anton.

I take mercy on Jim and advise him that, “Cigars have nicotine too, Jim.”

“Really! I thought only cigarettes had nicotine.”

I hold up the cigar as a teaching prop.

“Um, well you see how it’s basically dried tobacco wrapped in a tobacco leaf? Yeah, there’s nicotine in pretty much anything that’s derived from tobacco.”

Jim smiles, and says, “Oh, well aren’t you guys worried about lung cancer?”

Anton takes a puff, and replies, “Dude, most people don’t inhale cigars, including us.”

“Someone slap him now!” he says.

Jim replies, “I dunno man, I’m worried. I don’t want to become addicted to nicotine.”

“Why? How often do you have cigars?” I ask.

“Um, like once a year.”

At this point, the cute novelty that was Jimbo's ignorance has worn off, and the car became completely silent.

With his eyes squinting, his eyebrows raised, and a shit-eating grin on his face, Anton says:

“Jim…”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t talk to me for at least an hour, please. Not for any reason whatsoever.”

Metrosexual Musings

The fact that I actually enjoy this blog adds more fuel to my ever-lingering suspicions that there truly may be something very, very wrong with me.

I say that because it's not like I can really relate to her experiences, and I can't imagine there being very many 38 year-old heterosexual males flocking to the blog to read it, much less being interested in the subject matter and actually liking it.

Apparently, I must be more metrosexual than I realized. I embraced fitting into that description a long time ago, but somehow I always seem surprised when I'm able to confirm this.

I'd say I have plenty of attributes for people to complain about, but fitting into the 'metro' mold isn't one of them. I can fit in and feel completely comfortable in a room full of heterosexual beer-drinking, cheese-eating, football-watching rudimentary buffoons just as easily as I would if I were at a disco ball utopia like the Copacabana, surrounded by eccentric, flamboyantly proud, gay male divas prancing around in purple g-strings and assless chaps.

Wow, talk about digressing.

Anyway, she has a post regarding a visit to NYC that I found quirky and amusing, which is how I'd describe the overall blog so far. I can somehow totally relate to this particular line:

"I could see myself living here and falling madly in love with it, much like I adore Coco [her dog] even though she eats poop."

The Pinch Bar

I tend to spend most of my time in the Village when I'm in NYC. I usually walk around in random directions, wandering into the less-traveled nooks and crannies of the city, looking to discover places I've never been to before.

I believe I was on Sullivan Street, pretty close to Washington Square Park when I took this. Over to the left is The Pinch Bar, by the flag. Unfortunately, I don't know how to upload the picture in its original size, so it's tough to see the place with the photo at this size.

I have no idea if the place is still open, or if the locals even like the place, but I had a good time there. From what I remember, I really liked the ambiance. Then again, I was already three sheets to the wind by the time I got there, so I suspect I would've been happy anywhere, so long as they served alcohol.

I do recall being late meeting my friends there on the night I went.

When I got there, everyone within earshot had already become fast friends, apparently -- because the girl I sat next to already had a big, smiling grin on her face as if she knew my life's story.

"You're late!" she said.

I don't know what it is about alcohol, but it tends to induce people to raise their voices a few decibels for no apparent reason.

Without missing a beat, I playfully respond, "Welp, you may not know this about me yet honey, but that's kinda what I do..."

She laughs, "Is that so?!"

I give her my finest, charming smile.

"Aye, lass!"

I turn to the bartender with an eyebrow raised, shrugging my shoulders with my hands up, "What can ya do, fuggetaboutit..."

You know you've had too many drinks when you mix Irish and Italian accents within seconds of each other.

The bartender being on the ball says, "Soooo, you're saying you need a double then, aye?"

Considering the fact that I was well on my way to oblivion, I raise my voice a few decibels and gleefully respond, "Finally! Someone who understands me!"

"Cap'n Coke, please!"

From that point on, it's a bit of a blur...but I know we all had a great time.

Sigh. New York City. How I miss her so...

The Tubesteak Vegan

Having drinks during happy hour with friends is always entertaining. It's amazing what a few libations will do to a person.

I recently found myself getting inebriated with a few co-workers I've known for a few years, along with a few that were hired just before the economy tanked.

Depending on my mood, I can either be a voyeur, watching people and listening to them ramble on incoherantly, or sometimes I'll contribute my own special brand of drivel to the conversation.

I'm an equal opportunity driveler, so the extent of my ramblings will typically depend on whichever of the ten different conversations I happen to be paying attention to in that moment.

After about 5-6 drinks, it can get tough to follow it all. It takes talent to keep up with drunken blathering. It's almost like learning another language. But the topics of conversation and everyone's contributions to them definitely tend to get more amusing as the night progresses.

I myself was in the mood for red wine. I prefer to only drink red wine. I'm a red wine snob. Actually, I mostly drink Cabernet if I can help it. I'm also a Cabernet snob. Sue me.

So I was on my 4th glass, feeling good and feeling loose. I found myself joining a conversation between one of the recently hired guys, Chris, and a few of my long-time buddies.

They were talking about work, but they were acting way too jovial for it to have been a serious conversation -- so naturally, I joined in.

Already slurring, I interject, "You see Chris..."
I take a swallow of my drink, "Coming to work wasted is frowned upon..."

I pause for effect, then continue...
"But also lovingly embraced."

With the sound of chuckles in the background, he replies, "then I'm gonna love working there!"

Our friend John Sullivan, aka Johnny Two Times, aka Johnny Luva joins in and continues laying down our tongue-in-cheek version of the workplace rules:

"When you're in a meeting," he says, "and there is a call for feedback or questions, lean back in your chair, prop your feet up on the table, smile contentedly, and say, 'Well, here's the way I see it, J.B...'"

He sticks his finger in his ear as if he's digging for gold, takes it out, looks at his finger and continues..."No one really gives a fuck about what you want us to do anymore. Everyone's just gonna do what they want. And any further complaints can be directed to my ass."

The table erupts in loud, obnoxious, creepy man-laughter.

He then adds, "but after that you have to smile, look at the person next to you as if everything's normal, and ask...'that's how you wanted me to say it, right?'"

More drunken chuckles ensue.

I turn my head to the left to see what the girls are talking about, and take another swallow of my drink just in time to hear Suzie tell Kathy, "You've had way too much cock in your mouth to be vegan."

My wine nearly came out my nose as I laughed uncontrollably while in the midst of swallowing it. The girls laugh as I regain my composure, when I mimick Ben Affleck's character from Good Will Hunting and say, "speaking of tubesteak Kathy, why didn't you give me none of that nasty little hoochie woochie you usually throw at me?"

Without missing a beat she replies with the right line from the movie, "Oh fuck you and your Irish curse Chuckie!"

Kathy and I are always quoting the movie, which usually starts a domino effect of movie quotes for the rest of the night.

Randomly going back to what caught my attention, I ask, "So what's with the vegan thing?"

"Well, my sister is vegan and she was explaining it all to me, so I was thinking about becoming vegan too," she says.

"Seriously?!" I say, with a smirking, skeptical look on my face. "Not for nothin', but as much as you love the tubesteak, no one loves a juicy filet mignon more than you. You invite us over to grill steaks every week for christsake!"

She says, "Yeah, the whole giving up meat thing is the problem. And the cheese. And the pork. And the..."

More group laughter.

"No seriously. I'm gonna do it though!"

"I bet you fifty bucks you'll be eating steak again in two weeks," I said.

She replies, "You're on biatch!"

As it turns out...I got my fifty bucks today.

Then I took Kathy to Outback Steakhouse for a big, juicy Porterhouse steak.

And I used the fifty bucks to pay for dinner.

No word yet on whether or not she gave up tubesteak.

Good Times, Indeed

I have very few vices, but I do indulge in a few simple pleasures.

There are two that I especially look forward to the most.

For example, at 3 PM every day, there's a guy I work with who prepares about a half-pint worth of espresso, then walks around giving each of his friends a little white cup filled with a divine little shot of heaven.

Pretty cool of him I'd say.

Before I started drinking the espresso my buddy makes, the cuban variety was the best I'd ever had. Was being the key word here.

Mind you, I grew up drinking cuban espresso.

I can't put into words how delicious this guy's espresso is. Just trust me, it's damn good.

So anyway, after I had my little shot of espresso today, I decided to partake in my other daily indulgence.

Arturo Fuente Cubanitos -- small cigars sold in a tin filled with 10 of them.

I go outside to the beautiful patio area overlooking all the nice palm trees that the company I work for planted in the parking lot. This is where the smokers go for their hourly nicotine fix. So I have a seat, kick back, put my feet up on the ledge, and light one up.

It's 72 degrees, sunny, with a mild breeze to keep you cool. Perfect day out. This is irrelevant to the story, but I thought I'd be a smart ass and point that out since it's hella cold in much of the country still.

About half-way into my Cubanito, two friends of mine come by to smoke their cigarettes. Both of my friends are openly gay, and quite comfortable with it. They also know I'm completely non-judgmental, and couldn't care less who or what they're into.

Which really makes for amusing conversation among all of us, and today was no different.

One of them (R) is very feminine, sensitive, and flamboyant. My other friend (K) is the 'butch' of the two, very cynical, not flamboyant, and somewhat bitter. It's an established hierarchy, and everyone understands their role.

I'm the metrosexual breeder.

Good times.

So, R and K are discussing possible weekend plans when they walk up. They both say hi, and continue their conversation as they normally would.

It goes something like this:

R: "There are a couple of parties this weekend actually. The [insert gay nightclub here] is throwing a big bash too. Why don't you come with me and J?"

K: "Yeah, I dunno about that. I don't really like hanging around gay people."

R: (gasps and puts his left hand over his mouth, in shock) "What do mean...how could you say that?"

K: "I don't really mesh with the culture."

R: "Like what part?!"

K: "Well, it's just that I don't really have much in common with the gay guys I know. I love sitting at a bar with regular guys, drinking beer, watching sports, and listening to heavy metal music. I hate being around all the little divas and that whole scene. It's just not me."

R: (puts his hand up and turns his head away) "Whateva!!!"
Then K looks at me and puts a big smirking grin on his face.

We both know that even though he does really feel that way, he really just loves to get a rise out of R. Cuz it's just too easy.

I chime in: "You know, K isn't really gay, he's just Greek, if you know what I mean..."

We both look at R, who is now pouting and has distanced himself from K, then look at each other again and start laughing in unison.

Then, R looks at us both laughing -- his body language starting to get the fact that K deliberately wanted to get a rise out of him -- sits down, glares at us, smiles and says, "you both some stupid assholes!" He joins us in a hearty group-laugh, and in a New York minute, all was forgiven.

Order had been restored to our little universe in the smoker's patio.

Like I said -- good times.