Tales of the City

The average male sprouts an erection 11 times a day. That's just science, people. One of my daily tent-pitchings occurs at 8:05 every morning, without fail. The only real problem with this is that's roughly the time my train pulls into Union Station. So, depending on the type of underwear and pants I'm sporting, this phenomena can be fairly obvious when I move to dis-embark.

"Mr. Burgandy, you have a massive erection."

Whatever, I don't care. I'm surounded most days by older women in control-top pantyhose. I'm not going to remain in my seat until the moment passes. Self-consciousness is not my thing. So, I just get up, looking like a directional sign ("This way to Union Station!"), and go about my business. Today, however, I think I may have actually poked someone when the train lurched to a stop. Color me embarassed.

Yes, I've started off the day with a boner story. It only goes downhill from here.

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Yesterday, I made my way a few blocks to the ATM near my office. At the front of the line were two statuesque people of Latin descent. Neither had on much clothing and even though obvious tattooed breasts bloomed from their clothing, one had the sense they weren't exactly BORN that gender. What a pair these two were. Missing teeth, acne scars, frizzed out perms. They were loud and talkative and flirty, mouthing husky "hellos" to the businessmen walking by. I managed to avoid their attention until after I had withdrawn a quick $40, but I passed right through their atmosphere on the way back to my desk. They both laciviously chirped at me in Spanish, peering over their sunglasses and giving me a once-over. I didn't get what they said, but I could figure out the jist. As I purposefully avoided eye contact, I shook my head and simply said, "Not today, fellas."

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This actually happened a little while ago and I tried to fashion it into a story, but that exercise was futile, for a hundred reasons, not the least of which is that I suck. Truly, I scrapped it when it became some sort of spiritual crock of shit that I neither liked nor agreed with.

ANYWAY, I was sitting out in front of my building having a smoke. This act generally opens one up to the myriad bums--That's right, "bums." That's what we called 'em growin' up and that's what I still call 'em. If I ever become "homeless," I hereby give you the right to call me a bum. Or a wino. There's one bum who can't exactly speak, a wild-haired black dude who is reduced to bird noises and pantomime. He always "asks" me for a smoke and when I turn him down, he reaches for the one I'M smoking, as if I would give him a hit. Shit, I wouldn't even give YOU, dear reader, a hit off my butt, let alone this guy. But he repeated the dance every time.

I miss smoking.

But this story isn't about him. It was about this other dude who walked up to me one day with a twinkle in his eye. He wasn't as unkempt as your average bum and his pleasant disposition was a little disarming. I had already mentally prepared to give him my change before he even asked. When he did ask, he said, "I'm sorry to bother you sir, but I just need 67 cents."

I laughed a bit, the fact he had a precise number. An original tack, I thought. I reached into my pocket, dug out all my change and handed it over. Before I did, however, I counted it. I was gonna give him more than 67 cents, if I had it, but for some reason.......

I had EXACTLY 67 cents.

He noted that my mouth gaped. Smiled, nodded knowingly and thanked me. He was off before I could utter a word. What I was gonna say, I don't know. I only know it freaked me out for a few.

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I really enjoyed the Al/BG exchange yesterday, as I'm sure everyone else did. Not only for the entertainment they provide, but for getting my inner machinery working to expoud further on their choices, as well as my own preferences.

For the record, I voted Loren, Welch, Carter, Cates, Casta, Alba.

The only real difficult choice for me was Alba, but Iggy's recent posting of those pictures probably swayed me in the end. Lynda Carter over Farrah was a surprisingly easy one for me, considering Farrah's obvious icon status. But they don't make women like Lynda Carter anymore (dig that hourglasss action), whereas I could hock a loogie at the local mall and hit a half-dozen Farrah wannabes.

Phoebe Cates wins the 80s because she was first. Because her coming out of that pool was a "Where were you when JFK was shot?" type moment for every adolescent male alive at the time. Tawny Kitain was a noble effort and the Whitesnake videos were also a destination, but...well, Tawny was also in "Bachelor Party," so her first impression was nowhere near that of Mrs. Kevin Kline's. The only other person from the 80s who could have possibly gotten my vote is Elle McPherson.

I'm also outraged that Selma Hayek was not mentioned at all. She is my easy '90s choice. "From Dusk 'Til Dawn?" Snake dance? Santanico Pandemonium? Ring a bell with anyone? She's still my #1, even if she was sporting the Frieda Kahlo unibrow.

You ever do those Top 5 Freebie lists with your significant other? You know, like Ross on "Friends" with Isabella Rosselini? As I said, Selma tops mine. The dear and patient wife's includes Andy Garcia, Chris Cornell, Christopher Noth, Antonio Banderas and, most recently added, the A's 21 year-old closer Huston Street. Cradle robber.

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Speaking of the A's, you see that ending yesterday? I have never seen anything like that. Some bizarre stuff happening in Oakland. Usually, the A's are on the other side of such hapenings (Jeter's flip throw, Jeremy Giambi's non-slide, Byrnes not touching home plate, Tejada not continuing to run).

Kenny Macha's reaction?

"I didn't know what was going on."

Have at it, Larry.

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Be sure to check out Jason's reports from the WSOP circuit event in Tunica.