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.

MTV Killed the Video Star

I am no longer a part of MTV’s continually shrinking target audience. I am neither 15-and a-half years old, nor am I a brain damaged monkey. Thus, I do not enjoy their programming.

When people talk about things they used to like or used to be a part of, they are prone to remember things fondly, even if it wasn’t always rainbows and kittens; likewise, I seem to remember MTV providing me with the entertainment I wanted in the six scant months between late puberty and my driver’s license. Before that I was too young to understand it, and after that I was too old to care about it.

And now, as I observe from the sideline, occasionally flipping past the channel, or stopping and yelling, “Damn! Who’s this hottie?” I’ve noticed that MTV has gone completely down the crapper.

But it’s not just my old age that has changed the quality of the channel. The powers that be have taken every opportunity to poop on the music that was once their backbone and bury it in the dirt of MTV original programming.

I could rant all day about the mind blowing idiocy of all their shows, but I’ll just drop one example for now:

I was flipping through channels the other day and I stopped on MTV; not because I wanted to, but because I dropped the remote. As I scurried out of my chair and reached into the dusty darkness beneath, into which the remote had bounced, I was subjected to a show called, “Next.” In “Next,” beautiful women who were emotionally hollow inside (essentially, blank human billboards for name brand clothing and cell phones), gathered together and began a competition to win the affection of one man, let’s call him, “Mr. Douchebag.” Mr. Douchebag himself was just as emotionally hollow as the women who followed him around, he wore unbuttoned designer clothes, construction-grade hair gel, and so much cologne that I could smell it through the television. To make matters worse, Mr. Douchebag was given the ability to decide that he wasn’t having fun trying to get into the pants of one girl, dismiss her, and replace her almost instantly with another girl who may not have buckled her belt so tightly.

In the time it took me to find the remote, dust it off, shove the batteries back in, and change the channel, he had dismissed one woman because of her choice in seafood, and one woman before they even spoke to each other.

This man, who was burning through the women like rolling paper, did not strike me as a man who had trouble finding a date. He did, however, strike me as a man who had trouble avoiding sexually transmitted diseases. I had no sympathy for him, or the breast-zombies following behind him.

Watching as much of the show as I did made me angry and nauseous. Unfortunately, that is the most favorable thing I can say about a show I’ve seen on MTV in the past six years.

I’ve just watched the Japanese horror film, “Dark Water.” I think it’s a testament to the movie’s mediocrity that five minutes after taking the DVD out of the player, the plot, characters, and details of the film had completely escaped my mind. This is also an indication of the similarities between all Japanese ghost movies that I’ve seen in the last four years.

Let’s see, Dark Water is about a dead girl with long hair in a well. No, wait, wrong movie. It’s about a dead girl with long hair in a house. No, a dead girl with long hair with a cell phone. Oh, I remember, a dead girl with long hair in an apartment. That’s it.

A desperate mother must save her child by confronting the menace. Wait, scratch that. A desperate girlfriend must save her boyfriend by confronting the menace. Crap, that’s not it. A desperate woman must save her friend’s daughter by confronting- Oh, wait, I was right the first time. It is a desperate mother who must save her child by confronting the menace. Mother, child, menace. Got it.

Seriously people! Are they, like, playing Mad Libs with one script?

How many times is long black hair going to come out of your faucet before you say, “Screw this, we’re moving to America!” How many times is some invisible phantom going to grab your hand before you decide to just pack up your shit and move?

Like all J-horror, there at least a few striking visuals and scares; but of the genre films I’ve seen lately (Ringu, Ju-On, Phone, etc.) Dark Water contains the fewest scares and the least interesting buildup. It is predictable (even without being a j-horror clone), unengaging, and slow. Do yourself a favor and ignore it.

I’ve heard that there’s an American remake. I might be curious to find out if America’s formula for remaking a foreign film (by adding explosions and titties), does anything to salvage this boring story.

I have an idea for a new invention. Hear me out on this one.

We’ve all been put on hold. Many times, we’ve been put on hold before we’ve even had the chance to talk to a real person. “Your call is important to us, please stay on the line and our next available representative will help you,” says the recording. It’s frustrating, it’s annoying, it’s downright unethical.

If you’re like me, you’re prone to speaking to the recording. When it interrupts your crappy music every ten seconds to remind you how important you are, it’s difficult to suppress a “Fuck you,” or “Shut up, bitch!”

So here’s my invention: a recording that responds to verbal abuse.

It would be responses you’d want to hear, things like, “You’re right. We all suck at this company.” Or maybe, “Yes, I know. I’m sorry I’m a bitch. Would you like to spank me?”

Imagine yelling, “Fuck you!” into the phone and then hearing a sexy female voice respond, “Yes! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

Believe me, when that customer service representative picks up, you’ll ask to be put back on hold.

And thus, the world became a better place.

Though most people are in agreement, I’ve taken a bit of flak from some of my male friends regarding my blanket statement that Hugh Hefner’s “Girlfriends,” are unattractive.

Don’t get me wrong. I respect Hugh. He’s the definition of class, and we are using the plural “girlfriends” here. Who can do better than that? But I think his choice in mates is very blind-sighted.

It would be difficult to describe them without falling into cliché. They are the typical big-breasted, platinum blonde bimbos. Some guys like that kind of thing, I know this. And maybe they’re not bimbos; maybe one of them has got a PHD.

But the fact remains, looking at them makes you feel hollow inside. Why?

Imagine looking over the statues in the Louvre in Paris. Find a statue of a nude goddess in a provocative pose. Then take a belt sander and grind away the outer layer of this statue until it is one smooth, unblemished form. Sand thoroughly until all traces of tone or uniqueness are gone, and then polish the statue until it has a glimmering shine. Pour bleach on the statue and let it fill all the tiny pores and nooks that may someday grow to cause the statue to show age or maturity. Then, start attaching new rocks to the chest area. These rocks need not be the correct size or color to make them look like a natural part of the statue. Apply an extremely thick coat of colored varnish to the face.

Now look at that, and tell me you don’t feel hollow…

About a month and a half ago, my gym terminology changed.

When I say I “Go,” to the gym, what I mean is that I’m more of a “Silent Partner;” watching things from behind the scenes and occasionally sending in money to keep things running smoothly.

Occasionally, I’ll wander over to the facility, scope things out, and go back home, satisfied that they’re carrying on just fine without me.