<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/plusone.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\x3d10304686\x26blogName\x3dThe+Proverbial+Line\x26publishMode\x3dPUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\x26navbarType\x3dBLACK\x26layoutType\x3dCLASSIC\x26searchRoot\x3dhttp://scottpatrick.blogspot.com/search\x26blogLocale\x3den_US\x26v\x3d2\x26homepageUrl\x3dhttp://scottpatrick.blogspot.com/\x26vt\x3d-5786071934619625915', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>
Monday, September 17, 2007

Monday Manlove

...or, Quit yer bitchin', Nate, I'll get to it.

Actually, today I figured I'd give you a couple of shorts, men's briefs (and not those ugly y-front jockeys)...

So I'm working the door at this benefit on Saturday. I'm dressed stylishly, my hair looks good, and my complexion is mostly clear (thanks to my dermatologist, Cute Jason).

I'm taking tickets, selling tickets, and greeting the guests and media as they arrive. I was being friendly, yet obviously in a professional role. The event was a benefit for the local non-profit that I'm on the board of. It took place at a very trendy art gallery in the heart of Gay Pittsburgh.

Then this yellow cab pulls up to the curb (we're in downtown Pittsburgh, mind you) and out pops this little geek-boy with what can only be described as a Velma-hair, but a little longer. He pulled a crumpled up check from the pocket of his jeans and dropped it in my hand. I politely took his money, gave him a program and directed him towards the wine bar.

Later in the evening he showed up back at my station, a tall cocktail table at the door, and was talking to my co-host when I noticed him pointing at me out of the corner of my eye. I tuned in without looking so I could hear what he was saying, "his shirt is lovely." Then I hear Mark saying, "yes, yes it is." At which point, I turn and walk over to the board chair-woman and try to look busy.

Ok, first of all, the kid needed to get a grip on reality and a haircut. Secondly, my shirt did not look lovely -- it looked hot. A gold-plated Diamonelle brooch on the shopping network is lovely...not my outfit!




So I'm at the grocery store yesterday. The Steeler game had just started so the only people left in the store were women and weirdos (and me). I figured I'd trade seeing the kickoff for a relatively eventless shopping trip, and I'd watch most of the game when I got home.

It was mexican food day at the store, and at the end of each aisle was someone peddling samples of all sorts of finds from the Ethnic Food aisle. There was guava nectar (yum), refried black beans (de-lish), and then I happened upon this cheery woman with something that smelled different, yet savory.

"Would you like to try some mexican casserole?" she said.

Since I am allergic to a couple of things and am thoroughly disgusted by others, I said "Oh? What's in it?"

"It's a mexican casserole, with beans, beef **mumble**, and cheese." Uh oh, she hesitated.

"Beef what?"

"Beef Tripe...it's the stomach lining," she says as she makes these motions on her chest similar to the universal signal of "I'm going to throw up now."

"Yes, I know what tripe is...no thank you!" Mmm Hmm. Girlfriend was trying to poison me.




So this morning, the bus was soooo packed that I had to stand at the front, directly behind the driver. I was teetering on one foot trying to stay behind the little state-mandated yellow line, listening to my iPod but watching the lights and buttons blinking and glowing on the dashboard of this 10-ton bus.

I'm intrigued by heavy machinery, especially ones with flashing lights, so I take an interest in the various items on the instrument panel. There's a switch and a knob for the wheel chair lift, buttons to control the sign on the front of the bus, and then, when the driver hit the brakes two lights glowed: "Brake Pressure" and "Retard On." I laughed, and then thought, "Who you callin' a retard?"

Labels: ,

5 Comments:

At 9/17/2007 9:50 AM, Blogger mineIsay's whiny, bitch-ass comment is...

I'm jealous that you have so much to say that you can take 3 short quips of life and post them all at once. if anything remotely funny happens to me it's turned into a blog entry! lucky, fabulous man.

 
At 9/17/2007 3:33 PM, Blogger Nate's whiny, bitch-ass comment is...

I was hoping for something more, but I guess that this will do :P

 
At 9/17/2007 4:55 PM, Blogger honeykbee's whiny, bitch-ass comment is...

I know several, no make that many, people who have that particular button jammed in the on position.

 
At 9/18/2007 10:32 AM, Anonymous neill's whiny, bitch-ass comment is...

that's why i love football season...it makes shopping on sunday afternoons so easy.

 
At 9/20/2007 3:39 AM, Blogger naechstehaltestelle's whiny, bitch-ass comment is...

Mmmm beef tripe. I actually like that stuff. Sounds gross, tastes great!

 

Post a Comment