Last night, while Nik and I are catching up, she broaches the topic of my (un)social life. I mention there's a girl I may like.

Me: I can't quite tell if she likes me.
Nik: Touch her boob. You'll find out quickly.
Me: (confused pause) Somehow I don't think that's the best path to take.
Nik: Fine! Stay in the dark!

The road to hell is lined with good intentions, no?

After a busy shift working a private party Christine and I decide to turn the tables, heading across the street to have dinner and have somebody wait on us for a change. It's a small Italian place - the kind where the waiters all have mustaches, and the walls are lined with photographs of famous people who have eaten there, and who have signed their praises with Sharpie pens.

We're seated at a small table and when I look over I notice we're seated next to two famous Chicago newscasters (a husband and wife). Clearly, all the celebrity photos on the walls are there for good reason.

They eat their dinner in peace, only occasionally talking to people who stop at their table. "Thanks for watching," she tells them.

The chef sends several shots to their table, and glasses are raised across the restaurant as the chef sticks his head out of the kitchen to down drinks with the newscasters.

The wife says her husbands name with a hint of disapproval when the chef sends a third shot to their table and he downs it eagerly, a mischievous smile on his face.

And it's then that I think of US Magazine, with their photos of something like Leonardo DiCaprio pushing a shopping cart in front of a Target with the headline, "Stars! They're just like us!"

...Only they get sent free shots at restaurants.

Last night Bernadette and I went to go see Kissing on the Mouth, a film by Joe Swanberg, starring my pal Kate.

"So how long is this movie?" Bernadette asks while she's getting ready. I shrug, "like an hour and a half?" "That long?" she asks, exasperated. "It's a movie," I say.

"I know," she says, "but it's an experimental movie. Shouldn't it be short?"
"It's not experimental," I correct her, "it's independent."

After the movie there was a Q&A with the cast and crew. Kris, one of the people involved, said, "The thing about Joe is that he tries to be a much more experimental filmmaker than he actually ends up being."

Bernadette elbows me in my seat. "See," she whispers, "experimental." She shakes her head and sighs. "Shithead."

Experimental. Independent. Potato. Potahto. Any way you dice it, the movie was great. And the DVD is coming out soon, so you really have no excuse not to see it.

The other day Kellie dragged me with her to a scrapbooking store. Yes, there are whole stores devoted to scrapbooking.

They had stickers for every possible event, occasion, or day. Football games, christenings, weddings, graduation, or even just a random month of the year.

"This is creepy," I told her once we were inside the store.
"It's not creepy," she said.
"Well it's unnatural."

The worst was a whole page of stickers for someone who was doing a page on adoption. "This," I said, pointing to the adoption stickers, "this is not right." The stickers said things like 'The story of my adoption', 'I'm so glad you chose me!' and 'Born from the heart.' As compared to being born from the uterus. Like an unadopted child.

"I wonder if they have any stickers for doing a scrapbook page about divorce," I say. In my head I imagine stickers saying things like, "Amicable!"
"Now that would be pretty great," Kellie seconds.

The other day I came across an old Sun-Times clipping I had saved. Columnist Neil Steinberg was singing Richard Roeper's praises for no discernible reason, and doing a ridiculously over-the-top job of it too. Some excerpts from Roeper's written blowjob:

"Richard Roeper, my fellow columnist and TV host, is the coolest guy in the universe."

Not subtle enough for you? It gets worse.

"I've known Rich for nearly 20 years and have been observing him with the gaping wonder of a 1930s Nebraska farm boy watching the first streamlined train blast by."

Does this guy owe Roeper money? Seriously.

"Rich is smart, plugged-in, hardworking. He always wears the hippest clothes (he wouldn't call them "hip" of course, but whatever term the cool kids at trendy clubs coined last night, a word which he knows and I don't). He has the latest gadgets. The smallest cell phone I ever head in my life was loaned to me by Rich at a party at the Casino Club. I had to step out into the hallway to get enough light to see the buttons, and dialed it in a fashion that you can mimic by holding a quarter an inch under your nose and tapping around it's edge with a finger."

And then just when you think Steinberg is done...

"I have never seen him flustered or in an awkward situation. He arrives just as people are wondering "where's Rich?" and vanishes early, leaving everybody to clutch at the air where he had been."

"Clutch at the air where he had been"? Really?

Steinman then goes on to backhandedly insult rival columnists Mary Schmich and Eric Zorn from the (far superior) Tribune.

"Here at the Sun-Times, we don't believe in those back-and-forth, Chip 'n' Dale columnist spats that some newspapers inflict upon their readers. Those "You may like jelly, Eric, but I prefer jam" debates that are falsity itself."

At this point I loath Steinberg. But he digs his hole deeper.

"What I'm trying to say is, even if I wanted to pass this by Rich, who knows where to find him? (Actually, he's in Los Angeles, appearing on "The Tonight Show" today and, if I know Rich, later on giving Charlize Theron a hot oil massage)."

What is the point of this column!?!

...About two paragraphs later it becomes semi-clear, as Steinman says that despite how "awesome" Roeper is, he tried to be nice to Oprah the other day, and evidently that's "not awesome."

"I myself am proud to have described [Oprah] as 'that froglike dominatrix presiding over her Theater of Pain'."

Steinman then goes on to predict that Oprah's Broadway play The Color Purple will bomb, and that, "You and I, Rich, we just aren't the type of people Oprah Winfrey will ever like."

Not surprisingly, I think I'm going to have to side with Winfrey on this one.

In the beginning the internet was used for sharing information and helping connect people. Then, slowly but surely, the internet became a big pit of porn.

But now, I'm excited to let you in on a new website Massimo has told me about. Pandora.

Pandora is essentially a music site, but it's so cool, you won't know what to do with yourself.

And it's not just for "music" people. Let's say you have no taste whatsoever and only like Dolly Parton. Or the last CD you bought wasn't a CD at all, but a vinyl of The Mamas and the Papas. Well Pandora can help you out.

You type in a band or artist you like, and it plays a song by that band/artist. Then you click on a 'next' button and it starts playing other bands/artists that it thinks you may like, who are similar to your original choice. It's really amazing, and it has pretty much any band/artist you can think of.

So go, try it. ...It even has The Mamas and The Papas.

I walk into my building the other day and my doorman is holding the door. "What's up, man?" he asks. "Not much," I tell him. "What about you?"

"I just got some great news a while ago," he said. "Oh yeah?" I ask. "What's that?"

"I just saved a bunch of money on car insurance by switching to Geico!"

We stare at each other blankly for a second, not saying anything.

Geico. A 15 minute call could save you up to 15% on auto insurance.

Kate has started taking a painting class.

Me: What are you painting? Still life? Abstract?
Kate: Well it's an intro class. I haven't taken painting since 10th grade.
Me: So like...bowls of fruit?
Kate: Well right now we're painting a picture based on one of the masters' styles.
Me: Ah. Who's your master? (pause)That sounded dirty. Nevermind.

The other day I helped Kami paint Gianni's bedroom. With nothing else to do while painting, Kami and I reverted to roadtrip games, most notably A-Z. You know how it goes. Like bands for example...

A) Abba
B) Beastie Boys
C) Chumbawamba

I'd do A. Kami would do B. We'd go back and forth.

Other notable categories were movies. TV shows. Countries/Animals (eg a)Afghanistan! b)barracuda!). The best, however, was Presidents/Illnesses.

Kami: Abe Lincoln.
Me: Bulemia.
Kami: Chlamydia.
Me: Oooh, that's good. I wish I had gotten chlamydia! (pause) Damnit! That didn't sound right!

Last night after work I have a craving for a sandwich, so I stop by the grocery store to pick up bread, cheese, et al.

In the check-out line the couple in front of me looks at my items.

Woman: Oh, look at this boy.
Man: He's single.

They both start laughing at me.

Man: Look at these items. He's definitely single.
Woman: Heaven help him!

My items on the conveyor belt are: 1 loaf of bread, 1 block of cheese, 1/2 lb. of sliced turkey, 1 bottle of honey mustard, and a 1.5 liter bottle of water.

...I'm sorry, do married people not buy any of these items? Do married people not eat sandwiches?

The other night Lizze was asking me for suggestions on where to order pizza.

Me: You can't go wrong with Chicago's Pizza.
Lizze: Yeah, I like them but Shayan doesn't.
Me: Hmm. Then I'm out of ideas.
Lizze: But you have a pizza blog!
Me: Ironic, isn't it?

Yesterday I called my Mom. She answered the phone:

Mom: Hello, and thanks for calling the Hilary Duff Fan Club!

That Mom. She's a kidder.

You know your life is a bad romantic comedy when...

you do this.

[afterpost: evidently this listing was taken off craigslist shortly after I wrote this blog, and when several of you went to click on it you got a page saying the post was removed. luckily, in my infinite wisdom, i saved the page, knowing that it would be taken down after a week anyway. the above link is the post from craigslist, exactly as it looked, only now saved on my website. enjoy.]

For some reason Bernadette seems to be under the impression that I like Hilary Duff. And I mean "like" in the 15-year-old high school crush way. Like I'd have a poster of her up in my room. Well now I'm not that far off...

For Hanukkah Bernadette got me a Hilary Duff calendar. It's a 16-month calendar at that. I now have 16 pictures of Hilary Duff.

I already hate February, if only because it's a picture of Hilary and her sister, who looks like she's a transexual.








Am I the only one who thinks that Haylie Duff looks like a transexual?

Last night when I couldn't sleep I was looking through my manual for The Clapper.

"Do not use The Clapper with any electrical heating appliances such as toasters, hair dryers, coffee pots, etc."

Just imagine how cool it would be to put toast in the toaster the night before, press it down, and then in the morning all you'd have to do is clap and wait a few minutes for your toast.

Am I becoming too lazy? I'm becoming to lazy, aren't I?

Kami and I are sitting around. She's eating a grilled cheese, I'm eating ice cream.

Me: I have to go to a dinner party.
Kami: You don't do well at dinner parties.
Me: (defensive) Why do you say that?
Kami: Because you drink.
Me: Oh yeah. (pause) But I can't drink at this one. I don't really know these people.
Kami: So why are you going?
Me: Eh, Lizze and her boyfriend are throwing it. I'm trying to be a good friend. But I bet everyone there will be smart.
Kami: Uh huh. And what are you going to say that you do?
Me: Um...I'm a marine biologist?
Kami: I see. And where did you go to school?
Me: Um...Cal Tech?
Kami: Right. And then what did you minor in?
Me: Uh...architecture?
Kami: Architecture?!
Me: Well my real goal is to build fish tanks.
Kami: Hmm. Right. And where do you work?
Me: Red Lobster.
Kami: Of course. After you spent all that time on your four year degree.
Me: Eh. Four months, four years. Same thing.
Kami: (sigh) Red Lobster.

I'm going to impress the pants off these people!

So today I invented a new game. It's called Take Me There!

First you pick a street. Lets say Broadway.

Then you hail the first cab you see. Lets say it's cab number 1307.

So you tell the cab driver, "1307 Broadway! Take me there!"

If the address is a bar, you have a drink there. If it's a store, you shop there. If it's a restaurant, you eat there. If it's a laundromat, you do your laundry there. If it's someone's house...well...then you just choose a new street and cab. But otherwise, you get the idea.

Yes, the game is that simple and fun. I'm expecting a call from Parker Brothers any day now.

Usually I don't blog about how dumb celebrities are. But this is just too dumb to ignore.

Keven Federline (aka Mr. Britney Spears) now has his own website (www.kevinfederline.com) where he declares, "Don't judge a book by it's cover!" That's right, Kevin doesn't want us to just assume he's an idiot, he wants to prove to us that he's an idiot. Kevin goes on to say:

"Hey Everyone,

I don't think we've ever been formally introduced. My name is Kevin Federline. I'm 6 feet tall, have brown hair and brown eyes. I enjoy horseback riding, long walks on the beach and the wind whipping through my hair. Ha ha ha. On a more serious note, there's going to be a lot more information and updates on here in the coming weeks and I think this will provide you with the opportunity to get to know who I really am."

Yes, Kevin actually put "really" in both bold and italics. There's also a photo section of Kevin wearing lots of different fedoras. I wish I were kidding.

I now need to go find one of those chemical eye-wash sinks they have in high school science classrooms before I go permanently blind. Oh the humanity!

The other day Abigail (an anthropologist) let me in on a little secret.

Abigail: Anthropologists are all insane. All of us!
Me: That would explain why so many of them use that defense to get off in murder trials.

Today I'm walking down Halsted when I see my friend Leonard, who happens to be gay.

Leonard: That's a nice coat.
Me: Thanks. It's warm.
Leonard: Wool?
Me: Um...I don't know.
Leonard: It looks like wool. How do you not know?
Me: Um...I just...bought it without checking.
Leonard: You don't look at the fabric before you buy?
(I shake my head no)
Leonard: Oh that is so straight.

Leonard laughs and walks off.

Isn't everything nowadays just a cotton blend anyway?

For Hanukkah my mom got me the Clapper.

That's right. Clap on. Clap off. The Clapper.

"Don't you live in a studio apartment?" a friend asked. Not the point.

Evidently the Clapper is a sensitive machine. It doesn't take just claps to turn my lights on and off. Closing a door. Setting down a dish. Dropping a book. Slamming a cabinet. All these things set off the Clapper. Needless to say, the lights in my apartment are constantly turning off and on.

And then the other night I brought home a date. And, for whatever reason the Clapper saw fit, her voice turned the lights on and off. Her voice set off the Clapper.

"Your mom probably programmed it to go on and off when you brought gentile girls home," a friend tells me. "You know, to scare them off." I tell her this isn't the case, though in my head I think how this idea would probably make a fortune. And I would call it The Kvetcher.

Kvetch on! Kvetch off! The Kvetcher!