--Overheard at the pool on

--Overheard at the pool on Saturday afternoon:

“My GPA goes back up to a three point six after this summer class, dude, so there really haven’t been any ramifications for two full years of slacking.”

Ah, youth.

--Phew. Joe Biden has decided not to run for president. I’m sure John Kerry is just so relieved. I know I am.

--Chuckle for the day
When you’re working for that worthless political science degree your
professors teach you about the political spectrum, from far right to
far left, with all of the lovely shades of the rainbow in between. For
me, it’s not a straight line that denotes the spectrum, but a circle.
I’ve always thought that the far right and the far left were too
close for comfort. Seems as if I was right. God help us when Jerry
Falwell gets wind of this. Then again, Jerry Falwell would probably be
in the hotel room that was raided. Steer clear of Hanoi, Jerry. The
commies are ready for ya.
--I don’t subscribe to a daily paper as it’s a waste of money. I
get my news from the web like most thinking people from Monday through
Saturday, but Sunday is a different matter entirely. The husband and I
receive the Sunday Minneapolis Star Tribune (or Strib, as the locals
refer to it) because of the comics. And that’s it. No five pound,
national edition of the Sunday NY Times graces our doorstep on dewy,
mist filled Sunday mornings while the squirrels race across the yard
and the birds chirp in the background. The husband and I do not laugh
over the Living Arts section over croissants and coffee, or delve into
the serious ramifications of Krugman’s column in the Op-Ed section.
Instead, we drink coffee, eat cereal and the husband gets first crack
at the comics because, after all, he’s the one who pays for the paper
and as such is his due. I usually read the USA Weekend sectional or
peruse the Marshall Fields circular. When he’s done, I read the
comics while he goes to watch Fox News Sunday and yell at Juan
Williams. I know. It’s incredibly lame for two thirty-somethings who
don’t have kids and actually have time to read two or three papers on
Sunday not to subscribe. Don’t shoot me for failing to live up to
your ideal of yuppiedom. In reality, however, most of it is crossover.
The Strib uses the NY Times wire service for most of their stories, so
why bother getting a subscription to the NY Times? If there’s
something interesting I hear about in the Magazine section, I can log
on. That said, I used to read the Sunday Times every week. Religiously.
As a result, I generally whiled most Sundays away on the sofa, trying
to cram all that content into twenty four hours. Now, I actually want
to get out of the house on occasion so I find it best to limit the
content and most of the time I don’t miss it. Yesterday, however, was
one of the times I did. It’s a slow news summer for the Strib and the
Variety section seems to be bearing the brunt. Eight pages. Total. With
one really pathetic front page article about metrosexuals
(yeah, I know...you have to register. If I can suck it up and give them
my address, so can you). If you haven’t heard of this term, think
straight guy who everyone thinks is gay and you’ve got the gist.
I suppose this is where we’re at in this day and age. Everyone’s
got to anthropomorphize everything. Notice it, study it as if it’s as
important as the mating rituals of rhinos (which isn’t very important
unless you’re trekking across the African veld and happen to come
across two rhinos going at it), then stick a big ol’ fat label on it
and move on to the next social phenomenon. That’s fine and dandy. The
study of people in the twenty-first century has turned into a full time
job for some people and it has to be nice work if you can get it. Just
stop filling column inches with it, would you? Publish it in some
obscure journal that sits on a shelf in a college library gathering
dust. Then you’d probably be seen as someone important and academic
and could go on one of the cable channels and make some money the next
time a metrosexual shoots up a shopping mall. I can just hear the
commentary now, can’t you? I’m sure he was a pillar of the community. Metrosexuals usually
are. However, we must keep in mind that if Neiman’s was out of size
ten and a half Prada loafers---which for the discriminating metrosexual
are a must have---what other outcome could you have honestly expected?
That the man would have put his name on a waiting list or had the
salesperson call around? Not hardly. Instead of writing about and
labeling these men, I’d honestly rather be surprised when one of them
cops a feel at the bar. At least there’s some enjoyment to be had in
that situation. --I almost forgot about the drag show update. The
preeminent drag show in town is called “La Femme” and is hosted at
the Gay 90’s, seven nights a week, fifty two weeks a year on the
second floor of the club. You have to walk right past a few dancers who
have stuffed their g-strings with socks and strut on
the main bar, but it’s worth the while if you can push yourself past
the gawking state you will undoubtedly find yourself in.
If you’re not from the cities, the Gay 90’s has been around forever
and is one of the biggest and most packed—and fun---clubs in town.
It’s down on Hennepin Avenue, and should provide quite the education
for Wisconsin tourists who will undoubtedly mistakenly wander off the
new light rail line a block away when that stupid thing actually gets
up and running. If you’re from Wisconsin, get off the train at
Nicollet Mall. You’ll be much happier and the steamier side of
downtown Minneapolis won’t dirty your pristine Nike Air’s.
As for the show, some of the ladies were better than others. The
hostess (I was getting kind of looped by this point, but I think she
said her name was Morty. Don’t quote me on that) was hysterical and
she made some good fun of my friend who lost her “La Femme”
virginity that night. I’m bad with names, so I don’t remember any
of their names, but I thank God, there weren’t any Barbra’s or
Liza’s there that evening. Of course we did have Cher, Madonna,
Whitney Houston, Mary Katherine Gallagher (aka the armpit sniffing
“Superstar” dancing to a techno remix of “Mickey”…very
funny), and Stevie Nicks. While all of these ladies were fabulous, the
woman who stole the show was (I think) Deelite. One word says it all:
charisma. She made me want to be a better woman. While it was fun, and
the drinks were good, it was still a self-esteem shattering experience.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s fun to go to a drag show. But if you’re
a heterosexual woman, it just sucks at your soul to be outdone by men.
God love ‘em. They obviously work at lot harder at being female than
I do, and it shows, no doubt, but I just can’t compete with that. I
do have one obvious and serious advantage: my cleavage is real and in a
completely uncharacteristic fashion was on display, too, that evening.
Although, I won’t bother next time I go. Who cares about a straight
woman’s breasts in a gay bar? What was I thinking? The last hour we
were there all I wanted to do was leave, go to a straight bar and enjoy
being ogled by drunk straight
men. Now, this is something I don’t necessarily seek out, but was
nonetheless desperate for, like Robitussin when you’ve got a bad
cold: it tastes nasty, but it cures what ails you. Unfortunately, even
though bar time here is now two a.m., everyone is still on the one a.m.
clock. By 12:30 everyone is ready to go home and that’s what
happened. Sigh. Oh well. I think the husband appreciated me when I got
home. Don’t know for sure. I was too drunk. They do make a stiff gin
and tonic at the 90’s. I highly recommend trying one the next time
you’re in downtown Minneapolis.