Bachelorette: Te he, OK, bachelor number 4; If I was an ice cream cone, how would you lick me?

Audience: Wooooo!

Bachelor Number 4: Well first, I would take my Lactaid pills, because I am lactose intolerant and I would hate to lick you then get all bloated and nauseous. I would then lick you hard and quick until I get an ice cream headache, at which point I would sit down and put my head between my legs, and say things to you like, “This has never happened to me before.”

So I’m at the gym yesterday, sitting the wrong way in the chest press machine, wondering how I’m supposed to lift all that weight with my elbows, when it occurs to me that I don’t have any pent up energy.

“Go to the gym,” they say, “I’ll be a great way to work out that pent up energy and stress.”

Not me. I have the opposite of pent up energy. I have pent up naps; threatening to break out at any moment.

Shitty Horror Movie #439: The Prowler

I think after chipping away so much at my personal standards, I may have finally managed to lower the bar. Though it is a bad movie, I can’t bring myself to say it was a total waste of time.

It’s 1945. A young couple drives away from the homecoming dance to be alone in the park.
Strike one.

They sit down by the gazebo, but they are unconcerned when all the lights on the gazebo suddenly go out.
Strike two.

The man, aggravated by his date’s mild reluctance to play tonsil hockey, says, “C’mon, kitten. Don’t play hard to get.”
Strike three!

And screwed they are. They are both murdered by a love-stricken ex-solder who, though he was carrying a large knife and a gun, decides to murder them with a pitch fork. Um, is that regulation?

Before I go on, let me quickly add a few snippets from this film to my list of “Lines in your dialog that indicate you will be murdered in the movie:”

“C’mon, kitten. Don’t play hard to get.”

“Any of you girls got rolling papers?”

(Producing an unlabeled bottle of vodka) “We can fix the punch, as soon as the chaperon is looking the other way.”

Bam bam bam. A blind man could write up the hit list for this movie.

Anyway, back to the… um… plot.

Fast forward to the present (1980, you know, back when that was the present). For the first time since the murders, there will be a homecoming dance at the School For Girls With Low Standards And Loose Morals, or whatever the name was. But our soldier friend, who was never caught, now prowls the town, seeking new victims this night. Why, you ask? Why has he returned from hiding to begin killing again? That’s a good question. Having watched the whole movie, the answer is still apparently none of my business.

And let me ask you this. Don’t you hate it when you’re running from the killer and all the exits are locked from the outside for some reason? I mean, this chick tried, like, three doors before she gets out of the dormitory. Even the fire exit was bolted shut. WTF?

I don’t want to sound morbid, but the scenes where someone is not being killed are boring. In an effort to create tension, the director created scenes so long and dull that I could have done my taxes while waiting for something to happen.

The tension was so thin that I doubt you would need a knife to cut it; a spork would suffice, providing it didn’t just fall apart on its own, which it did, leaving weak piles of tension all over the place that the actors were constantly stepping in, saying, “Eww! I stepped in tension!”

So, the film’s only redeeming value is in the overly gratuitous murders that take place. It’s absurd how over-the-top yet entertaining these horrific scenes are; orchestrated by one of the greatest prosthetic effects men in the industry, Tom Savini. These aren’t half-assed CGI effects, these are old-school meat-cleavers-and-fake-heads effects, and it’s compelling how much care and attention to details went into them. Though most viewers would scoff, cringe, or file a lawsuit, I think these scenes had heart.

But it’s not enough to save this movie. The story and acting are complete crap. But, I got what I thought I'd get when I rented it: a popcorn movie for times when you're tired of thinking.

I’ll leave you with this inspiring line:

(Angrily) “You’re going after him alone? Oh, that’s fine, Mark! You just go play sheriff!”

(Reader’s Note: Not only is Mark the only officer in town, he is, in fact, the sheriff)

Every once in a while, when I’m going through my to-do items at home, I’ll come across the sticky note I wrote a while back that says, “What am I doing with my life?”

I haven’t been able to answer that question, so the note goes back to the bottom of the pile, below the gas bill and the newspaper clippings of singles events.

My bathroom sink blew up in my face.

It’s blown up before, but not while I was home, much less looking at it saying to myself, “What’s that noise?”

BLORP!

That’s the noise it made. B-L-O-R-P. All capitals.

Before today, I didn’t know why, once every few months, I would come home to find dingy water stains and bits of mildew all around the sink, and the drain stopper rolling around on the counter or the floor. To finally answer this divine mystery, God sent the plumber with his compressed air gun to the neighbor’s apartment while I was getting ready for work on Tuesday morning.

I forget exactly what I was doing looking at the bathroom mirror; I may have been brushing my teeth, checking for stray facial hair, or generally just admiring my bad self. Then there was a brief gurgle from the drain, followed immediately by a full scale BLORP of stagnant water, bits of hair, and drain mold.

Apparently the plumber didn’t hear me scream like a little girl through the walls, because he fired two more shots of compressed air into the pipes, shooting out more water and even blowing out the drain cover in the shower. (Note: I didn’t scream like a little girl. It was more of an “AAAA!” than an “EEEEE!”)

I stepped back and sat down on the toilet seat, then, thinking better of it, stood right back up in fear. I was wet and covered in flecks of grime. I took some consolation in knowing that while our sinks and showers drain from the same pipe, the toilet is on a completely different pipe. Thus, whatever came out of that drain was mostly pipe grunge and not, you know, people grunge.

In a way, I felt like it was my fault. I wanted so badly to know why it looked like our sink blew up every few months. This was the punishment I got for questioning the power of plumbing. Still, who the hell connects pipes like this?

SPLOOSH!

My roommate’s cat is trying to eat me.

I think it’s the soap I use. I got out of the shower a little while ago, and now she’s sitting on my lap, as she does from time to time. She seems pretty content, but every time I try to pet her she goes into a sniffing and licking frenzy. Even when I’m not petting her, but typing, I look away for one second and I feel that freaky cat tongue on my elbow. She took a little nip at my finger, not biting, but tasting.

I’m beginning to wonder for my safety. She is, after all, a very fat cat.

If I suddenly go missing, check the litter box for my watch.

Man, my life is exciting.

Exercise blows. It’s one of the few things that only gets better after you keep doing it.

Beer giving you a headache the next morning? Drink more, the hangovers will go away!

Donuts making you fat? Keep eating; your body will eventually absorb them!

No. The things that are bad for you start out great, but go wrong eventually. The things that are good for you suck at first, but pay off in the long run (Allegedly. Let’s just say I’ve never reached the physical fitness finish line).

I can’t discuss my own physical inadequacies with anyone because their answer is always the same, “It’ll get better the more you do it.”

What the hell kind of solution is that? That’s ass-backwards. I don’t like getting punched in the face either, but does that mean if someone keeps doing it I’ll develop an immunity to fists?

It’s boring too. I can’t seem to multi-task in my head as I exercise. Even if I listen to music, all I can think about is, “This sucks. It’s boring and exhausting. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Wow, check out the junk in that girl’s trunk! Sigh, I’m pathetic.”

I should consider taking up something more engaging like rock climbing or running away from bears; something where you don’t really have an option to give up. That’d whip me into shape. As it is, I get two sets done on the chest press and I’m thinking, “This sucks, I’m going home.”

I guess you have to ask yourself what your ultimate goal is. You have to keep reminding yourself what you’re working for, because frankly, I’m not doing this for kicks. My goal? That girl on the treadmill in front of me. I figure if I just crank this thing up faster and faster, I’ll eventually catch up to her, maybe ask for her number.

Do you nullify the health benefits of yogurt when you pour bits of candy into it? I’m talking about “Yo Crunch” yogurts which come with bits of Nestle Crunch or M&Ms in the lid. Sure, you might think you have the option not the pour the candy in, but I dare you to buy this stuff and then deny the urge to mix the two.

So does the candy cancel out the yogurt in terms of nutrition? Are you any better off from eating the yogurt, or does the candy contribute enough fat and sugar to render the digestive enzymes and bits of fruit useless? Does a caramel apple a day still keep the doctor away?

DinnerDate4Eight has closed its doors. I don’t know how I feel about that.

Well, of course I feel bad for them. It was a great concept that, I guess, never got the volume of people it needed to be truly successful.

But, if there were five people in the world that could have told you this company was floundering, it would be the five of us who actually attended a dinner.

It’s a shame that I won’t be able to give it a second shot for free, like they offered me. I really wanted to test my DineAndDash4One plan.

I went to rent a mediocre horror movie tonight and I accidentally rented an awful horror movie. This could only happen at Blockbuster.

I wanted to rent “Venom.” And that is what I thought I did, until I got home and realized I had picked up the box for “7 Mummies.”

I was disappointed. I uttered some discouraging words.

I had picked up the box behind the display copy of “Venom.” It was my own fault that I didn’t think to read the box, making sure that it was the same movie. I simply assumed that the world wasn’t out the get me. But, it was.

It wasn’t the store’s fault; they couldn’t possibly keep track of that kind of thing at all times. The only other person blame would be the jackass who put it there, deciding at the last minute that they wanted to rent “Venom” instead of “7 Mummies,” but didn’t feel like making the trip again from “V” to “7.”

So basically, I’m stuck with it. It’s already late, and I can’t return it because I have no proof that “7 Mummies,” isn’t what I wanted, other than the fact that it’s a piece of shit.

Allow me to elaborate. I knew almost nothing about “7 Mummies,” besides the fact that it was direct-to-video and even the “blazing” and “exciting” marketing copy on the back of the box couldn’t cover up the underlying stench of failure in filmmaking. But that was several trips ago. “7 Mummies” has been sitting in the New Release section for weeks, perhaps in the hopes that someone might rent it based solely on the fact that it was new.

I decided to pop the disc in and see if there were any trailers for it; you know, find out if it might be worth watching in a “diamond in the rough,” kind of way. Lo and behold, there was a trailer. It sucked, but it hinted that there might be titties in the movie. I was still undecided. I consulted the internet.

While “Venom” is supposed to be a low budget horror film with mixed reviews, “7 Mummies” is a low budget horror film with universally bad reviews. The average user rating on the Internet Movie Database is 1.8 out of 10 which, even for a schlocky horror film, is scraping the bottom of the barrel. It was somehow disqualified from the bottom 250, which is a shame, because if it was on there, it would tie “Troll 2” for lowest rated movie in the entire database.

So now it sits on my shelf, looking unappealing and dangerous, like a radioactive turd. I’ll return it tomorrow knowing that even though I paid to rent it, I didn’t even want to watch it. Damn.

I got this e-mail from the big V today:

Dear Valued DSL Online Customer,

Effective August 14, 2006, V___ Online will stop charging the FUSF (Federal Universal Service Fund) recovery fee. For customers of V___ Online, the fee eliminated is $2.83 a month.

Starting August 26, 2006, V___ Online will begin charging a Supplier Surcharge for all DSL customers. This surcharge is not a government imposed fee or a tax; however, it is intended to help offset costs we incur from our network supplier in providing V___ Online DSL service. The Supplier Surcharge will be set at $2.70 per month for customers with DSL service.

I think I might have been better off not knowing this.

At some point I might have wondered where the thirteen cents had gone from my bill; but I wouldn’t have known the about the asinine things going on behind the scenes.

I might not have even questioned it if they just inexplicably showed up at my door one day and threw a dime and three pennies at my head. Sure, I would have been confused, but I wouldn’t have felt what I felt after I read this letter, which was, “OK, now they’re just fucking with me.”

I discovered a kind of charming local quirk today. Apparently the person who donated the land for Greely Park to the city of Nashua stipulated that no money could be exchanged on the grounds. At the “Art in the Park” event today, I discovered that in order to buy a set of postcards from an artist, we had to walk down to the sidewalk to make the transaction. I thought that was funny.

So anyway, DinnerDate4Eight was kind of a bust. I haven’t written it off as a total bust yet, but it could still happen. So there is a bust involved, but the size of said bust has yet to be determined.

Let’s start with a little math, shall we?
5 = the number of months I had to wait for this dinner.
5 = the number of people who attended this dinner.
DinnerDate4Eight = a total fucking misnomer.

I’m doing my best to be nice about it because the people (person?) who represent (own?) DinnerDate4Eight have been kind in their correspondences and, faced with truthful criticism, have offered me a second dinner date for (possibly up to) 8 at no charge.

But round one went like this: I got the e-mail stating that a dinner was going to happen. I didn’t jump for joy. I didn’t give a sigh of relief. Frankly, I didn’t believe them. I was beginning to think they were just fucking with me. But, I responded right away with a resounding, “Sure, whatever.”

They got back to me quickly with all the information this time. We would meet on Monday evening. Tapas was on the menu. I was feeling- wait, what the hell’s “tapas?”

Wikipedia (“Where Our Facts Might Be True”): Tapas is actually of Spanish origin, really just the way food is served; small portions so one can eat light, mix and match, or try different dishes.

Well, I get all dolled up and head on down to a place right off Main Street which I won’t mention because I don’t have many nice things to say. It was classy and clean, modern and gourmet. However, it was pricey and the wait staff didn’t seem to have the whole “Bring people food,” routine down.

I was the first to arrive, giving me a chance to meet with the DinnerDate4Eight representative who was waiting there to introduce us all to each other. Conversation with the rep was light and introductory; I danced around the topic of the 5 month wait, hinting gingerly that I was displeased, but otherwise glad to be there now. It was kind of a tough topic to approach politely, “I’ve been waiting five months, you jerk! This ‘tapas’ shit better be awesome!”

The other attendees trickled in, first one, then two more, then one more, then… then… that was it. We were eventually seated at a table set for six. Missing was the sixth guest, “Heather.” “Heather,” was a “person” who apparently responded to the email, but disappeared on the night of the dinner. I have my doubts that “Heather,” was for real. But, I’ll keep my conspiracy theories to myself for now.

So there we were, three men, two women, having a dinner date for eight. Food was brought to each of us one plate at a time, as it was ready, for some reason. By the time the last person got their food, the first person’s dish was cold. The dishes were tasty, but appetizer-sized, which was both good and bad because (good) I only wanted to eat light, and it did give us an opportunity to share, although no one did, but (bad) because each dish was the price of a full meal and also (good/bad) it all gave me indigestion later, so I’m glad I didn’t eat more.

The conversation bounced around a multitude of topics. Throughout the evening we discussed careers, hobbies, books, and politics (which is where I spaced out and started feeling gassy). I don’t know that any of us made a “connection,” in the personal sense, but I think we all viewed this for what it was: an introduction and an excuse to get out and just do something.

I’ll admit I was quite smitten by one (of the two) of our female guests. When one of the male guest left early (claiming stomach trouble, but likely not happy with the outcome of this whole thing, can’t blame him), I wondered if I might be paying more attention to me, or if it was just a lack of options.

When we four had felt the evening was winding to a close, we made our way out of the now empty restaurant. Someone had suggested that we all exchange numbers; the dinner had been pleasant enough that it might be worthwhile to gather together again sometime without the signup fee and the five month wait. I began searching my pockets for paper and a writing implement. I didn’t care if I had to write in blood, SOMEONE was leaving here with my number tonight. The most efficient route was chosen; we gave our contact information to one person who promised to e-mail the info to each of us first thing the next morning (note from future self: that person lied).

Any number of circumstances could have led to that person not e-mailing everyone’s contact information to me. Perhaps they forgot, or they lost the paper, or maybe after we went our separate ways the other two people caught up with that person and said, “Can you do me a favor and don’t give that information to Jon?” Anything can happen.

So that’s it. DinnerDate4Five. ExpensiveMeal4One. PhoneNumbersFromEverybody. NoNumbersForJon.

Personally, I think it’s pretty funny.

My trip to Water Country was kind of a blur; literally, because I decided to leave my glasses with my bag. But also, the whole thing was also kind of surreal too.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Several weeks ago, a female friend of mine, who is, unfortunately, just a friend, invited me to join her and a group of her friends at Water Country. I hadn’t been there since I was a wee lad, so I eagerly accepted. However, as the day drew near, I began to feel very self conscious about what I looked like without a shirt. Frankly, it was scary. I was both white as a sheet and, though it may be hard to believe if you know me, slightly pudgy in the middle. I looked like Mr. Peanut, dipped in white-out.

I tried to fit solutions for both problems into my daily routine. Almost every morning from the time I was invited until the final day I did one or more sit-ups. My lack of resolve in exercise was matched only by my dire fear of taking my shirt off in public. I did not manage to get a tan by laying in the patch of sun that came through my window only between the hours of 9:00AM and 10:30AM on weekends.

So the day came and I had not managed to shed a single love handle or gain more than a slight tan on my left arm from driving (which, of course, was only between my sleeve and my wrist, where it formed a nice tan line in the shape of my watch).

I reluctantly packed my sunblock, towel, and Lactaid pills, along with directions to the park which I had printed from the website (which was kind of funny; the last time I was at Water Country, the internet hadn’t been invented yet).

This led to my other lingering question going in: what would I do with my glasses? The website said that I could buy a glasses strap at the gift shop, so that I might wear my spectacles on any ride. Now, I didn’t know who else was going to be there, but I was concerned enough about looking like a dork in front of my lovely female friend that I knew I was going to be going blind that day.

But again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I arrived and met my friend at the group entrance, and then met her friends. Collectively, they were America AuPair; a lovely collection of young women from across the globe who had volunteered to work with children in America so that they may learn more about this strange and exotic country. They were beautiful, fit, tanned girls from Thailand, Korea, Brazil, and many other countries throughout the world.

I didn’t know if it was happiness, or the fear of taking my shirt off in front of these girls, but I damn near crapped myself.

I was one of two men among the nine or so women. I’ve worked with odds like that before and always managed to crap out, so I didn’t assume there was anything was in my favor. The other man there was named, Robert, I think; the boyfriend of one of the slender European girls. Robert was tanned and ripped. He made me look like toothpick. Aside from that though, he was a nice guy.

We put our valuables in a single group locker and picked a spot by the main pool to leave our towels and shirts and whatnot. The rest of the group stripped down to bikinis and I was doing my best not to freak out for a number of reasons. It was the moment of truth. I hesitated before stripping down to my swim trunks, busy formulating white-boy jokes about myself that I could use once I was exposed.

I sucked in my stomach and disrobed. There wasn’t a scene. At first I broke the ice with a few zingers like, “If you get lost, just look for the bright white light, that’ll be me.” I think that let people know that I was aware of my shortcomings. They now knew I had a good sense of humor about it, and they didn’t have to look away like I was missing chunks of my torso from a bear attack or something. There was the occasional “Damn!” or, “I really hope you’ve got sunblock,” but at that point it was all in good fun.

And I did indeed have sunblock. Every year I manage to forget what SPF value I should get. Because I burn so easily, I decided to err on the side of safety this year and get a high number. I forget the exact value, but I think it was just below Kevlar on the sun-blocking chart. I don’t remember ever being very tan, but I do remember being very burned, so I applied it as liberally as I could.

I also made the difficult decision to leave my glasses with my bag. This gave everything a Gaussian blur that intensified a little bit with distance, but never so bad that I couldn’t make out color and movement in the distance. This was a little disappointing because looking at my AuPairs was more difficult without the glasses. It was as if I was watching a swimsuit special in high definition, then switching over to regular tube TV with cheese cloth over it. Furthermore, I became less adept at interpreting signals. How would I know of a girl was making flirty eyes at me, or if she was just trying to figure out where that blinding white glare was coming from?

Our first stop as a group was the slide I could remember refusing to go on as a child; Geronimo. I could have easily passed on it this time. Of our group, only three of us chose to try it, including myself. But, I was interested in conquering some old demons, so I thought I’d give it a shot. I didn’t share this information with anyone. I was doing this for me… and to look manly.

For those of you who don’t know Water Country, Geronimo is one of those slides where you drop almost straight down before gradually leveling off and stopping in a trough. If you have the opportunity to try one of the slides, pass.

The line for Geronimo was short. Too short. I had second thoughts about the whole thing before I even reached the top of the stairs. “I bet this’ll be the shortest line all day.” I mused aloud to break the tension that probably only I was feeling.

At the top of Geronimo they lay you down and instruct you to cross your legs and cross your arms across your chest (probably so they don’t have to pose you for the funeral after you die on this slide). Once the person who went before you has left (or been carried from) the trough, they push you forward like a curling stone and you pray to whatever God you think might keep you pressed against that slide. I had my eyes closed, which may have killed some of the thrill, but was fortunate because once you level off, you get gallons of water pumped forcefully into your face. It was like water skiing with my ass cheeks. I stopped at the bottom with no injuries, but about 16 fl oz of water up my nose.

I stumbled out of the trough thinking about being a little boy, being deathly afraid of this ride called Geronimo. You know what. I was right. That sucked. Who the fuck invented that thing?

We made the circuit of slides and attractions throughout the day. Everyone in the group was so nice and pleasant and attractive. I was totally out of my element. I made pleasant conversation where I could, but I don’t know if I made any lasting friendships. Perhaps it’s lack of self confidence that kept me from being more outgoing.

The weather was ideal and the sun was always out. This was fortunate because we spent a lot of time in waiting lines. It’s hard to say how long we spent in the average line, but one of the newest attractions had one of those, “The wait is about 60 minutes from here,” signs which, frankly, I would be better off not knowing. The rides, though very fun, each only lasted about 15 to 30 seconds, which is really absurd when you think about it. I suppose we made the best of our waiting time, just chatting and tanning (or, in my case, burning).

We had reached the wave pool towards the end of our trip. I personally never saw the appeal in it, but everyone in the group wanted to go. In fact, everyone in the park wanted to go. The wave pool was packed to capacity. Giant waves of people obscured the water underneath. We did our best to get into deep water, but past the 4 feet mark, I felt like I was playing bumper cars with my head. “Here comes a wave! Oof!” inner tube, “Oop!” small child, “Ouch” another inner tube, “Oy!” a fat woman.

At the end of the day we gathered our stuff, said our friendly goodbyes, and went our different ways. I had not tanned, although I was showing redness on my shoulders. True to form, by the time I got home and took a shower, the redness was more apparent in the places I had missed putting sunblock; obscure and exotic places like the sides of my feet, the small of my back, and the backs of my fingers.

If this was the kind of story that had a moral, it would be this: Be confident. You never know when you’re going to be one of only two guys at a waterpark with a group of foreign women.

Not long after I posted that little rant about DinnerDate4Eight, I got an e-mail from them. It was short and to the point: “Dinner, Wednesday, 7:00. Please confirm,” (give or take a pronoun).

A nearly leaped for joy, but I just sat down, and I was comfortable. Plus, after all this time, I was a little overwhelmed it was finally happening. So, I sent a reply saying I was in, so make with the details. No information was forthcoming.

I was getting worried. The day was coming up, but still no contact from the company. Then I started to get nervous, thinking they were withholding the information from me; like in the Godfather, they were going to drive me around town and then whack me at a pizza joint.

Then on Tuesday (TUESDAY!), I got an e-mail from them saying, essentially, “Oops, never mind. Not everyone can make it. We’ll try again later. Don’t worry it happens to lots of guys the first time.” …I made that last part up.

Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if I could do a better job rounding up seven single strangers on my own. It almost seems like a better deal for me because if I were in control, they could all be women. It would be like “The Bachelor,” except we wouldn’t eliminate anybody. Everyone’s a winner.

What did I join this company for? Am I just paying for an ineffective middleman? Did I give these people 30 bucks to act like that friend we all have who says “Dude, I should totally hook you up with this chick I know,” but then he forgets, and next thing you know, he’s dating that chick?

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going to see seven other people at a dinner table anytime before Thanksgiving.

Until then, I sit around, fantasizing about who my other dinner guests may be; like I’m a little girl having a tea party with her teddy bears.

“What’s that Ms. Ruxpin? You want my phone number? Why I’d be delighted to give you my digits.”

A friend of mine invited me to go to Water Country in August. Of course I said yes, because Water Country friggin’ rocks, and I haven’t been there in ages.

But there’s a fundamental question that’s troubling me. What do I do with my glasses while I’m there? I obviously can’t wear them on the waterslides, because I’ll loose them about two feet down the first slide, and then someone will step on them, and they’ll break, and they’ll have to close the whole ride because there’s glass in the splashdown pool, and everyone will have to get tested for blood-borne illnesses because the shards of glass cut someone’s foot and the water was contaminated, but then someone will overhear “…water was contaminated…” and think we’re being attacked by terrorists, and there will be a panic and all the people in the wave pool will run to shore, like in Jaws, but they’re going to forget about the little Kidner boy who gets eaten by the broken glass and there’s this whole media shit-storm because Chief Brody knew about the glasses but the Mayor of Water Country told him to keep his mouth shut so they don’t have a panic on their hands.

Or I could leave them in my locker and not see where I’m going and not be able to identify my friends, at which point I’ll get swept into the deep end of Adventure River where I’ll be rescued by a mermaid who leaves me in the care of a kind family who adopts me because I can’t see where my ride home is, and it will be nice for a while until the dad starts a beer brewing company and he chains me and my foster brother Timmy to the vats until we’ve blended up all the hops and barley so he can fill the shipment of Bob’s Ale that the mob ordered before they come to the house and whack the family dog.

So I’m in kind of a bind because I don’t want the Kidner boy to die, but I don’t want anyone to kill Mr. Fluffy either.

I was accosted by a Storm Trooper last weekend. I’m not talking about the Germans with the pointy hats, but the guys in the white plastic uniforms from a certain, low profile film you may have heard of. And for those of you who are always on the lookout for sexual context, that’s “accosted,” not “molested.” The former involves being bothersome. The later involves an after-school special.

I think this is the second time this has happened; both in similar locations for similar reasons, but each incident over a year apart. This time, I was at the Granite State Comic Book Convention; a great place to meet single women.

I arrived in the morning, intending to meet my friend Jason inside. After walking among the vendors a bit, I still hadn’t spotted him, so I tried to reach him via cell phone. That’s when the Storm Trooper got all up in my grill. He was being funny, though for some reason he wasn’t speaking. He was giving me hand signals that I eventually interpreted as, “The Empire has imposed a 50% tax on all cell phone minutes.”

I tried to play along as best I could. As I waited for Jason to pick up, I waved the cell phone in his face and said, “This is not the droid you’re looking for.”

However, it suddenly occurred to me that Jason had a Storm Trooper outfit too. I looked at the solider and said, “Am I calling you? Jason?” The trooper remained still, and speechless. If it was Jason, he was laughing under that helmet. If it wasn’t, he was probably confused (“Why the hell is he calling me Jason?”).

Before Jason finally picked up, the Storm Trooper waved me off, dismissing me as a mental case (me, the one not dressed up like a fictional foot soldier).

I wasn’t annoyed by it. In fact, I can usually get some laughs by telling the story of trying to make a cell phone call while a Storm Trooper was giving me shit.

The fundamental complaint I have about this “DinnerDate4Eight” service is that they seem to be having trouble finding seven other people. Granted, I don’t know how the system works; maybe they don’t accept just any old loser. But, that would be ignoring the fact that they have accepted me.

The concept is cool. Four men and four women are put together for dinner. Although all parties are single, there is no pretense of dating or romance; it’s just a social gathering and whatever happens happens. We might discuss the merits of economic reform. We might have a staring contest. Some of us might exchange numbers. There may be a fist fight. Whatever.

But the fatal flaw of this casually entertaining plan is the absence of eight people.

There was a brief questionnaire when I signed up. The questions were basic and broad; “How old are you?” “What are a few of your hobbies?” “Are you Anna Nicole Smith?” I might have made up that last one, it’s been several weeks since I filled it out and I can’t remember what all the questions were. Anyway, it was noted that they would try to group us with people of similar age / interests / species.

Over the weeks I sent the occasional e-mail asking the 4Eight people how the search was going, and letting them know that I’d settle for a DinnerDate4Six. I’m considering asking them to cut corners, maybe just set me up with two women at a Taco Bell, but I’m not sure if they’ve got some motto or policy or some shit.

They’ve responded with kindness, and maybe a subtext of pity, telling me that it’s impossible to know exactly when they’ll get the right people together. Which is funny when you think about it: that’s the reason I signed up in the first place.

I’m not getting much attention through my personal ad. I’m thinking of changing the headline to something more engaging. What do you think of “12-Inch Stud Seeks Plank to Nail” ?

How does that strike you? Do you think you’d click it just to see what kind of jerk I was? I’d have to follow it up with an equally engaging description:

“YOU: a woman (or women) with tight clothing, loose morals, long legs, and low standards.

ME: arrogant and insensitive, but I can stir your drink from across the room, if you know what I mean. I’m usually the life of the party, especially once I start showing everyone the gun that I brought. Thanks to DNA testing, it has been proven several times in a court of law that I do not, legally, have any children; but I would like to start a family one day. I’m just out of prison for punching an elderly nun, but in my defense, the nun was being kind of a douchebag. I’m now happily working part time in the telephone marketing industry. I’m hoping to find a girl who doesn’t do drugs because I don’t like anyone dipping into my stash. I still drink on occasion; that occasion being any day that starts with a consonant. I drive like I have nothing to live for and I give the finger more than I wave. Oh, and I’m a Pisces. Call me.”

This is an ACTUAL line about an ACTUAL movie:

"The theatrical version has scenes that were removed or severely truncated for broadcast on American TV, due to nudity, sex, the use of real life dwarfs, mutilated and otherwise deformed people, and allegedly profane references to the Catholic Church."

Now, how does that sound out of context? It sounds like a fun Friday night to me.

Actually, the movie was pretty weird, in case you hadn't guessed. It's called "The Sentinel." I would be hard pressed to compare it to anything other than the movies that "inspired" it (as I understand it, The Sentinel was kind of a bandwagon horror film following the Exorcist and the Omen). It's absurdly bad at some points, and remarkably good at others, so I really don't know what my overall impression is.

The other mind boggling thing about the film is the number of small roles by actors who would go on to bigger things. The photographer with the unbuttoned shirt and the slight European accent? Jeff Goldblum. The detective's assistant who has three words in the whole movie? Christopher Walken. The TV commercial director with the Hitler moustache? Jerry Orbach. The demonic lesbian who never speaks? Beverly D'Angelo...

Speaking of which, how's this for great dialogue?
Alison: "So what do you both do for a living?"
Gerde: "We fondle each other."

Classic! I just don't know what to say about this one. It is equal parts "so bad it's funny," "so bad it's bad," "slightly interesting," "freaking scary," and "a little bit sexy" (Christina Raines, where have you been all my life? Oh, you're like, 55 now? Yea, um, sorry to bother you). So if you have a stomach for blood and bad dialog, you might want to rent this one. It should may you laugh, cringe, cover your eyes, and make you go, "Um... riiiiiiight."

P.S. - OK, even if it's 1977 and the apartment is sitting on the gate to hell, there is no freaking way that she could get it, fully furnished, for ony $400 a month. That's bullshit.

There’s a contest on Sobe bottles to win something. It does not state anywhere on the bottles what you could win. All I know is that I haven’t won it yet. Basically I'm getting bottle caps that tell me I'm a loser for no reason.

Sometimes when I’m awake at night, I think of funny ways to start a story. I don’t even think about what the story would be about; just a catchy intro paragraph that would give the reader a laugh and make them want to hear more. Intro’s like this:

“During lovemaking she called out six different names. None of them were mine. I got Steve, Bill, Dave, two Mikes (I would later find out that they were two different Mikes), and a fictional character that I will not name, so as to avoid tarnishing any childhood memories. What had begun as a suspicion that she wasn’t thinking about me had grown into speculation that she was thinking about something entirely out of the current context; like the phone book.”

I should write a book full of intros like that. I got a bunch. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually develop a whole story to go with these introductions.

AAAHHH! Burning ball of flame in the sky! What is it? I feel it penetrating my spongy, mushroom speckled skin! It's making the clouds go away! Come back clouds! I can't remember life without you! It's drying up the water! How will I breathe without water? I'm starting to flop around, my tail fin is begining to ache. If all the water dries up, where will I go to spawn?

Um. OK. Got carried away with that spawn joke. I know.

I had that dream again where I was back in high school. But, it wasn’t like I was re-living my early years, I had long since graduated and I was back taking new classes, like I was trying to get my P.H.D in Home Ec., or something.

In fact, I was a senior again. I was cocky. I would wander the halls when I should have been in class. I didn’t even have a hall pass. Whenever anyone gave me shit, I was like, “Read the student I.D., Jr. I’ve been here for eight years! I’ve got seniority! I got my diploma when you were still making pictures of a turkey by tracing your hand.” (I have no idea why the hell I used that as an example).

I would sit out in the courtyard soaking up the sun while teenagers scurried to their home-rooms. When I decided to actually attend a class, I would wander through the new building that they recently added, trying to find the room number. I’m not sure what crazy system the kids of today are using, but all the rooms in the new building had the same number, and it wasn’t the number I was looking for.

In my dream, there had been a candy store which had been demolished to make way for the new building. As I wandered the halls, looking for my class, I remember thinking, “They tore down the candy store for this shit? What a waste.”

My alarm clock woke me up at roughly that point, which is fortunate because all the dreams I’ve had about high school have ended the same way; I realize that I have to stay there another year because I’ve been missing my morning gym class all semester. So, thank God for that.

Snooty Bartender: Good evening, sir. And what would you like to drink?
Jon: I’ll have a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.
Snooty Bartender: I’m sorry sir, but we can’t serve that drink to men.
Jon: …huh?
Snooty Bartender: We reserve Mike’s for our female patrons.
Jon: What? Why?
Snooty Bartender: Because it’s a bitch beer.
Jon: A bitch beer?
Snooty Bartender: Yes sir, a beer consumed by bitches.
Jon: So you’re saying all women are bitches?
Snooty Bartender: What I’m saying is that men order beer, and women order malt beverages. Men who consume malt beverages are bitches.
Jon: And what do you call women who drink beer?
Snooty Bartender: They are still women, and more appealing women, if I may say so.
Jon: But I don’t like beer.
Snooty Bartender: I believe that is a common side effect of having your testicles removed, sir. Why don't I just pour you a nice cold gingerale.
Jon: Sigh. Fine.

I truly despise the system of naming stadiums after their corporate sponsors. Places that once had character, location, and instant name recognition now operate under the label of the nationwide chains that support them. It’s really depressing. Sports fans or not, I’m sure you’re all with me on this.

Well, as some of you know, this corporate naming system has shrunk to a new, surprisingly stupid low. The name they have chosen for the Fisher Cats home stadium in downtown Manchester is, “Merchantsauto.com Stadium.”

I’ll repeat that for the stupidity-impaired. They have named our stadium after a website; a website for a company that sells cars, and just happens to have a website.

Now don’t get me wrong. I like Merchant’s Auto. I bought my car from them, and they are good, community minded people. But, at the very least, they could have considered “Merchant’s Auto Stadium.” No, they had to be as explicit as humanly possible to cover the lowest common denominator. They chose, “MerchantsautoDOTCOM Stadium.”

Shit, why stop there? Why not cover all your bases? Just to be sure, let’s call it “H-T-T-P Colon Backslash Backslash W-W-W Merchantsauto.com Stadium!”

But what about those people who don’t have computers? Yes, they are few in number, but as long as we’re catering to everyone, why not try some double billing with “Buy A Computer At Best Buy and Type http://www.merchantsauto.com in Your Web Browser Stadium.”

Granted, it’s an effective marketing ploy. Even as I rant about the absurdity of it, I’ve mentioned the web site enough to make some of you go, “Well, how good is this website anyway? I better check it out.” But, as I’ve said, I have nothing against the company.

So go, check it out. And if they ask, tell them JonathanEHoysradt.com sent you.

My chocolate bunny is deranged! Look at those crazy eyes man! He'll eat your soul!

The place is in Nashua which, so far, as turned out to be a pretty agreeable city. Sure, I’ve been to Nashua a bunch of times, and I’ve worked there for over a year, but it’s not until you actually live there that you feel like you’re getting to know the layout of the town and where all the important stuff is (I now know where to get crack. You know, if I need it).

Spreading out has been something of a mental hurdle. I have always been a centrally located kind of guy. Even my last apartment could have been considered a single, large room with a wall in the middle of it. Furthermore, when I moved back home I managed to shoehorn all the essentials back into my old room, having to leave only for food and toilet… and bathing. I didn’t forget bathing.

Now I’ve got three floors to share with only one other person and two cats. Yet still, my first instinct was to shove everything into my room. Oh sure, I put the kitchen utensils and stuff in the kitchen, but everything that was once in my room in the past was in my room now.

I had to sit down and think hard about what I could put elsewhere. I take comfort in having most everything I need at hand, and putting any of these items anywhere as remote and distant as downstairs made me nervous.

In the end, I managed to detach myself from my bookcase and my movie collection enough to put them in the shared living area. It was a beneficial arrangement, as now my roommate could borrow movies at her leisure. And, as time has passed, I’ve become comfortable with it.

Wow, how much of a basket case am I?

The basement area is slowly becoming a rec room. It is a task that neither of us has dedicated much time to yet. At the moment, it is more of a storage area, and the uncontested domain of the cats (a place they can run to when they hear the vacuum). I see so much potential for the room, but having the time and resources to realize my wild home design dreams is another issue.

As for working and living with the same person, I’d say it’s no trouble at all. We work in different departments, and when we’re home we go about our own business by ourselves. In fact, we’ve had dinner together more times before we moved in than since. She’s an agreeable girl, neat and considerate; all you could want in a roommate or a coworker. I consider myself very fortunate to have gotten to know her before we became roommates; I am much better off than if I had been forced to take out an ad for a roommate in the paper.

Wow, this blog is stagnant, does this guy ever update?

Oh wait, shit. This is my blog! Sorry.

I done moved. Again. While I don’t move as often as some people… cough cough greg cough… I feel like I haven’t settled anywhere in quite a while. Going home was supposed to be temporary. Then, all of the sudden, I woke up on the far side of two years and I was still living with my parents. I had become settled, sitting comfortably in a rut.

I was under the impression that I was just short of the financial means to get a place of my own, and I was. But who knows what I could have found if I had truly committed myself to searching. I might have discovered a tiny studio apartment to fit my needs; one that was a) clean, b) bigger than a box of Twinkies, and c) around $500 per month. Yea right! And my landlord would have been a majestic unicorn who grants wishes to anyone who can catch three woodland faries in a magical jar.

It wasn’t until I met someone at work who was also on the apartment hunt and thinking maybe a roommate would soften the blow of rent and utilities.

And long story short, here I am. Let me tell you, it feels good.

We saw our share of crappy apartments. We were given tours of cramped, dirty places whose landlords started the tour with phrases like, “It does need some work,” and, “I really don’t know how the skunk got in here.”

Then we found an excellent place. But we applied too late and didn’t get it, so forget that place. But then we found a better place, and we got that one. Ka-ching!

It’s a nice three-story townhouse in a quiet (read “mostly old”) community.

Some minor maintenance was required, but most of it was addressed before we moved in. The lingering problems involved certain windows not totally working (you know, opening and closing, none of that advanced window shit), and a smattering of plumbing problems (a slightly drippy sink and a mini dishwasher that doesn’t actually drain water (alright if you want to wash the dishes and the floor at the same time, but…)). The windows have been fixed, and the plumber, much like Jesus, will be coming back at some undetermined time in the future. I can’t complain though, we have all the amenities we need and then some.

You'd all be proud of me, I almost went to the gym today. Got my bag out and everything.

Those plans went to hell when Mike called me mid-day to tell me he got an X-Box 360, Call of Duty 2, and Oblivion.

He asked if I wanted to come try it out after work. The thought of saying, "I can't, I was planning on going to the gym." or, "Sure, but let me go to the gym first." NEVER crossed my mind. If any gym-related thought even came close to my conscious mind, it was probably, "Fuck the gym! I'll be there!"

Call of Duty 2 was fun, and the graphics were sharp. To be honest though, it didn't feel like a huge leap over the first one on the computer, much less the sequel on the same system. Yes, the high definition graphics were easy on the eyes, and yes, the X-Box controls were satisfactory (for a console FPS), but I wasn't blown away by it as much as I was by:

Oblivion. Pretty, very pretty. Plus it would seem all the tried and true Elder Scrolls elements are there (causing flashbacks of the hours and hours I spent on the prequel). I could imagine my computer trying to run it, and perhaps being able to do it, but not with all the effects cranked up like they are on the x-box. If anything, some effects were too brilliant: the darks too dark, the lights too bright. Strolling around a giant lake of lava, I found my eyes getting tired of the bright reds. But this is a minor complaint; I mean, I was strolling around a lake of FREAKING LAVA! Badass!

For some reason, everywhere I go I smell burnt popcorn.

I have a theory. Since I have a cold, and my right nostril is completely clogged, I think my left nostril has developed a more acute sense of smell; like a blind man whose other senses are sharpened to compensate for his lack of sight.

I believe that I now have superhuman smelling. Through my sole working nostril I am able to determine who has eaten what for breakfast, and if my clothes have been near burnt popcorn in the last three months.

I have not yet determined how to use this power to fight crime.

Going to a spa, in any context, is not considered a manly activity. It doesn’t matter if you’re getting a massage for a weightlifting injury, or trying to bang the manicurist, the minute you tell anyone you’re going to a spa, you get laughter, pointing, and the universal hand signal for, “You have huge breasts.”

Such was the response I often got from my friends and family when I told them that, prior to my friend’s wedding, he and I were going to a spa for a bit of R & R. Some people even went so far as to ask, “Are you going to order the happy ending?” to which I responded, in mock confusion, “What? Like, the sundae at Friendly’s?”

In the proper tradition of passing the buck, I’ll say that it was originally his idea (which, going back even further, was probably his fiancée’s idea). Honestly though, I liked the sound of it, so I said yes without any arm twisting... or hesitation for that matter.

The place was neat enough; a clean and stylish looking salon graced the upper floor, while a clinical-looking yet rainforest-themed downstairs area housed the mani-/pedi-cure areas, salt showers, and massage rooms (“pedicure,” I just added a hyphen, it’s not some bizarre sexual thing).

My friend and I sat on plush couches in a small lounge that was decked out in a Swiss Family Robinson motif (where you were surrounded by paintings and decorations that made you feel like you were in a jungle, but still had the luxury of sun chairs and an FM radio).

First came the manicure. We were ushered into the manicure… room… place… by a pair of women; let’s call them “Hot,” and “Not.” “Hot” sat me down across the table from her and my friend took a similar position across from “Not.” Though it was the weekend of his wedding, I’m sure he could tell that right off the bat that I had the advantage here.

What followed was a pleasant half-hour of buffing, oiling, massaging, and exfoliating, all below the wrist. I say buffing, oiling, massaging, and exfoliating, but I really don’t know what order they happened in. At any given time, I was completely unaware of what this woman was chipping away at my nails for, or what substance she was rubbing into my palms. I like to verify my manliness by saying that all I know about all the gels and creams on the table was that none of them was motor oil.

Conversation was light during the process. I tried making small talk with, “Hot,” while “Not,” tried to make small talk with my friend. Occasionally I felt the need to turn to my friend and say, “So, how about those Patriots?” or “That reminds me, I gotta take a look at my transmission.”

The process reached a climax of weirdness when my hands, buffed and oiled and massaged, were inserted into two plastic bags which, in turn, were inserted into two heated oven mitts. “Hot,” finished early and walked briefly into the next room. When the smell from someone’s lunch wafted in through the door, I was certain it was the smell of my hands being properly baked. I peeked inside the oven mitts to see if they were a golden brown yet. Not quite.

In the end, my friend would complain that he did not get as thorough a manicure as I did. I could have told him that when I heard “Not,” continuing to make small talk say, “This is my second to last day here, I’m going to work at another spa.” A dead silence filled the air. How the hell do you respond to that? What could you ask her if you don’t want to hear the answer? Sure, she could be leaving because she had to relocate or something, but do you really want to risk starting a conversation that could end with, “The people who are about to give you a massage are rotten bastards.”?

Regardless, the conversation went back to manicures when “Hot,” came back into the room and took off my oven mitts. I told her how I thought the smell of food coming from the other room was my hands. She didn’t even smile, just a short exhale through the nose, meaning either a tiny, stifled chuckle, or she had a boogie.

Our nails sparkling, we went back to the Swiss Family Lounge and sat back down, clumsily checking our cell phones and flipping through magazines without touching our newly buffed nails.

We were then instructed to change into the provided bath robes and slippers which, I can only guess, were fitted for Micky Mouse. Even with size 12 feet (or 13, depending on who's asking ;-), my slippers clopped on the floor like scuba flippers.

We were then directed to private rooms for the salt scrub. I never saw who my friend left with, but my attendee was… let’s call her, “Not Sr.” Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing ugly about her, but she was much older, and certainly not of the caliber of the young, attractive girls I had seen traversing the hallways. Besides, these procedures had nothing to do with the attractiveness of your host, but their skill. Having a hot chick rub you down was just an added benefit.

The salt scrub was… unique. Another “exfoliating,” procedure, the salt scrub takes off up to four layers of dead skin. I’m willing to wager I lost seven. I was initially rubbed down with oil, which was pleasant. I was then assaulted with an oil-salt mixture that felt like this woman was attacking me with a belt sander. I kept looking at her hands, wondering if she had switched from using a fine powder to winter road salt.

To answer what I’m sure is a burning question in everyone’s mind, no. I was not completely naked. The important parts were covered by a towel. No salt was applied to my buttocks or man-region which, as I’m sure you can guess, was a huge relief. I was comfortable though. These people are professionals.

I was then hosed down and left alone under a series of showerheads spraying warm water. I’m told that some people enjoy lying under those shower heads for up to a half hour. I was there for about two minutes before I started thinking, “Um… this is nice and all, but I can do this at home.” My attendant returned a few minutes later and turned off the water. When she left I re-robed and moved into the massage booth.

I suppose by keeping track of who had the hot attendant, I cursed myself. Scratch that. I cursed myself before we walked into the spa when I said, “With my luck I probably won’t get a hot masseuse. I bet I’ll get a dude.”

In walked David, my masseuse.

Now, as I said, looks have nothing to do with this. David is a skilled and strong-handed masseuse. He knew what he was doing, and it felt good.

Note to self: Cross, “He knew what he was doing, and it felt good,” off my list of things I’ll never say in my life.

I didn't feel like a new man afterwards, but I felt pretty good. I got dressed and waited for my friend, who was finished shortly after me. Then he and I chatted as I settled the bill (I decided I would treat him, as part of my wedding gift). I asked him what his masseuse looked like.

“She was pretty hot,” he said, with the casual disinterest you’d only hear from a married man. “I had the same girl for the salt scrub and the massage, so we had a chance to chat and be comfortable.”

I told him about David.

“David?” he said between bouts of suppressed laughter. “You got his name? Did you get his phone number too?”

“Of course,” I said. “After what went on in that room, I had to invite him to the wedding.”

We both laughed that time. I laughed louder because I really wanted the beautiful young girl at the counter to know I was joking.

I had the strangest dream the other night.

I dreamed that Howard Stern had died, and I followed his soul as it sank down to hell. I saw him wake up in a small room, in bed next to an ugly, disfigured woman. A deep voice spoke from out of the thin air, “Howard Stern! For all of your sins in life, you are damned to spend eternity with this woman!”

I turned away and clawed my way back from the depths of hell.

When I returned to earth, I discovered that Hugh Hefner had died. Suddenly, I saw his soul and followed it down to hell. He too woke up in a small room. He found himself in bed with a rough-skinned obese woman. The same voice spoke, “Hugh Hefner! For all your sins in life, you are dammed to spend eternity with this woman!”

I made another attempt to climb back out of hell, but just as I arrived back on earth, I felt a strange shock. I couldn’t describe it, but I knew what had happened. I had been killed. I felt my soul falling down into hell.

I woke up in a small room. I turned to find myself in bed with… Brooke Burke! Then, the mysterious voice said, “Brooke Burke! For all your sins in life…”

The last time a woman voluntarily gave me her phone number was after I hit her car with mine.

As usual, Chris and I were giving Steven Segal some shit.

Actually, it might never have happened. His current direct to video release might have, like the last 35, gone unnoticed were it not for its proliferation. We were remarking how Blockbuster had two shelves worth of Jim Jarmusch’s “Broken Flowers,” starring the increasingly compelling Bill Murray, and they had four shelves worth of Steven Segal’s direct to video frisbee “Black Dawn.”

It was not unusual for there to be more copies of a crap movie than a good one, but up until reaching that particular shelf, I was convinced that it had something to do with money; even the worst mainstream films can make more money than the best independent films.

But now I see that there is no logic at all. If there are twice as many copies of Black Dawn as there are of Broken Flowers, then we’re all doomed. Pack up your shit and prepare for apocalypse; the monkeys are running the show now.

I wasn’t even going to look at the box for Black Dawn; we already knew the plot by heart. Chris was the first to verbalize the premise: a down-and-out (cop, special forces operative, doctor, environmentalist, etc.) comes back to kick some ass.

But curiosity overcame me. Maybe this was his breakout role. Maybe he was dabbling experimental films that involved things like dialogue or emotion.

Lo and behold, Black Dawn is about a down-and-out CIA agent who comes back to kick some ass. In the time it took me to read the blurb on the back, I had somehow watched every Steven Segal movie ever made.

We both agreed that Steven Segal’s career was over a long time ago. He just doesn’t know it because he hasn’t done a family-oriented comedy. That’s usually the milestone that marks the end of an action star’s career. Segal’s family comedy should have been after Under Siege, probably much sooner, but it would never come. He would continue to amble on, unaware of his situation, like the walking dead.

I mention that I was with Chris because A) some of these comments are his, and B) if I’ve managed to piss off Steven Segal, I think Chris and I together could take him.