At first I didn't get the big deal over his messages; he just sounded like the typical guy I've chatted with from Los Angeles. But as I listened more closely, I began to hear the voice of a future serial killer. Creeeeeepy.

We've all met guys like this before, haven't we?

UPDATE: The guy has been identified! "Dimitri, whose real name is James Sears, is a disgraced doctor who was charged, then later acquitted, of sex assaults on several female patients in the early 1990s." Now he sells a manual on how to seduce women. He has a web site too. You Canadians are so lucky to have such an expert!

Next time I'm at Nellies, I'm totally gonna use "you're extremely elegant" and "I couldn't take my eyes off of you" on the gurls to see what happens. Stay tuned!

It was sunny and rained all of five minutes the entire weekend. Thanks, weathermen!

Instead, we watched a Dateline mystery. It was about a man who pushed his wife off a cliff so he could collect her life insurance and start his life anew.

The story made me feel unsettled. I looked at Rob and asked what any normal guy would ask his sodomy partner, "Baby, you're not ever going to push me in front of a Metro Bus, are you?" He assured me, "No, my little cocoa puff. I will not murder you." "You promise, schnoogie woogie?" "I promise, sweet nectar of my gay melon." Pheeew...no murder for me (by him) -- yay!

So me and my non-murdering partner went to finally see Sex & the City so we could get all carried away and whatnot.

We thought it would be a good time to see it, what with all the girls and gays having already seen it. MmmHmm. The joint was packed. But thanks to my custom of arriving a half an hour before showtime, we got good seats, while all the other girls and gays had to split up and sit in between people they didn't know. Should have planned better, cupcake.

There were plenty of men in attendance. So much so, that the woman sitting next to me asked, "This is for Sex & the City, right?" "Oh, it sure is, sssweetie. It sure issssss."

About five hours later, I was no longer getting carried away. I was thinking of ways for Carrie to off Big to collect his life insurance.

The Regal Cinemas downtown are a great place to see movies -- except when there's an event at the Verizon Center. An event there leads to people loitering and being all loud, while I'm just trying to mentally escape from it all. "Shut up and get out mah way! You're harshin' my chi!"

Because of the high price of gasoline, and our desire to be labeled greenies, we took the metro to the theater. Also, we don't own a car.

The green line is especially convenient when we need to head downtown -- except when there's an event at the Verizon Center. I think this time, though, there might have been another type of event happening around the Convention Center. Several people were wearing baseball caps with just a W on them. George Bush supporters, no doubt.

One guy yelled, "Hey, does anyone know what the final score of the game was?" I was all, "No idea. But in the game of life, Carrie won Big time!"

I heard Rob mutter, "How much is your life insurance worth again?"

I would like to offer this blog into future evidence.

If it's a trip we've traveled often, we rarely have any problems. But if it's a new excursion, the likelihood is very high that we will not be speaking to each other and all of our fingernails will be broken by the time we reach our destination.

Last weekend we took a road trip to Raleigh, NC to attend my friend Bobbie's birthday party for her 4-year-old son -- which was off the fuckin' chain, yo. I had not seen her since she gave birth to this kid, so I definitely wanted to be there to see if she kept off all the baby weight. Plus, given the location, I wanted to see how many of the kids were already hooked on meth and take some photos.

I won't even go into the car rental fiasco with two prominent agencies, but I will say an $85 reservation quote for a 27-hour car rental from "Budget" somehow ended up costing $245 -- including the credits I demanded upon return. Budget? Hilarious!

Once settled, our trip finally began three hours behind schedule.

We traveled through Richmond unscathed, until the rain came a-poundin' down. It stopped. And started. And stopped. And started. Once again, the sun was shining through most of these hail storms. Have you ever tried to keep an eye on the road while it's raining hard and you're wearing sunglasses to offset the bright sunlight and you're going like 65MPH and you're trying to figure out how to increase the wiper speed but instead you're adjusting the outside mirror and your boyfriend is blaring the Indigo Girls' first CD in its entirety even after you've pleaded for leniency and you can no longer see the driver's side mirror anymore because you accidentally changed its setting causing it to face downward? Try it -- it's fun!

Naturally we got lost.

Just so you know, the directions from Google Maps throws in names of streets that don't exist, specifically to tear apart relationships.

As the driver, I was hoping my partner -- in the firm of Butts, Dicks and Bodonkadonks, PLLC -- would serve as the chief navigator, but instead, he offered advice like, "I think you were supposed to take a right back there" and "I'm not familiar with roads in Raleigh. She's your friend." GET OUT...NOWWWW!

The party started at 6:00. It was now about, oh, say, 7:15 and still raining and we're pulled over in some gun shop parking lot trying to make sense of it all -- in silence.

I made a few frantic phone calls to Bobbie asking her to guide us to the desired location. Remember when we didn't have cell phones? How did we deal with situations like this then? I can't even remember. The horror! She seemed to be preoccupied with, y'know, hosting a party or something. She handed the phone over to some other party revelers to talk us me through the wet Raleigh maze, but before she did that, she added, "We're all waiting on you guys to get here before we let everyone have cake."

Bobbie could never get a job at OnStar with anxiety-producing comments like that.

After playing what seemed to be a GPS game of Marco Polo on the phone, our location was finally detected and we arrived in her neighborhood.

It resembled the neighborhood from Desperate Housewives, except without the Hispanics and gay couple -- at least until we arrived. We made it with about 15 minutes remaining of the party. Phew!

The rain subsided and the sun beamed brightly as we pulled into the cul-de-sac, littered with white married couples and their children staring us down with their hungry cake-eating faces.

"Hi, Y'all!"

Bobbie warned me in advance to be on my best behavior because many of these people had never seen a homosexual in person, much less two. What was she expecting me to do? Skip around her yard, throwing confetti like Rip Taylor, while squealing, "Sodomy is Ssssuper!" Actually, that would have been a hoot. Next time!

The majority in attendance were warm and friendly to us. Some, mainly women, even shook our hands! Others just nodded from a distance, mainly men.

The kids were adorable, if a bit loud and bossy. They were running all over the place, which made me pause. Hmmm. I looked for facial scabs and rotting teeth, but could not make an accurate diagnosis at the time. Tick. Tock.

The birthday boy was well-mannered and thankful to everyone. Good job, Bobbie! It's weird to see a close high-school friend I used to party hard with, now all grown up and settled with a husband, a kid and the perfect suburban home.

After the cake-eating portion of the event was over, Bobbie announced that it was gift-opening time and we were all to put our gifts in a pile for the birthday boy to open.

I looked at Rob, "You brought the gift, right?"

We continued not speaking the remainder of the evening.

The weather has been very bizarre lately, like The Rapture is near or something, or maybe a Lindsay Lohan CD is about to "drop" soon.

Is this weirdness all a direct result of climate change? Hmm. Then I saw a large rainbow in the sky and figured The Almighty was just a bit late decorating for Pride month up there. He made a rainbow for us. Awww. Such a sweet furball, He is.

"Hey TJ. Happy Pride, man."
"Awww, thanks. Happy Pride to you too!"
"I'm not gay, bro."
"Oh."
"Anyway, I was wondering how YOU are going to celebrate your homosexuality-ness this Pride month?"
"That's easy," I say. "A group of us gather at sunrise every Saturday morning in front of Annie's Steakhouse on 17th Street and sing "Seasons of Love" from Rent. We hold hands. We bond. We love. We sang."

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand Moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

It's quite beautiful and empowering, actually.

Then we hold a Paul-off, where we all do Paul Lynde impressions. Carl always wins. He would make a great center square. Ask him to do it sometime at Nellie's.

The neighborhood seems to be getting more...proud lately. I think someone is helping decorate the 'hood for these businesses.

Check out some local establishments (Adams National Bank, grAnnie's, Cobalt, The Video Rack (great porn!), Picasso Gallery Custom Framing and Dupont Italian Kitchen) that are high-fiving the gays. The pics are small but the colors speak volumes.

Hmm. Safeway doesn't have any rainbow love:

Neither does McDonald's:

Or this liquor store. But with that name, they are celebrating Pride year round:

I don't mind the rainbow "design" so much; I just think the Consortium on Gay Symbolism & Meaning -- not to be confused with The Consortium of Gay Flag Creators -- should tone down the colors a bit for the new millennium. Redesigns are important to keep it fresh and with the times. Otherwise the bright colors just seem like something Mr. Furley would have as a bed sheet. Know what I mean?

Anyway, we went to the festival on an absolutely gorgeous Sunday. I introduced "fubbing" to a friend and snapped a photo. As a reminder, fubbing is a non-sexual greeting where two guys rub their facial fur together when they meet up. I fubbed two dudes during Pride (still capitalized? I dunno.). Fubbing always makes me smile. Pay it forward:

I even did my once a year hand-holding task specifically for Pride. Awwww...

For the record, no one hugged me -- except for an HRC volunteer soliciting a donation.

Where's the love from your own kind, kids? Where's the Pride?

But when I plugged them into Manhunt, I was told I needed an account to view member profiles. So I set up a limited free account just to see some reader dick -- which were nice, by the way.

Anyway, I received an email from Manhunt last week telling me I was in violation of their rules for not having a profile pic on a free account. Meee-owww. At first I was all, I don't care; delete my account, pig. Then I thought, hmmm, I should hold onto it...just in case...I need it sometime.

So I added a faceless pic and wrote an innocuous profile that said something like, "I have a boyfriend, so I'm ONLY looking to make FRIENDS who will let me piston-fuck them from time to time, cuz that's what friends are for." What? I was just being ironic. Geez.

Apparently piston-fucking brings all the boys to the yard.

I now totally understand the Manhunt phenomenon. Totally understand. It's like going to a gay bar, only without the beer breath and CeCe Peniston song blaring in the background. Also, no one is wearing much clothing. And you can leave whenever you want!

I've made more friends on Manhunt in five days than I made in five years on Friendster!

There are several hot guys from DC on the site. I am aware, however, that pics don't always tell the whole truth. Some guys I know have "masculine" listed in their profile stats. MmmHmm. There are also several couples and partnered guys looking around on the site. *giggles*

The only problem is everyone at my gym is on Manhunt, I have now learned. So when I see a guy, he gives me that knowing Manhunt glare. His eyes say, "Hey, what's up?" And I look back with, "Unlock?" Or I look at them with, "How's it going?" And he kinda grins and mentally shoots "horned" back at me. It's now very distracting.

Plus I know what they're all into -- which, again, is fantastic. It helps to enhance friendships to know these things. It really does.

But some of the labels confuse me. What is a Top/Vers or Bottom/Vers? Pick a side for Christ's sake. If you like both then you're versatile, no? I thought Top/vers meant that you top, but you're versatile orally. But some say it means you prefer to top, but will "flip" for the "right guy." Hmm. A glossary on Manhunt would be helpful.

I would totally enjoy having a part-time gig as the profile approver. I've always enjoyed knowing about other people's sex lives. I seriously considered becoming a sex therapist in college. It's fascinating! I am very inquisitive with my friends about sex, but am usually reprimanded by some with, "That's not appropriate, TJ." Perhaps not, but I think people would be less uptight if they would freely discuss sex. Try it. Ask the guy in the cubicle next to you if he's top/vers or bottom/vers.

I do realize there are some crazies on Manhunt, and some really rude ones as well. Most people email "hi" or something equally inoffensive, but some people just write, "Are you hung?" I know -- rude, right? Have some goddamn respect. When guys write that, it goes something like this:

Pig: are you hung?
Me: I am not William
Pig: no, how HUNG are you?
Me: two inches or a yard, rock hard or if it's saggin'
Pig: ???
Me: it ain't like I'm braggin' just join the paddywagon

RIP, Left Eye. One love.

Anyway, I've made several new friends who just want to go on bike rides with me! It's fantastic.

So if you see me online, hit me up and buddy me, bro. But unlock first. ;)

And what else is returning to the telly tonight? The perfect antidote to Intervention: Weeds! Love it.

What better way to start the week than with Candy Finnigan AND Mary Louise-Parker?

Intervention: Mondays at 9:00pm on A&E
Weeds: Mondays at 10:00pm on Showtime

Come watch with me.

I warned you.

The woman I went to my prom AND her prom with (pictured) sent me these photos. Hi Mo!

She just welcomed the birth of her FOURTH child! I'm still...uh...working on my first.

I was such a skinny lad in high school. I was so upset about it that I went on a program to gain weight. It involved eating raw eggs in milkshakes and taking 20 supplements a day.

It didn't work.

It wasn't until I moved to DC and discovered that drinking beer in mass quantities does the same trick.

And now that I've stopped drinking? Well, let's just say it doesn't go back to the way it was -- which is fine. I never was much of a twink even when I was a twink. Ya dig?

It looks like I'm drinking a "pop" in the photo with the dog -- though, knowing me, it was probably a Genesee Ale.

I'm fairly certain the look I have on my face in that photo helped carry me through high school and throughout much of my life, actually.

Ah, memories.

Then I thought, OMG -- I bet this is one of those ABC News John Quiñones "What Would You Do?" gotcha reports, where he films some actors making a scene to see if anyone helps out.

So I put my headphones back on and walked away, waiting for Ms. Quiñones to run up to me with a cameraman and yell, "Why didn't YOU do SOMETHING to assist?" And I would have been all, "Get off my dick, John Quiñones. I don't want to be a part of your stupid show, John Quiñones. That's why I didn't help. It's all because of you. You're creating a cry wolf environment around the country and I'm on my way to the dentist -- so piss off, John Quiñones."

A few years ago I ever-so-slighty chipped my front tooth. It was rather pathetic. I was putting a glass dish in the microwave over the stove and somehow it hit my mouth. The sad truth is I was stone cold sober, too. Naturally I was all owwww and tasted something chalky. I ran to the mirror and saw a small chip on the bottom of my tooth.

As we all know, being gay amplifies slight defects three-fold compared to our straight brothers. But it was happening to ME, so it was indeed awful.

My dentist fixed it, but whatever he filled it in with has since been chewed and swallowed.

I saw him recently and asked if he could fix it again. He said, "Not until you stop grinding your teeth. It's pointless otherwise." I was all, "Excuse me? I am not grinding my teeth. I'm a chill kinda guy. I would know if I was grinding my teeth. And the only time I ever grind my teeth is when I read Andrew Sullivan -- and that's rare." He told me I'm not aware of doing it cuz I'm sleeping.

What? Why would I do that when I'm sleeping? I don't dream of Andrew Sullivan. My dreams are all rainbows, porn stars and Martha Raddatz interviews.

Then I thought, OMG -- maybe I'm X-ing in my sleep! This is one of those long term effects of doing ecstasy in my gay youth, isn't it? I knew that shit was bad. As if the holes in my brain weren't bad enough!

He said it's fairly common for people to be night grinders.

I still think it's ecstasy related. Rob accused me a few weeks ago of clapping in my sleep. Must be all the beats in my head, man. I assume I'm still hearing "Unspeakable Joy" or something Kim English-y or Thunderpuss-y.

He also said that on another night I extended my hands into the air (like I just don't care) and softy rubbed the top of my hand with my fingers, while smiling. I'm totally X-ing in my sleep.

My dentist asked if I was on any medications. Nope, not even Tylenol PM these days. If it's not a medication side effect or an Andrew Sullivan article, then it must be a long-term side effect of ecstasy use, right?

He recommended I sleep with a "night guard" in my mouth. Instantly I thought of Joan Cusack in Sixteen Candles. Yeah, that's not gonna happen. And how much is one of these night guards? "Just $625. Your insurance will pay half."

I told several people about this and they said I could find something cheaper at Target that rugby players use or something. When I mentioned this to my dentist, he laughed and said, "No no no, that will actually make your teeth worse." Thanks, Jimbo! If I listened to you, I would end up looking like this.

I need to get one, though. He said if I don't stop I will fuck up my bottom teeth and then I will be required to get something called Invisilign installed on my teef. "What's Invisilign, doc?" "It's clear braces." "Oh, you must be joking. Braces? I'm like 37. And I'm gay. Not gonna happen. I will be banished from the Saliva Pit and shunned like a Log Cabin Republican."

And how much is this Invisilign you speak of? "About $6,000, not covered by insurance."

I'm totally getting a night guard.

Being gay and happy is so fucking expensive. And doing E doesn't help.

You've been warned.

UPDATE: This blog has a great run-down of the clusterfuck that is Nissan Pavilion. He also calls out Radiohead for their hypocrisy playing "eco-friendly" venues. Well done, sir.

Radiohead performed last week at Nissan Pavilion and their fans are not pleased. Not because of Radiohead, but because of the venue. Why Radiohead continues playing there, I'll never know. And it's not so much the venue; it's how fucking horrible the traffic situation is getting in and out.

I swore that place of ten years ago when I attended an Alanis Morissette concert -- shut up, she's good! -- with Radiohead opening. Obviously this was way before Radiohead got all freaky-deaky and abandoned the things that kinda attract me to a song -- y'know, like the melody. I recall the show started around 7:00pm, yet I remember still participating in a daisy chain of cars at 11:00am the next morning, drunk on carbon monoxide and softly singing to myself, "I..want..you..to know..that..I'm...still in FUCKING VIRGINIA."

If an artist wants my money, they need to come closer to ME. No one is worth waiting in Virginia traffic -- not even Weezer. *shudder*

Wolf Trap isn't much better. Merriweather Post Pavilion is slightly more attractive, but it's like 45 minutes away and in Maryland.

This is prolly why -- along with ticket prices and body odor -- I rarely go to many concerts these days. It's part of being in your thirties, I think. You start to develop fussiness, which may actually just be a disguise for becoming more responsible with self-gratifications.

I may venture out of my hole, but these days I'm all about Verizon Center or Taco Bell Arena or Citibank Stadium or the Sacks Fifth Avenue -- in partnership with Payless Shoes -- Theatre or the 9:30 Club or Constitution Hall or any other place located in DC -- especially when the artist's tour itinerary claims they are playing in Washington, DC. You just have to come to ME and be worth it. That's all.

Rivers Cuomo has to be one of the coolest heterosexuals out there. He's always been socially awkward -- and he's not even gay! -- but seems to be coming out of his shell lately. Yay! He launched a YouTube page a few months ago, asking for people to help him create a new song. It's fun to watch all the videos that led up to the latest. This might bore you since it's not Leona Lewis, but I liked it. And he's kinda adorable with his li'l porn 'stache and voice alterations. I think I may have a man crush.

Weezer have released another single from their new CD (out June 3) for download on iTunes called "The Greatest Man That Ever Lived." That title's not proper grammar, right?

It's a five-minute epic song full of homages to almost every genre of rock music (rap/metal/country/emo) and songs like Bohemian Rhapsody and even a small nod Radiohead. It's made of teh awesome. Sorry, I broke my own rule. I meant to say, it's made of THE awesome. Anything "teh" passed away last month.

Don't worry -- she doesn't read this site. She knows about it, but has never asked for the link. I did warn her a few years ago that she probably wouldn't appreciate my potty mouth. I thought she still might be curious...but no...she's really not. I mentioned that she might enjoy something I wrote a few months ago, but she said, "I have no interest in reading your opinion on certain discussions." And by certain, I think she was implying anal. As if I would ever discuss that nonsense here. Gross.

Anyway, I rushed to order her flowers today. 1-800-Flowers doesn't have a category for retirement flowers, so I searched around. I'm not so knowledgeable about floral arrangements. However, I do know that carnations are a big no-no for any occasion. I only know a few types of flowers by name. Gerbers are my fave! So I mainly go by pretty colors.

I tried to steer clear of the typical flower colors I've gotten her before, like pink, red, orange and yellow. I stumbled upon an arrangement called baby boy blue or something. Hmm...baby boy blue sounds like a cool retirement color. It included some white and purple flowers as well and came with a keepsake. Even better! I tacked on a balloon that said congratulations and placed my order.

I went back to the site a couple hours later to check the status of my same-day delivery order. The thumbnail of the flowers I ordered looked pretty; I assumed the keepsake was the pretty vase it came with. I wanted to see exactly what her co-workers would witness as my mom was flushed with admiration and they were thinking, wow -- what an awesome and caring son she has, so I clicked to see a larger photo version of the flowers I ordered for her.

Uh. Oh.

Hidden within all the beautiful flowers was a little frame with a photo of a boy...a baby boy. And the keepsake? It was a baby rattle.

fffffffuck!

My mission to look like the doting son who had flowers delivered to his mom AT HER OFFICE on her last day was completely in jeopardy. Instead, I would be seen as the mildly retarded son who ordered his 60-year-old mother "congratulations on the birth of your newborn baby boy" flowers -- with a fucking rattle...on her RETIREMENT day.

Shut up -- I was in a hurry! And it was grouped with all the other same-day delivery flowers. How was I to know?

Exasperated and crying, I called 1-800-Flowers and explained the situation. Luckily, the order had not yet been sent to the local florist. A pleasant woman offered to correct the mistake, once she stopped laughing in my ear for about a minute. Ha ha -- sooooo funny. She easily swapped out the baby boy flowers with some more appropriate non-baby purple flowers -- with no rattles. Whew. Heart attack avoided. I will not be made a fool of -- again!

My parents have sold my childhood home in Rochester, NY and are moving to Bristol, Tennessee in August to begin their retirement years. And no, Bristol is nowhere near Nashville. I looked it up. It borders Virginia.

It's an odd choice considering they don't really know anyone in Tennessee. My mom's brother has a vacation home there, but that's it. I guess Bristol is a vacation hot spot!

I've never been to Tennessee. When they first told me they were moving there, I instantly thought of this. I mean, what I'ma 'spose ta do when I visit? Then I remembered that Chris Crocker is from Tennessee. He said the following about his home state:

"We don't have pride and rainbows here. We have MySpace. We don't have bathhouses. We have outhouses."

Sadly there are no major airports close by. So I guess I will be taking a hot air balloon to visit. That will be nice and relaxing. I'll wave to you when I pass over your town.

In her sweet, Southern accent, my mom said:

"I caint wait fer y'all to visit! We can take a road trip to Dollywood!"

I reckon this next chapter in our lives will surely be innerestin'.

If you visit Aqua Grill in Rehoboth this summer, you can thank me for the Purell sanitizer dispensers now placed throughout the venue. You're welcome.

Anyway --

We had a lovely time over the holiday weekend in The Land of Lesbians and their Labs, courtesy of the wonderful hospitality of generous men named Tim & Donn. Sadly Donn was away at some car show in Atlanta, but his spirit was still felt by many.

Their home was full of delicious men who all educated me on the wonders of the world.

The beach was littered with attractive men, sporting fauxhawks and six-pack abs. What I find odd for such a looks-obsessed community is, why would men deliberately spritz on the oil and bake themselves for hours, knowing full-well they are enhancing the aging process? I mean, your idol Madonna would never do that. I guess it comes down to our own intense needs for superficial self-gratification, however limited the desired effects last. Plus, most white men bake themselves cuz they secretly want to be Latino -- at least for the summer. Mmmm, papitos!

I took refuge under my umbrella ella ella eh eh eh. I wonder if I'll ever stop channeling Rihanna when using that word. I doubt it. I applied vigorous amounts of an SPF 30 spray all over my body. The sprays are great, but y'all need to be more careful when applying it. First off, it smells like bug spray. Secondly, it tastes like bug spray. So when you're hosing down your partner and giving everyone a li'l show, the seabreeze has a tendency to take the spritz particles you are emitting and apply them ever-so-gently to my turkey and low-fat cheese sandwich I'm eating. Please don't do that.

We put a half-tank of gas in our rented car for the trek home. A half-tank of regular gas cost $36. Ouch. I do not envy those that have to fill up often. Actually, I do not envy those with vehicles, period. Let's all ride bikes from now on, okay?

I showed off my spankin' new secretworm T-shirt, designed by the talented Sean Show. Have you purchased your own yet? They're all the rage this summer. Don't be left behind.

Here I am, lounging in my new secretworm T after an exhausting day on the beach. This is what the kids call chillaxin'.

Please note the baby fan I travel with. Isn't he adorable? His name is Mariah -- for obvious reasons. I can't sleep unless I'm getting blown by a fan.

Speaking of, I met a handsome gentleman who reads this site. He went from a reader to a Facebook friend to my BFF. We're totally gonna go on an Atlantis Cruises together, trade Body for Life recipes, and support each other as we inch closer to our Big Muscle Bears photo shoot. That's right, durban bud is the new Friendster and Bear411, all in one. Yay! He was accompanied by a hunky, hirsute hulkster who taught me how to make cream pies. Yum! Those Jersey Boys make the best batch of cream pies.

In turn, I taught them the new way we greet friends with fur in DC. It's pretty easy to do. You just rub your facial fur together, mano y mano. There is no kissing necessary or even hugging, yet. Just rub your cheeky man-fur into the other dude's and the message is clear: we welcome you as you are; you may now proceed. Me and Jimbo are trying to have this technique patented. It works with Lesbians, too.

We ran into Clickboo and Dr. Jeff, again. Those boys are everywhere -- except on their blogs. I taught them the new greeting and they seemed to dig it, as their facial fur became erect like porcupine quills. Just be careful, though. My voracious greeting sometimes made Clickboo do this. So go easy at first rub.

I continue to be amazed at the wonderful friends and acquaintances that I am lucky enough to have in my life. I would say I'm blessed, but that would suggest a belief in God, and that she's up there, singling me out and sprinkling hairy dust all up on my behind. So I'll just say I'm fortunate. And to all of them, I give a cheeky fur rub. Please pay this new greeting forward. Start with your co-workers. But let's figure out a name first. Fur + Rub = Fub -- so maybe a cheeky fub? Hmm.

Love it.

One of the first things Brett said to me was, "You come across as more intelligent in person than you do on your blog."

What am I here -- Nell?

On Friday -- after I was apparently rescued, naked and muddy in the woods -- we met and bear-hugged in his hotel room. Then we forced him to participate in a cleansing ceremony in Dupont Circle. He had to burn a tennis effigy while chanting, "Hey hey, ho ho, tennis talk has got to go" and "I will not be a deuce this weekend." He cried a little, but disavowed all tennis references for 72 hours. Afterwards, we lit candles and sang "Amazing Grace."

The highlight of the weekend was biking around DC on a beautiful sunny day. Only two bikes were left to rent Saturday morning. One of them was a Pee-wee Herman-like bike, which Brett rode with pride and sass. Luckily he only mowed down a couple tourists, culminating in a collision with two beefy muscle dudes jogging in Georgetown. Thankfully they refused to press charges after hearing Brett's tearful plea for leniency. I think it also helped when he said after the crash, "Well, if that don’t just put some pepper in yer gumbo."

We took Brett to Plum Blossom to feast on sushi with Clickboo and Dr. Jeff. Brett ate his sushi like a champ and even commented, "It's good!" Mission accomplished.

I've said it before: Plum Blossom has some great Japanese food, but really needs some bodies to seat at their fine tables. The husband and wife owners are currently providing all table service. The wife doesn't speak very good English, so you need to be patient. Bring along some paper and pencils to draw some of your requests if necessary. These are just simple growing pains, but the food is worth it. Plus, the sushi chef is a dead ringer for Long Duk Dong. Love him.

By request, we took Brett to Blowoff. I hadn't been in months. Nice to see so many friends and meet some new ones. Sadly the Saliva Pit appears to have folded. I was hoping Jimbo would carry the torch during my absence, but like an Olympic torch running through China, it was extinguished.

Brett ALSO told me I look too mean in my photos. I don't see that; I see it as me coming to terms with my unphotogeniosity and adjusting accordingly. But to appease him, I give you....a smile.

Brett's a lot more than just tennis bravado and body exhibitionism; he's a charming, complicated man-boy, who would give you the Boiish shirt off his back if you needed it. At least he better! Oh, and he's also more intelligent and tighter than his blog leads you to believe.

I'm convinced if we lived near each other, we'd hang out and even swap baseball caps from time to time.

Both Brett and Jimbo have better rundowns of our exhausting weekend, complete with pretty photos.

Dolly is furious about what he did. After listening to the clip, I don't see how anyone could think it was anything other than an audio gimmick.

Don't watch listen to this around the easily offended.

Luckily some of these '80's bands are not always forgotten.

The Regeneration Tour is heading to the DC area this summer. It features a bevy of '80's bands who scored a handful of hits back in the day. Normally this would appeal to my inner cheese-geek, but when I checked out the fine print, I was disillusioned. It should be called "Belinda Carlisle & a Bunch of Lead Singers from '80's Groups."

Artists on this tour:
The Human League
ABC
Belinda Carlisle
Dead or Alive
Naked Eyes
A Flock of Seagulls

Sounds like fun, no?

A more accurate line-up would read:
The League
A
Belinda Carlisle
Dead
Naked
Of Seagulls

None of these groups feature the full band these days, or even one or two members of the original line-ups. LIES! I expect this deceit from Guns N' Roses, but from Naked Eyes, c'mon!

Naked Eyes was always a duo. The other half of that duo died a few years ago. :( That's like a Donnie & Marie tour without Donnie! Or worse, the Thompson Twins without Alannah!

VH1 had a great show on a few years ago called Bands Reunited. Some guy ran across continents trying to track down the original members of '80's bands to get them to agree to one more concert. He was usually successful, with groups like The Motels, Berlin, Kajagoogoo, Romeo Void, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Klymaxx and A Flock of Seagulls participating despite all their internal issues. It was riveting television filled with the necessary drama. Sadly after two seasons, the show was not renewed. I guess, as a music network, VH1 felt Flavor of Love, I Love New York and The Surreal Life fit better within their mission statement? I dunno.

It would be great to see the original line-up of A Flock of Seagulls again. But if it's just the lead singer, Mike Score, performing under the branded name, I have no interest in seeing "them". He is a douche, as witnessed on Bands Reunited. I'm pretty sure if Kelsey Grammer and a Crate & Barrel ottoman had a child, it would look like him.

My interest in attending might be piqued if Dead or Alive (aka Dead aka Pete Burns) were on the bill in DC, but she is not. I want surprises!

Still, if I scored free tickets and a ride to the traffic nightmare known as Wolf Trap, I would consider getting my Chess King wear out of storage one more time, to show solidarity amongst my fellow kids in the hall.