How was your day, Dan?

BLOODSUCKERS

I'm not afraid to say it: "Eclipse" sucked. There.  It's out there, deal with it. 

As a reviewer on Yelp, I was invited to a pre-screening sponsored by Vitamin Water (free bottles! yea!) which I appreciated.  But fun sponsorship does not make a fun movie.  If they cut out all the footage of people just staring at each other with meaningful looks in their eyes, the movie would be 30 minutes long.  But it goes on and on, with endless scenes of actors talking with clenched jaws about nothing you'd understand because so much communication happens with the vampire's psychic powers.  So if you haven't read the book to learn the story, you have no idea why the dialogue jumps and makes no sense.

And it's boring.  And seriously, no one moves their mouths.  Even Dakota Fanning, who is undeniably a great actress, plays her part totally flat and keeps her jaw clenched the whole time.

Speaking of vampires, I had my own run-in with diabolical bloodsuckers today: while walking down the street I passed a certain gentleman I've known for a long time and always enjoy engaging in a little chit-chat.  I try to be suave and take things further, but I fumble every play and walk away defeated.  But today, I was feeling suave, I looked cute in my shorts and new sandals, so I tried to give it my best shot—until I felt something on my leg and looked down.  Sadly, I was standing on a mosquito nest of some sort, and my besandaled (translation: bare) ankles were covered in the little nasties.

In a span of 5 minutes, I acquired 138 mosquito bites—I counted, it really is 138— on my ankles and shins. So on my way to the movie theater, I picked up every remedy available, and have been applying each in patch areas on myself, to compare the results.  After experimenting thusly, allow me to share my findings?  Here we go:

Benadryl Itch-Stopping Gel, active ingredient: diphenhudramine HCl 2%.  Takes the longest time to set in, but alleviated itch completely for a few hours.  BUT, reapplying for a 2nd round is trickier as it doesn't soak in as well—perhaps because of the previous application residue?  There is also a Benadryl gel that is just camphor, but screw that weak stuff.

AfterBite, active ingredient: ammonia.  This uses the same principle as peeing on a jellyfish sting: ammonia (which is part of your pee!) counteracts the swelling and inflamation.  AfterBite comes in a little stick, and you dab it on each bite.  With approximately 70 bites on one ankle, that's a lot of dabbing.  But it worked.  It just wore off relatively fast, and the ammonia is stinky.

Hydrocortisone cream: all this did was glop up my legs, and make it super-difficult to scratch the itch.  My fingers just slid up and down. NEXT:

Fantastik, active ingredient: ammonia.  When I came home I thought, if the AfterBite pen works, why not spray on some Fantastik ammonia cleaner?  It could work in an emergency.  The cooling mist felt delicious, and now I smell very clean.  It actually accomplished some relief for a few minutes, but the ammonia isn't very strong.  I can't imagine repeated applications would be a good idea.

Allegra pills, active ingredient: fexofenadine.  This is bringing in the heavy guns—antihistamine that will dry you up like a raisin.  I ration these pills, they're expensive, but in times like this, you pay the price to not be miserable.  I popped one and feel MUCH better.

WHY AMERICANS DON'T LIKE SOCCER

Yeah, I said "soccer." Our country thinks it's so lame, we don't even call it by the correct name.  Here's why:

1) Not enough points.  Back and forth, back and forth, the players run back and forth for two hours and the final score is just 1-0.  Americans need excessive gratification.  In basketball, somebody earns points once every minute, and the final score can be in the hundreds.  Now THAT is a score.

2) Not enough rules.  Here is how you play soccer: 1) Kick the ball in the goal, you get a point.  And...that's it.  What kind of bullshit game is this?  Have you ever tried to keep track of the rules in American football?  Touchdowns are worth 6 points, after-touchdown goals are worth 1, if you don't get a touchdown you can try for a field goal and that is worth 3, but you have to get the touchdown in four downs or there is a change of possession, unless you advance 10 yards within four downs and then you're back at a first down...

3) The players are too skinny.  Americans prefer huge superhero athletes on steroids. (...I'm looking at you, Serena Williams.)

4) Soccer stars are too girly.  Your sports' best players are pretty boys like David Beckham and Christiano Ronaldo, who wear jewelry and work as underwear models.  The only American sports hero allowed to sell underwear is Michael Jordan, but that's because he sells everything.  Michael Jordan never had his chest waxed to pose for an ad campaign in his panties.  

5) Soccer fans are nuts.  Yes, American sporting events usually have one or two idiot fans who paint their faces with team colors and beat their chests in a display of blind pride.  But the rest of the crowd secretly laughs at them.  At rowdy soccer matches, however, fans get so worked up they riot and trample each other.  The mark of a good soccer match is if someone in the crowd dies.  The only reason people die at US sporting events is because they get drunk in the stadium parking lot before the game, and drown in a puddle of their own puke.

RIP SHOWGIRLS

Dearly beloved Showgirls VHS tape,

It is a sad day today, indeed.

After so many years of owning you, playing you repeatedly, rewinding certain scenes and playing again, I must now say goodbye.

I have played you so many times, I've officially worn you out.  You no longer work, you just cast black-and-white shadows across my screen, with garbled dialogue interspersed with the occasional blare of music from a production number.  I realize the garbled dialogue is a slight quality improvement over the actual words in the script; and of course I know all your lines anyway and can recite the entire movie from memory.  But it's no fun if I can't recite those lines with you.

You have changed me, Showgirls VHS tape.  It is because of you I tried Cristal.  It is because of you that when people ask me where I am from, I throw French fries at them and say "Different places!"  It is because of you I started eating brown rice and vegetables, except I eat my brown rice and vegetables with lots of sauce—I get it from the Chinese restaurant around the corner—so there's probably more calories in there than a hamburger.  Don't tell Tony Moss, he'll call me fat.  He's such a prick.

So now, like a dancer with a broken knee, you are tossed aside.  It saddens me, because you and I have had such a long relationship.  You have lasted longer than any of my boyfriends, including the one boyfriend who broke up with me after I coerced him to re-enact your sex scene in Zack Carey's pool.  The whole scenario freaked him out, he didn't get it.  But it's okay, I don't miss him.  He didn't have your heat.

Someday I will find a Showgirls DVD, so I may once again dance around my apartment like a dancer in "Goddess." Hopefully I will find that DVD before 7/3/73, Nomi Malone's birthday (or is it?), a day all true Showgirls fans revere.  Until then, you will be missed.

Love,

Dan Renzi

ESL

Reason #742 I love my ESL student: she didn't do her homework.  Her reason: "I had to go to Pilates."

I applaud her priorities.

We then focused that day's lesson on related terminology.  It is important to strengthen your core.  I want to get a 6-pack again.

Love. Her. So much.

CAN YOU SMELL IT?

Good news is in the air today. Can you smell it? 

What does excitement smell like to you?  When my brain starts to whir with big plans, I smell something fresh, like a field of grass.  There's a tree out there in the distance. 

"Fun" is the smell of chlorine--the pool, during swimming lessons.

"Love" is bacon cooking.  Mom woke up to make us breakfast.

"Independence" is the very distinct mixture of grease and floor cleaner, the smell of every restaurant kitchen that serves hamburgers...a.k.a., the place I worked when I saved up to buy my first car.  To this day, when I walk past a restaurant kitchen I straighten myself up a little extra and step proud, like I mean business.

But good news smells the best.  The grass, the breeze, the sun, it all mixes and smells so fresh, like good things are coming.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN

The time: late at night, the start of a night out.

The place: a business establishment that sells alcoholic beverages, with a clientele predominantly comprised of gay men wearing overly-priced "designer" t-shirts.

I was sitting quietly, minding my own business, when the little man sat next to me.  He reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin from the latest "Shrek" film: a tiny, skinny little man. Except he wasn't wearing a giant wig, although if he was that would have awesome.  Regardless, he was attractive. Cute. 

Let's discuss something before I continue.  There are equal yet polar forces at work in the Laws of Attraction: namely, there are the people you are attracted to, and then there are the people you attract.  Unfortunately for humankind, these two populations rarely possess similar members, so finding that love of your life is tricky business.

In the case of whom I am attracted to, I go for personality over looks. A genuine smile goes a lot further than washboard abs.  But I have a rather large personality—and I am a rather large person physically, at 6'3" and tipping the scales over 200 pounds—so I sometimes have a preference for bigger guys, usually my age or older, who take up space when they walk into a room both physically and spirituatlly.  I like guys who get out into the world, guys who have meat on their bones because they do stuff and not because they work out all the time.  Plus, when I date someone tall I can raid his closet and his clothes will fit, which is one of the best parts about being in a same-gender relationship. But that's a topic for another time.

Guys who approach me, however, tend to be smaller, thin, and boyish, with youthful looks regardless of their age.  And they look up at me like they are excited to climb a tree.  Sometimes these guys are beautiful.  Sometimes...the guy is fine, but really I just go along with it for something to do.  Please don't judge, I'm being honest. 

So back to the story: I was sitting there people-watching when this little man plopped down next to me and started chat-chat-chatting away.  And there was that starry look in his eyes, the "I can't wait to climb you!" excitement that I've seen before, but usually fades quickly.  Talking to him was fun, but...y'know...if he left, I would have just talked to someone else, or maybe to no one and that would be fine.

As the evening progressed Little Man spun lively tales that made me laugh, as he bounced up and down excitedly on his seat and touched my arm to emphasize a point.  And I had fun, he was nice.  It never occurred to me we spent the entire evening talking talking away, oblivious to the rest of the room, until we took a break and he stood up to smoke while I went to the restroom. 

Standing at the urinal contemplating the things one ponders while peeing, I thought Little Man was impressive--talking to him was effortless, and I rarely find the courage to just throw myself down with someone and chat.  When I do try, 99% of the time it is awful and awkward and I walk away and pout over my failure.

As I exited the back hallway, I rounded a corner and Big Man caught my eye: about my height, a little thicker in the body, shaved head, talking to a group of straight girls which means he wasn't with his boyfriend and perhaps didn't have a boyfriend and I could totally say something to him. This is exactly the kind of man I would never talk to, and always regret not doing so; instead I wait for something exciting to happen to me, like the high school girl sitting around wondering why I don't have a date. But I would wait no more, not tonight.  Let's give this a shot. I didn't want to spend all night with him, I wanted to say hello.  Why not just say hello?

Why not?

I took one step.

He turned his head, looked at me, ROLLED HIS EYES, and turned away.

Okay never mind.

I walked back to my seat, my face hot and flushed but not in a good way.  I went back to Little Man and talked to him instead.  Blah blah blah, I'm listening and not listening, this is how straight guys half-listen to girls when they're pretending to pay attention blah blah.

Fast forward to the next day: after getting to know each other a little better, Little Man turned out to be a total punk and spending time with him was a mistake.  Serves me right, I didn't really want to be there anyway, I was just talking to him because he was talking to me.  Actually that's not entirely true; I did have hopes that maybe something would come of it.  Oh well, live and learn.

The moral: ...I don't know what the moral of the story is.  I just wanted to tell a story about my crap night.

Random note: "Rumpelstiltskin" is recognized in my spell-check.  Who decided to put "Rumpelstiltskin" in this computer program?  How random.

BP

Thoughts about the world.

1) BP is currently spending millions of dollars on advertisements, to persuade America to continue buying their gas.  Instead of the ads, why not spend the money on increasing clean-up efforts?  Just a thought.

2) "We shouldn't punish the gas station owners for BP's problem."  So does that mean we should shop at stores that sell goods made by child labor, because it's not the store's fault?  This wasn't an "accident," this oil spill is the result of BP's negligence.  There's a difference.

MAN WITH THE HAT

I saw him again.  He's easy to spot, wearing that hat.

The time: late, a few nights ago.

The place: I was standing in a bar—my friend hosts a karaoke night, and I'll jump at any chance to sing "Copacabana" by Barry Manilow.  As I waited for my turn at the mic, I was practicing my dance moves when he walked in on the other side of the room.  He sat down at the bar, ordered a cocktail, and took a pen out of his pocket. 

Like people in LA revel in sightings of Angelyne, I have been tracking this man in the hat for several months.  I pulled myself together and continued to stand nonchalantly; one must not attract attention to oneself when spying.  But I could watch him in the reflection of the mirror.

The man looked shifty-eyed from side to side, to make sure no one suspicious was lurking behind him, and scribbled a note on a cocktail napkin. As he wrote, he held his free hand over the napkin so no one could spy what he was writing.  It should be noted, however, that (a) he was sitting alone, (b) there was no one standing anywhere near him, and (c) it was dark so even without his hand blocking the light he'd barely be able to see what he was writing. But he was cautious nonetheless.

He then folded the napkin into a small square, placed it in his palm, and extended his arm to shake the bartender's hand, thereby slipping the bartender his note in a secretive fashion. 

The bartender turned his back to the room, opened the note, and chuckled. He put the note in his pocket. 

And with that, the mysterious man took a sip of his cocktail, and walked out the front door.  Goodbye.

I had to restrain myself from running across the room to the bartender, and instead walked calmly up to him and asked if he knew the man in the hat.  The bartender said yes, he comes in once in a while. I said I was very interested in this man, he seems to be a very unusual person.  The bartender said yes, he is strange, but he's a good tipper.  I know this bartender, so I felt it was appropriate to ask him, That note he gave you—what did it say? Can you tell me? 

He smiled knowingly, patted his pocket, and shook his head.  "No."

Like Amélie tracked the man in the photo booth, I must meet this person someday.

KATHIE LEE

On today's episode of "Kathie Lee and Hoda," they discussed the two-year-old in Indonesia who smokes cigarettes. And Kathie Lee said "I really think they should call Child Protective Services."  In a village in Indonesia.

I just wanted to share Kathie Lee's delusional state with you. That's all.  Have a good day.

ORLANDO

I drove to Orlando for the weekend.  The first weekend of June every year "GayDays" takes over Disney World, and satellite events spill over into Universal Studios and various nightclubs around town.  Last night Debbie Gibson performed, and she was spectacular; I'm really glad all the 20-somethings danced around and appreciated the glorious melodies of "Out Of The Blue" and "Only In My Dreams."   A couple next to me slow-danced to "Lost In Your Eyes" and it was so romantic, it made me want to go home and make out with my pillow while looking at photos of Kirk Cameron.  Just like old times.

Although I'm only going to a few events at some nightclubs; the GayDays events at Disney World are too expensive, and I get intimidated by big groups of gay men all walking around with scowls on their faces, trying to discourage anyone from talking to them because doing so might mean you're hitting on them.  God forbid.  People say I have the gay scowl on my face sometimes, but they're usually people who want to ask me "Were you on The Real World?" and that's boring. It would be pleasant for someone to just say "hello" instead.

And the pool parties...forget it.  10,000 gays in Speedos, ignoring each other except to discuss who has the nicest abs.  I'd rather see a movie.

Friday's ESL lesson: while learning American expressions that don't translate directly from Spanish, we discussed the fun things she likes to do when she visits St. Barts.  My favorite island is St. Barts.  Let's "take a walk" on the beach.  Do you want to "go for a" swim?  I would like to "lay out" and "get some sun."   I love this woman.