I'll be lining the bottom of a birdcage soon!

My friend Van needed a favor, so I'm now apparently going to be in a future Southern Voice street poll about which song best reflects your current love life or dating situation.

My answer was:

"I Wouldn't Normally Do This Kind Of Thing" by the Pet Shop Boys. Because when I do date or hook-up or whatever, circumstance always turns it into some sort of random, silly, unpredictable wackiness.

Not that I wanted to sound too cheeky or anything.

I hope my grandpa doesn't see it. It's not my best photo. (Oh well, I'll be out of the country when it hits newsstands!)

I picked the Pet Shop Boys as a shout-out to my friend Doug, who is probably Neil Tennant's sole heterosexual male fan.

My day at the lanes.

I just got back from my office's Bowling Day excursion and, as usual, I was the worst bowler.

My supervisor Ethan, who's a couple years older than me and very frat boy, was the best.

At one point, though, he was about to bowl using the blue-colored, medium-sized ball that he'd selected.

And I yelled out, "GO BLUE BALL!" But only he heard me.

And he smirked. Then, he paused. Then, he chuckled. Then, he bowled a strike.

All the while, I was laughing.

I'm sure I'll be hearing from Human Resources soon.

I love you. Get away from me! No, I love you.

Sometime around 3 a.m. last night, as I finished watching a rerun of "Gilmore Girls" that I'd recorded and practically cried during (even though it wasn't sad ... I just wept for Emily Gilmore), I realized that I'd somehow lapsed into dementia due to my lack of sleep and medication.

Be warned. This is when I'm at my least pretty.

This is me at my calling-at-all-hours, Ike-Turner-mood-swing worst.

Trivia at Joe's.

The cute blond waiter at Joe's on Juniper, the one who waited on my non-date with Nick last month, smiled at me tonight. He did this while I was sitting with my friend Debi - the most popular heterosexual woman in gay Atlanta - and the gang playing team trivia for the first time since my non-date with Nick.

Apparently unsure of what to do when he smiled, the cute blond waiter says I grimaced as though annoyed and turned away from him.

He told me that this is what I did. He told me this after I said hello to him after my team won and credited me with the victory.

Encouraged by the victory, I said, "Hello," to the cute blond waiter, and he looked around to see who I was talking to.

"When you said hello it surprised me because I didn't think you would say hello to me," he said to me. "Not after you made that face at me earlier."

"What face?" I asked, asserting that I didn't make a face at him.

Then, to show me the face I made, he made this uncomfortable-looking half-smirk partial-eye-dart thing. I can see me doing that. But I would make that face if I was afraid that I'd been caught looking at someone who probably didn't want me to look at them.

"You were probably just doing something else," he said.

I told him that I wouldn't make that face at him. In fact, I told him that I just tried to make eye contact with him everytime he walked by, then I said, "Not that I was watching you walk by ..." Which I intended as an obvious lie.

He congratulated me on my team's victory. I kept talking, though, and he disappeared on me while I paid my ticket.

But he was bussing tables, so I couldn't make it up to him. Not that there's anything to make amends for. He walked away.

I got his name. Whatever it is.

I think I blew it with him, though, because ...

1) I didn't realize that I did anything.
2) I didn't realize that a communicated smile was even a possibility between me and the Joe's waiter who wasn't my official waiter tonight.
3) Not realizing that it was a possibility, I didn't realize that you could blow such a thing.
4) I was KIDDING about not looking at him. I was TOTALLY looking at him. And I would SO smile back. I wouldn't have made a face at him. Not intentionally. I just wouldn't have thought that he would actually look at me and smile. Which is probably the problem.
5) So he was looking at me. And smiled. And I thought I smiled back. In fact, I'm sure of it. He's cute and funny.

Oh well. Not a big deal. I'm letting it go ... because MY TEAM WON!!! MY TEAM WON AND SAID THAT IT WAS BECAUSE I WAS THERE!!!

WE BEAT 26 OTHER TEAMS!!!

All because I knew that Ray Combs was the name of the game show host who committed suicide in the 1990s by hanging himself with hospital bedsheets while he was under suicide watch at a psychiatric facility.

Debi seemed impressed, and her son Ian seemed to be having fun. And the other guy there, whose name was John or James, kept looking at me like I was some sort of freakish savant for knowing that Tom Petty was in the Traveling Wilburys and that Greg Evigan was in "My Two Dads."

(At one point, they told me that, if it ended in a tiebreaker, I was the designated team spokesman because, as Ian put it, "the rest of us haven't answered shit." Which wasn't true, but he was nice for saying it.)

We won $50 or something like that!

So Debi told me that I'm required to come back next week, when we're going to spend the gift certificate we won.

How to fit.

I'm stuck to the chair in my cubicle and can't move. I don't have anywhere to really be tonight. I was invited to a trivia game, but I can't quite bring myself to get up.

You ever wonder how you fit in with other people? Wonder where your group of like minds is?

You compare yourself to your friends, and you see how you mesh well with them and other ways that you clash. I'm like a glaring shirt looking for anything that matches.

I feel like I'm better than some people. I can't gauge exactly what sort of person I am compared to others.

Does this seem strange? People do this all the time, right?

I need some space from Kacoon and Mike, which I think would be good for everyone, and it's my decision to take time off from them.

The bookstore hasn't been scheduling me as much lately, so the thing that used to fill the majority of my free time has now, for the time being, left me with lots of free time and less money. As a result, I don't know what to do with myself.

Last night, I found myself having a really good conversation with Nick the Cute Waiter, whose own gay experience is rather removed from my own. I'm not sure how to relate. I think about the gay people I knew in college. I don't really fit with them either, and I envy them from time to time. However, their lives are so far removed from mine.

I think about the political and religious people. I don't really know how to relate deeply with them.

Sometimes, I even feel alienated from the film geeks, which frightens me.

Everyone goes through this. I just need a vacation, and I'm going to take one. I need a direction, and I'll find one. I need new friends, and I'll find out where I fit with them.

"Passion" sacrilege.

Pardon me, but am I the only one who thinks that Jesus is really hot?

This is a photo of actor Jim Caviezel when he's not bearded, scabbed, covered in blood and carrying a cross.

Victorian era.

Aaron said during our Friday date that I had a "Victorian sensibility" because I got mildly squeamish when he related for me the "14 Safest Places to Pierce the Human Body." I also winced when he said that he'd be fine with 90 percent of the world's population dropping dead. At one point, he also talked about skinning someone alive and sealing off or worsening their wounds with bleach.

I couldn't figure out how we kept getting on those topics.

But when he called me a Victorian, I related for him tales from horror movies. Johnny Depp's bed sucking him in and then spitting him out all over his bedroom ceiling in "A Nightmare on Elm Street." The guy whose blood is drained from him during "Friday the 13th: Part II" when he's sliced across the torso with a machete while he hangs upside down after getting caught in a bear trap. I didn't get a chance to go into the whole "Sweeney Todd" meat grinder thing, but that's more suggested than visual anyway.

Aaron and I decided to be friends.

(He actually really helped me on Saturday night when I needed a ride home after I'd had too many glasses of Black Label on the rocks.)

But thinking about what he and others have said, I'm wondering if I'm too prudish.

I don't quite care for conversations about pierced genitalia. I have my share of raunchy sex stories, I suppose, but I don't talk about them during lunch or dinner because that's just tacky and unappetizing, generally. And I can't really talk about drugs because I don't really do them, other than the drinking of Black Label on the rocks.

You think you're open-minded. You realize you're not really. You think you're liberal. It turns out that you're just a conservative with exceptions.

I can be really tactless sometimes, so I'm on the fence about this "Victorian" designation.

#8,001

I logged in this morning to discover that I was the 8,001 person to open this site since I added the counter.

If you were lucky #8,000, e-mail me, and let me know.

"Wonderfalls" news.

The bad news: It got terrible ratings on Friday, even though everyone I've spoken to who watched it thought it was really good.

The good news: Fox is doing an encore presentation of the pilot Thursday night at 9/8 Central!

So watch it. Or tape it. Or TiVo it. It's really, really, really funny.

So watch it. Please. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.

Even though I can't really spell his name.

Marley's had "Laurel Canyon" on her Films-to-Rent list for a couple months now, and, everytime she asked me about it, I just went on and on about how hot Allessandro Nivola is in it.

And she kept asking me who he was.

So I'd say that he was the guy from "Jurassic Park 3," but she wouldn't remember him. And I'd then say, "Oh, well, he was Nicolas Cage's brother in 'Face/Off,'" but she still had no idea.

So she finally rented it, and now she's onboard with my Allessandro Nivola obsession.

If you don't know who he is, rent "Laurel Canyon." He's so hot that he upstages Christian Bale.

Old habits die hard.

Last night, half out of boredom and half because I knew he'd let me get away with it, I nuzzled up against my friend Brad's chest while we were mid-conversation and listened to his heartbeat. The other people in the room told Brad that it'd be all right if he smacked me. But Brad let me just maneuver myself under his arm, cornering him on the couch.

I've known Brad forever. (Well, OK, nine years.) Flirting with him comes to no good. In the beginning, I'd just make eyes at him as I walked past him in the drama building. Or I'd cautiously make a double-meaning comment to see if he responded favorably.

Now that I'm older and don't take it as seriously, I do everything short of molesting him. It's sorta fun to play "How Much Can I Get Away With." At one point last night while I was arched over him, I almost bit him on the neck and kissed him about five times.

His only comment about it was, "Well, you're being awfully friendly."

I may as well have been a cat who curled up in his lap.

But, on the plus side, it's harmless, and he's warm.

We were both over at Larry's house. Brad was there to see Larry. I was there to see everyone - and Brad.

While there, I told Larry that I'd written something new on the blog that he might like. Larry told me that he hated the blog.

Larry told me that he hated the blog because I was a publishable and marketable writer and, for some reason, I didn't believe that. He said that it was disappointing and sad that I "kept giving it away for free." Apparently, I'm a word slut.

Just a thought.

In two weeks, I step on my flight to London. Two weeks. 14 days. March 27.

That's surprisingly hard to grasp. I've wanted to go to London ever since I was a little boy, when my father brought back a flag from the UK after going on a business trip. The flag used to hang over my bed.

I've tried to go to Europe before. When I was in the Atlanta Boy Choir, I was too young to go, then it was too expensive for me to go.

Then, when my high school arranged a trip to Europe, I signed up to go, but, unfortunately, no other boys signed up to go, and the teacher thought I was a bad seed. So she gave me my deposit back.

And in college, the guy I had the most fun dating - the one I loved the most - was my penpal from Wales who came over to Athens for two weeks only, which I've often described to people as the best two weeks of my entire life. I was going to visit him, but that fell apart - as long-distance romances often do.

So, two weeks before my trip, I'm willing to finally accept that I am going to London. I have my plane tickets. I have my passport. I know where I'm staying. I know when I'm coming back. It's tangible. It's real. I can keep my hopes because this is happening. It's really, really happening.

I am really, really looking forward to it. I don't have plans. I think I'll wander around the city most days just amazed that I'm there. Really there.

I've not allowed myself to accept that yet. But it's real.

One sentence about my date and a TV review.

Curious about the new show "Wonderfalls" and encouraged by good reviews of it, I recorded it and the ridiculous, tacky yet strangely compelling reality show, "Playing It Straight," instead of "Joan of Arcadia" last night while I went out to dinner with Aaron.

And, of the three entertainments I just mentioned, I must say that "Wonderfalls" was better than both "Playing It Straight" and my date. (My date was fine, but he's a friend. And, beyond that, "Wonderfalls" is really, really funny.)

So I've decided to adopt "Wonderfalls" as my latest television pet cause. Much the same way I used to tout "Relativity" and "Miss Match" to strangers, I will now highly recommend the bitter, twisted comedy that apparently fuels "Wonderfalls."

The show's about a girl who hates people - yet works retail at a Niagra Falls souvenir shop. After she almost chokes to death on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the souvenirs start talking to her, encouraging to interact with people. So she reluctantly does. And she sets into motion these twisted moments of fate. (It's like "Amelie," except mean-spirited and without an apparent heart.)

Last night's episode involved a stolen purse, a misshapen lion figurine, a delivery man's food allergy, a trachaeotomy, lesbians and the history behind a human sacrifice. It was really funny.

Someplace else.

Vic and I were talking last week, and, once again, we found ourselves at this weird little impasse that we talk about from time to time. When we're confused or disappointed about how our lives are going, one of the two of us will suggest moving away.

Now, I know that it's not easy like that. I know that you're you no matter how far you try to get away from where you're from, that you need to work through your problems and solve them.

Vic was the one to suggest it this time, though. She said that, if we were together in another state, we could find the sense of 'home' with each other, while at the same time we could tackle a whole new set of the same old problems in a different location.

I used to want to do that. I used to want to escape. Everybody does, I know.

I actually figured, once I moved to my new apartment and actually felt that I liked it, actually felt like I'd found someplace where I was comfortable, that I'd succeeded because I no longer wanted to escape. I don't want to escape so much anymore.

I'm not unhappy about where I am, though I am growing concerned with who I am.

It's like this. I wonder if I'm ever going to write a convincing fictional character if I'm indeed meant to write or, better, write fiction. I want to write a character who can convince me that he's real or believeable. I want to know what it's like to finish a book, a real one.

I want to see if I can get it published, yet, at the same time, I don't want to try because I don't want to face the inevitable mountain of rejection that would likely come with possible acceptance. Unfulfilled potential, in the short run, is easier to live with the absolute failure. But, in the long run, the unfulfilled potential will probably bother you, too.

I want to get outside myself. I don't want to get outside my surroundings so much.

I want to write stories about other people. (The stories I write now, for other people, are always about me.) I want to change my view of myself for myself, to allow other people in. I want the insecurity that helps me to build myself into a better writer and someone who constantly tries harder to remain, but I want the insecurity that keeps me from trying and always keeps me down on myself to go away.

A friend, talking about me a couple weeks ago, actually asked someone, "How can someone with such a big ego be so down on himself all the time?"

Years ago, someone else told me that I tried to attract attention by bemoaning constantly how bad everything in my life was, how terrible my childhood was, how ugly I felt, how insecure I was. They said I was like The Boy Who Cried "Wolf."

How do you open your own window and allow yourself to grow? How can you be less self-conscious while writing something about your own selfishness? Doesn't a self-analysis of your own self-centered nature kinda defeat the purpose if you want rid of that nature?

I want to rid myself of who I am and then get on with who I want to be. My friend Lupo (who never really thought I was ugly ... and I was resorting to an easy joke in the earlier entry when I said he did) asked me this week if I realized how much energy I spent on beating myself up and not getting over things.

At first, I thought he was right, yet it was a curse of my own memory. But having a good memory is not the reason that I let things bother me. It's my choice to let things bother me. It's my choice to not let things go. It's my choice, partially at least, to obsess over stuff.

Lupo said to me that, even though I found it comfortable to beat up on myself, I would be a better friend to others once I learned to treat myself better.

He's right. But he left out something.

Once I stop the old habits, I need to actually apply or rechannel that energy into actually doing something with my talent, which I have. (And, having read the works of other hopeful writers or lesser writers who've had better success, I see that I really need to refocus my energy away from comparing my life and my degree of efforts to others. I'm only really in competition with myself, after all.)

This attitude adjustment is going to take time, lots of work and a lesson in how to relax.

Consider it a relocation of attitude and focus, rather than place.

I need to do this. I need to do this for me.

There wasn't even a St. Elmo.

Today, Jenipher mentioned one of the biggest stumper mysteries in all of movie history.

I’ve been watching “St. Elmo’s Fire” the last few mornings on the treadmill. I Tivo’d it earlier this week. I haven’t gotten to the part where Mare Winningham sleeps with Rob Lowe. I’ve never figured out why that group is even friends with Mare Winningham in that movie. She doesn’t fit in at all, and they are really mean to her.

Truth be told, I've never been able to figure out that one, either. Why are they friends with Mare Winningham? For that matter, I can't quite figure out why they're friends with Emilio Estevez either. He's really, really annoying in that movie. All he does is chase around Andie MacDowell.

In my opinionation, the sun is gonna surely shine.

My friend Lupo and I met through Yahoo! Personals, though we never actually went on a date because he decided that I was ugly. (OK, that's not true at all, but that's my version of the story.)

Anyway, prior to me revealing my hideous visage to him (cue music from THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA), I remember that we were e-mailing in a passively flirtatious manner back and forth one day early in our friendship. Then, out of the blue, he mentioned to me that he had the chorus of the theme song from "Blossom" stuck in his head.

So, to help him through it, I wrote him the lyrics to the entire song in an e-mail from memory, for I've learned that a song will get out of your head if you either work your way through it or find a worse, catchier song to replace it.

The song that always rids me of other songs in my head is "There Are No Cats in America (And The Streets Are Paved With Cheese)" from AN AMERICAN TAIL, but that's beside the point.

When Lupo received my e-mail of "Blossom" lyrics, he apparently thought it was so funny that he forwarded it to all of his friends, who thought that I was either his soulmate or some kind of freaky entertainment trivia savant. (At the point I sent him a photo of me, an event later known as The Great Unmasking, it was determined that the latter was true.)

So now, anytime I have an irritating song stuck in my head like Jessica Simpson's "Take My Breath Away" cover, I think of Lupo and the theme from "Blossom."

This, of course, makes me both nostalgic and cursed.

Strange but true.

So I've tried posting something on my blog three times about the fact that I have a second date tonight with Aaron. This is significant primarily because I'd started to believe that second dates were mythical things often spoken of that didn't actually exist, like the Loch Ness Monster.

He's picking me up at my apartment tonight, which is one of another weird twist that I thought I would try. Usually, I just meet the person at the restaurant so that we can retreat in our cars once things go badly.

But I like the way Aaron talks. And Aaron likes the way I talk. So I don't know if this is the start of a romance or a friendship, but I figured it was worth a second date to try and figure everything out. (Because, hey, then I get to actually have a second date, which may be selfish but it's not unjustified. It's been, oh, two years since actually I had a second, planned date with anyone.)

This is going to be fun.

Take My Breath Away.

Jessica Simpson has done a cover of that song from TOP GUN.

So I'm riding in my car yesterday, and they start playing it, saying it's the most requested song of the hour. And I started screaming in my car.

The end of an era.

OK, I'll admit it. I used to be a manager on a "Passions" fan site. The show, in its inception, was just so wacky and intentionally bad that you had to, I don't know, love it. When a soap features a witch with demons in her basement, a possessed doll who tells jokes and a heroine so troubled that she's presumed dead once a year - and everyone on the show jokes about it, it catches my attention.

And, if pretty much everyone in the cast is hot and all the guys are constantly taking off their shirts, then the show keeps my attention.

But, with "Passions," my patience wore really, really thin. Because it just kept making things more and more complicated, even though it was always fun. So, when I started getting addicted to SoapNet, I became a fan of "One Life to Live" instead of "Passions."

Still, I'd tune in from time to time to see how things were going on "Passions." Usually, I'd only tune in if I knew someone hot like Jesse Metcalfe was going to take off his shirt. Jesse Metcalfe, as a result of the way he acted both with and without his shirt on, became my favorite one on the show.

Though it's probably wrong in many ways, I LOVE Jesse Metcalfe, who plays Miguel. (He's also occasionally playing an oft-shirtless character named Van McNulty - hee hee - on "Smallville," if he looks familiar.)

But, alas, the day has come where I probably never need bother watching PASSIONS again. TV Guide reports that Jesse Metcalfe - sigh - is leaving the show to pursue other opportunities. Other people have left the show before, but they don't matter as much to me as Jesse Metcalfe. So this is probably it for me and "Passions."

(Hopefully, he'll become moderately famous, and I can look at him on shows, like "Smallville," and yell, "Oh my God, it's Miguel!")

I guess Satan wasn't keeping me from it.

As you might be able to tell from the previous post, last night I saw ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND and, at long last, THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST. Both films are very good. SUNSHINE's original and well-acted, and PASSION's daring and interesting, if hard to take in places.

And after watching PASSION, I picked up my Bible and wanted to know more, so I guess it succeeded in doing what it set out to do, which I believe was to make the non-believers curious and affirm the believers.

Pressing matters.

Last night, before a screening of ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND, I started to tell Marley about my deep, dark, childhood issues with ironing, but she didn't buy it. I said I thought my mother had this scary, off-the-charts ironing fetish, and it scared me away from ever properly ironing anything. Marley defended my mother, saying she probably only intended for me to never leave the house looking anything other than my best.

I fold or hang clothes when they come out of the dryer. Yesterday's pants needed a touch up, but I refuse to iron. I don't own one. Or an ironing board.

My mom used to tell me that she didn't want me leaving the house unironed because of how people would judge her. Every morning would begin with a 45-minute ironing frenzy. If I put on a shirt after it went through the proper ironing procedure and she thought that an inch of the collar looked moderately unironed, my mother would order me to immediately remove the shirt so that the whole thing could be ironed again.

We'd be late for school because of ironing. Late for dinner appointments because of ironing. Late for movies. ("There are 15 minutes of previews!" my iron-fisted mother would shout at me, partly because she's 80 percent deaf anyway. I would tell her that occasionally the previews are better than the movie itself, but she wouldn't listen.)

Marley said that my mother was right that people judge you based upon whether you iron, for they do. I know they do. Marley said that people would consider you a slob if you didn't iron.

Well, I am a slob. Kinda. So I figure not ironing is my way of coming out or voicing silent protest.

Of course, I try not to be too terribly wrinkled.

I thought maybe that it's time for a style and image makeover to coincide with my trip to London. At one point, when I bought those awesome boots from Banana Republic that are downright painful to wear, that I'd come up with an occasion, while in London, to get moderately dressed up. Or I'd get dressed up for no reason, to make myself feel good.

I want to be chic. But, you know, like low-effort chic.

Before I forget ...

If anyone wants a postcard while I'm in London, e-mail me your mailing addresses.

Dispassionate.

I made plans tonight to see "The Passion of the Christ," but something kept me from it. I planned to see it earlier this week, but I wasn't in the mood. Everytime I try to see it, in fact, everytime I even consider it, something keeps me from it.

Seriously. I mean, I even have a free pass, and I still haven't cashed it in to watch Mel Gibson nail Jim Caviezel to the cross. Usually, getting me to a movie doesn't take this much effort.

I'm tempted to say that some force is conspiring against me seeing the film.

Maybe it's Satan.

My "reunion" show plot synopsis.

Some of my friends know that I write a fake soap opera/reality show for friends of mine from high school, a parody of The WB's HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

In my show, I'm stuck with several of my Class of '94 acquaintances on a boat in a SURVIVOR-style game where we vote each other off. But, instead of the show taking place someplace exotic, it takes place in my backwater, redneck hometown of Buford. And the boat is on Lake Lanier.

And, instead of any of us playing to win, we all end up caught in each other's drama.

The whole thing works like one big in-joke.

I occasionally update my friends who don't read it about the plot twists, and I summarized for a couple people what's happened so far this season in the below e-mail.

I didn't realize things had gotten this complicated, though.

Read below:

The high school reality show/soap I'm writing is in full swing.

The crazy town psychic just predicted that the valedictorian girl is pregnant with the baby of the class clown that she once dated yet she says she never slept with. He was on the show at one point, but he hasn't been seen since the night she caught him cheating on her and literally threw him overboard from the boat where the show is filmed. She also beat up and imprisoned the girl he was sleeping with - her worst enemy, in fact - in a safety compartment onboard the boat.

After she threw the clown overboard in a raft, she then witnessed something so shocking that she blocked it from her memory - and we're only getting hints as to what happened.

Though she only remembers being nursed back to health by the cool jock she once had a crush on, she woke up the next morning naked in bed with a different man, who was married.

That same night, one of the reality show's cameramen ended up dead. Though the police have declared the cameraman's death an accident, everyone on the show suspects something more sinister happened.

It was also just revealed to everyone that I'm apparently the secret lover of the cool jock that the valedictorian girl has a crush on - and that the jock may have had something to do with the cameraman's death.

Another girl harboring a crush on the cool jock - a former military police officer - thinks that he's rejecting her in favor of the nice, married Christian businesswoman who somehow manages (on the show, only) to constantly beat people up.

The cameraman's former lover, the math teacher who's still on the show, tried to attend his funeral in a recent episode, but she was mobbed by mourners, who threw garbage at her.

In the meantime, the geekish, overweight, virgin girl who always harbored a crush on me in high school is planning her wedding to her redneck boyfriend, but the crazy town psychic suggested that she was actually going to marry someone else - whose name started with a "B."

It's a fun show.

Sleepwalking.

I've been half-awake all day, and I'm beginning to realize that it's been hours since I took the Nyquil. I think I'm dealing instead with something else, a relapse of my on-the-job depression. It's cyclical. Sometimes, I'm an active performer at my work, and other times I'm just phoning in my performance.

I thought I was just having a bad week last week, where outside influences were keeping my focus away from work, but today indicates to me that maybe something else is wrong.

On April 9, I will begin my fourth year in the same job with the same company. Later that month, I will also mark my fourth year at Barnes & Noble at Mall of Georgia.

In my early 20s, I was just jumping around from job to job without much concern. I never stayed in a position longer than one-and-a-half years. So this four-year milestone throws me, as the three-year one did, and I'm wondering what exactly I'm doing.

Maybe it's time for a change.

Stunned.

Last night, I had a splitting headache, caused by one clogged sinus.

So I took some Nyquil, two Tylenol cold and sinus tablets and my regular Luvox pill.

Now, the next day, I feel groggy and practically drunk. And I'm at work. And I don't really feel like sitting up.

I was able to do all sorts of work this morning, but now I've winded completely down.

Maybe I should stand up and do some jumping jacks. I don't know.

This weekend was pretty good. Lupo came to visit me, and we spent Saturday afternoon at my practically clean apartment, enjoying the sunshine. (I bribed him by loaning him DVDs and CDs.) It was a good time.

Hopefully, the DVD consumption will fill his week in boring ole Savannah, and he'll soon write me an e-mail telling me how good the second season of "Alias" is, how bloody "Battle Royale" is and how dumb, tacky, gay yet bizarrely compelling "Voodoo Academy" is.

I've got a Nyquil hangover. This is so strange. I'm probably moving at half my normal speed, but I can't even tell.

Say a little prayer.

Yesterday, I started working on this post about God and how I feel about faith, particularly when times are troubling. But, reading over what I was about to post, I deleted it because, well, it was full of a lot of platitudes, didn't come to any definite, satisfying conclusions and made me sound like I was really wishy-washy about God. The fact that yesterday and this week have been trying times when I've wanted to ask for help or guidance or prayer made me feel like a hypocrite, and I was ashamed of that. I needed help, but it's not good to God to just use the concept of Him whenever I feel like it. I frown upon people who do that, and I didn't want to be one of them again.

I feel I understand faith in God enough to respect people who legitimately have it, and I acknowledge that I don't. I'm not saying that the possibility of God doesn't exist. I'm saying that I can't firmly grasp one choice or the other. And I feel that it's better for me if I stay on the fence about it, for I can't keep causing myself and others stress by playing jumping in and out of the God pool. And I respect the faith of others enough not to be a playful dabbler with God (or at least not an outward one).

It's not that I feel I'm above religion. It's not that I don't understand religion. It's not like I feel I'm unworthy of forgiveness, if those are indeed the rules and the request for forgiveness is required.

I just, if you get me on this, know enough to know that I don't know and won't know.

I still seek answers. I discourage most "witnesses" from coming to me in that light. I try my best to understand and respect how it works, and, doing that, I withdraw from the game.

It's like dodge ball, I guess. If you don't want to get hit with the ball, don't play.

Don't be an Indian-giver with God, either. "Today, I believe." "Today, I don't." No, if God is God, then God deserves commitment. If you come, come to play. If you're not sure, don't pull yourself in and out of the game at will.

Growing out of my on-again, off-again Christian phase, I try not to play, and I've found this stance works for me. I understand it. But I don't get it enough to really believe it.

So, when I'm curious, I ask people what I want to know. I own a Bible and reference it when I want to know something. I try not to pick and choose from statutes of Christianity, creating a "faith" that works for me. I don't think you should design your own concept of "sin" like you're picking out an outfit. "I want to be a Christian and want to be gay, so I'm just going to say that God's all right with me being gay even though, according to some people's Christianity, it's not." I don't think it works like that or should work like that.

So, last night when I was talking to my cousin Holly about some real big troubles I was having, I talked to her about how I would pray for help with them if I thought that didn't make me a giant hypocrite or Sunday morning Christian. I acknowledged that, last night, having a little faith would've been comforting.

When my cousin Holly told me to try prayer anyway - to find a way where I could both pray and have prayer be all right to me and not ring false, I admitted to her that I, who don't admit having faith, sometimes cheat and pray.

"What, like 'Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub?'" Holly asked me.

I told her that, when I want to cheat and pray, I look in the sky and talk to the constellation Orion because I can see it there in front of me, and it helps me align my thoughts and see things in a better perspective. (I don't think it's creating a false idol if I know that I'm really praying but, at the same time, don't have to admit it. The artifice of using a go-between keeps me from having to completely give in. Does that make any sense?)

It makes me feel guilty to pray, to be honest. Like I used to feel about masturbation. Where you do it and then you feel all guilty knowing that you just did what you said you weren't going to do.

My cousin Holly told me that I should maybe talk to our late, great Grandma, whom we're comfortable acknowledging as both real and as a spirit. She mattered to our mothers, and she mattered to us. And she was smart, loving, difficult, bossy and taught us by example how to be proud carriers of our family legacy. Holly asked me if I was comfortable talking to Grandma.

Grandma's favorite prayer, the Serenity Prayer, was what got me on this train of thought yesterday, actually. Faced with troubles, I recited it over and over. And I wasn't sure what I believed and what I didn't. Or if it was right to pray or not. Or if it was pride or common sense that kept me from asking for help from something a little bit unreal. I just needed help.

So I kept saying it.

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen."

Things aren't fixed. But, and it almost pains me to admit this, things are better.

Across the pond.

My mom just called to remind me that I leave for London in 24 days.

Wow, that's soon.

I'm nervous. I have no plans.

Attack of the Soft Rock Favorites.

The computers crashed here at the office, and I left to go get some coffee at the Starbucks where Jonathan works. But I got lost on the way. And he wasn't there.

My date last night was fun, for the guy gets the way I speak. It's interesting for me, when someone understands and reciprocates the proper banter. To outsiders, it sounds like an argument. But, to those of us involved, it plays like a tennis match. We're supposed to do it again sometime this weekend.

An interesting side note about last night's date is that Aaron and I, during our conversation, were consistently under attack from "Sounds of the '70s" soft rock playing over the loudspeaker. It got to the point where, instead of speaking, we just listened for the next song, waiting for it to get worse. The songs became the conversation.

It started when, while eating, I made note of the Peter Cetera singing on Chicago's "You're the Inspiration."

I didn't mean to make an issue of it, but it followed like this.

Aaron and I would start talking. Then, the Carpenters would come up.

We'd try again. Barry Manilow would interrupt us.

I'd be mid-sentence, and Cat Stevens would begin.

Eventually, determined to have a good time, we just had to leave the restaurant and walk around Phipps Plaza, which is apparently my go-to date place.

Renovations underway. Pardon our dust.

The "something" that happened over the weekend, the thing I keep referring to but not going into, has gotten somewhat better. And, as a result, my mood about it has improved, as well. Watching "Sports Night" DVDs last night after "Gilmore Girls" helped sustain my good mood, but afterward I spoke like some sort of stuck-on-himself scholar. There were non-sequitirs aplenty.

Last night, I chatted online with someone I knew in college who apparently stumbled upon the blog one day and started reading me without my knowledge. (I always assume that only six people or so read this thing, and I know all of them.) I asked him if there was anything I needed to be embarrassed about, and he said he didn't think so.

This weekend, I started trying to change my outlook on things. Though I've spent years of therapy trying to do this already, someone came along and told me that there was more work I needed to do to improve myself. I thanked them for the advice, which came in the form of an e-mail littered with angry four-letter-words, and told him that I would work on myself and my apparent melodramatic, overly critical, self-centered bitchiness. (Those words have been ringing in my head ever since that e-mail.)

But I think the e-mail that was sent marked an end in the life that I'm living, and now I'm supposed to go in a different direction as a result of it. I just don't know where to go.

How many of my sentences begin with "I"? How many of my stories are about myself? Are single people - without dependents - allowed to be more concerned with themselves than others? Am I worse at it than anyone else?

Last night, I spoke to someone who was having a real problem, and I tried to listen to her. Her problems were much worse than my petty concerns, and I think I helped her, which helped me. (Does that make the act or one of my motives behind it selfish?)

I'm confused. And I'm thinking too much. And I've been listening to too much Aimee Mann.

Another story about "me." But, hey, it's my journal.

I may have a date tomorrow with a nice guy I met over the weekend, when I wasn't looking for anyone but instead was trying to cheer myself up.

I kissed this guy, and he, sensing something was wrong, gave me a hug. He said I needed the hug more.

Over the weekend, Lupo was great to me when I called him, though he and I had a confusing moment today when I thought I was supposed to call him to discuss the general uneventfulness of the Oscar telecast and the latest developments in my life.

Someone wrote me this weekend and told me that all my stories are about myself - not necessarily just the ones in my blog. If I attempt, in other areas of my life, to move the spotlight away from me more, can I still keep my rants and attempts at personal storytelling here on the blog?

I don't know who's supposed to give me permission.

Beating the topic of "me" to death.

I'm about to go do laundry at Larry's, taking advantage once again of his endless generosity. I just finished therapy, my first appointment in over a month, and it went well enough.

I didn't go to work today. Money troubles came up, and I needed to address them. Emotional problems left over for the weekend lingered, and I needed time to just stew. And I was tired from staying up to watch the Oscars - and because I haven't been sleeping.

But I'm going to be OK. I am stronger than this.

Oscar contest results.

Here's how the Oscar contest results came out. Thank you to the six of you, including those of you I know and those of you I don't, who played the game.

1 rileymccarthy@yahoo.com 19
2 jgm1976 17
2 mmangelis@yahoo.com 17
4 grinch_47@ho 15
5 jenny@lakecounty.org 14
6 country_hoss2003@yahoo.com 12

I'm not entirely sure who country_hoss2003 or jgm1976 (though that may be Josh Massey) are, but I appreciate them playing along.

Oh, and I won, which is kinda neat.

Chaperone.

Tonight, while hanging out with Mitchell the 19-year-old cute guy (whom I ran into), Ronald (who kept leaving me alone with Mitchell or walking ahead so that I was alone with Mitchell ... and also kept asking Mitchell if he had a girlfriend) and Mitchell's two teen friends (who were both gay but couldn't tell me if Mitchell was ... though they think he might be ...), I had a lot of fun doing the passive-aggressive flirting thing. I have Mitchell's phone number now, even though he never clarified whether he was gay. But I don't think, even if Mitchell liked me (and he laughed at my jokes, even the gay ones), that anything's going to happen there.

Because Mitchell found out just how old I am.

It happened like this.

The youngest kid there was named Andy. And he was gay and insecure, and occasionally he said bizarre, random things. But I, being an idiot, asked Andy to say aloud what year he was born.

"1988," Andy said. He's 15. (Those of you who know I felt are sitting at your computers now, saying, "Damn ...")

So Ronald and the girl who was with us were both 3 when Andy was born. And Mitchell was 4. And I was 12.

Upon hearing it, Mitchell said, "Geeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzz ..." And I went from "cool, cute guy" to "a creepy old man who hangs out with the teenage Ronald at the mall."

Later, Ronald was talking about the "modest proposal" of cannibalism as a means to help the homeless. I mentioned "Soylent Green." Not one of them knew what that was, and trying to explain "Soylent Green" to people just makes you sound random and crazy.

And I felt OLD. Ancient OLD. Like, what-the-hell-am-I-doing-in-the-mall-on-a-Friday-night-when-I'm-30 OLD.

The teens, aside from Ronald, probably felt like they'd spent the evening with the Rosetta Stone (if they knew what that was).

The situation did not improve when I accompanied everyone outside while they smoked. (Mitchell smoked something called Twists, which somehow have an orange flair mixed in the tobacco. I said to him, "Ooh, citrus-flavored death." The whole thing reminded me of my ex Jerry the Arsonist's favorite clove cigarettes.)

Soon it hit 9:05 outside the food court, and the security guards amassed where all the teens were smoking. And the guards told us to get to our movies - if we were going there - or to get the hell home.

"The mall's closed, so you guys need to go," a guard said to all of us.

I was sitting on a bench, not doing anything.

And I said hello and tried to shake the guard's hand when he walked up. He was my age, yet he just stared at my hand.

I've worked at that mall for about four years (Good God), and I'm generally nice to security guards.

Surrounded by teens, the guard looked at me like I was some kind of idiot.

"I work at the store right there," I said to him. "It's still open."

"I don't care," he said.

"But I'm 27 years old," I said to him.

And I - Dear God, why ... - pulled out my driver's license.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER," he yelled - YELLED - at me, looking at me like I was some kind of punk.

And, at first, I thought the guy was some kind of flagrant dickhead, though I also realized he couldn't give me special treatment. And that I was a tool for expecting it.

But, come on ...

Don't kick me out of the mall for sitting there, talking to kids. I'm almost 30 years old. And I'm there watching movies than that late every weekend. But I was standing with kids, so that made me "trouble."

Meanwhile, my attempt to argue reason with the security guards didn't really win any points with Mitchell and his friend. They were used to the treatment. But I'm OLD. So I was OFFENDED.

I went to the cinema, and I lost track of Mitchell, though I did try to call him to find him after a few minutes. I figured the group, which was a bunch of kids and me (like I'm their chaperone ... because I'm the one who tried to argue reason with the security guard).

But I never reconnected with Mitchell. And I was no longer in a good mood - because the security guard tried to kick me out of the mall for "loitering."

So after checking the movie times, I started out of the mall, but that same security guard was standing by the escalator.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

And I said, "Look, I'm sorry for what I did."

He said, "It's OK. You shouldn't take it so personally."

I told him that I was just taken aback by the whole thing, that I'd called security before to get rid of kids ... but I'd never been on the receiving end of it.

"It's not serious," he said. "I just have my job to do."

"I'm Benjie," I said. "I've worked at Barnes & Noble for four years, and this is the first time I've been reprimanded for loitering. It startled me."

His name was Matthew. And we talked out our differences like adults. But I still think he's a dickhead for yelling at me.

I think I really need to hang out with people my own age. Away from malls.

Because, all through the evening, I seriously couldn't figure out what I was doing there. I'm not supposed to have anything in common with them. I shouldn't even hit on Mitchell, cool though he is.

I can't be hanging out with 15-year-olds.

I'm their peer, for Chrissakes'. I'm the grown-up they should rebel against.

What the hell am I doing? Aren't there people my own age? Can't I relate to them even a little bit?

I feel ridiculous.

Oscar contest.

If you want to predict the Oscars in my annual contest, you can go here and sign up - then get yourself added to my group page. You need a sign-on to get into it, but you can get one there. (Yahoo didn't hold a contest this year. Damn them.)

Oscars.com

Go into the Groups directory.
My group's name is "Friends of Benjamin."
The password to join is: destino

A moment complete in its happiness.

Last night, I told the greatest love story of my life.

I was working as a features intern for the Athens Daily News in the summer of 1997, and I was the paper's primary reporter on AthFest, the first-ever Athens Music Festival. In the middle of the day, before I went to see this band called #1 Family Mover because they had a cute lead singer, I stepped into this now-closed restaurant called the Athens Brewing Co. for a Sprite. It was July, and I was outside wearing a tie because I was on duty for the newspaper.

The main portion of the Athens Brewing Co. was on their upstairs floor. (The Wild Wing Cafe, which uses the facility now, uses the same floor plan.) So I ran up the stairs and was about to head to the bar, but this cute, young blond guy makes eye contact as soon as I reach the top step.

"Hi," he said to me, never breaking the stare.

"Hi," I said. I was paused, not able to break eye contact with him. "How are you?"

"Fine," he says. He was with a group of guys, but he broke away from them to talk to me.

"Um ...," I said to him. "Are you here for the festival?"

"We were just grabbing food," he said.

"I'm covering it for the paper," I said. "I'm Benjie."

"I know," he said. Then, I looked down at my nametag, thinking that's what he meant.

I forget his name. It may have been Chris, I guess. But I don't remember it. He was very good-looking. My height. Blond. Good eyes.

I remember what he said more than what he did. I don't know if he shook my hand when he said this or not. I just remember what he said.

"I want you to know that I love you," he said in complete seriousness. He just kept his eyes on me, and there was heat that wasn't generated by the July weather.

"Why?" I replied, taken aback.

He didn't hesitate or get offended or anything. He fidgeted.

"I've just seen you around," he said, "and I love you."

Now I can tell when someone's trying to talk up religion to me or save my soul. This guy wasn't doing that. This guy, for whatever reason, genuinely smiled like he was proud of himself for saying it. He looked at me, unflinchingly. And he said he loved me in a way that made me believe him. This complete stranger had feelings for me, emotions he'd gathered just from seeing me around, seeing how I acted around people. I liked the way he looked at me. It caught me completely off-guard and made me into the pursued, rather than the pursuer.

I don't know who he was. I have a feeling that I'd probably talked with him online, for I remember having chatroom conversations with kids on campus who were afraid to come out of the closet. One of the chatroom people would tell me that he'd seen me on Tate Plaza but that he was scared to say hello. I'd give the chatroom kid advice, and I'd talk to him like I genuinely wanted him not to be ashamed of who he was, of being gay. The chatroom kid used to think that I was just pretending to be nice to him. One day, though, he realized that I was being nice, selflessly nice. I remember that the chatroom kid was pleasantly surprised that I didn't want something from him. After that conversation, I never saw him in the chatroom again.

When the guy in Athens Brewing Co. told me that he loved me the second time, I thanked him.

"Now, I'm going to get a Sprite," I said to him. "I'll be right back."

And I walked toward the bar, got my beverage and turned around.

And the guy was gone. His friends were gone. I went down the stairs, looked at the crowds on the street and couldn't find him anywhere.

The moment was over. It was never supposed to last. It was only supposed to matter, and it does matter to me. It was a two-minute conversation, but it taught me that people are looking at you, even when you think they're not. People see you, even when you wonder why no one "gets" you. My day, my outlook, my confidence and my belief in good things and love turned on a dime that day.

Trying to explain it to people at the newspaper, they showed me a candid shot of Versace killer Andrew Cunanan from that day's newspaper - asking me if that was the guy who said he "loved" me. Even that joke didn't keep me from having a brighter day.

Yesterday, telling this story, I told someone that I didn't think that people who looked at me saw the whole picture of who I was or, more specifically, who I see myself as.

I tend to look at myself as though there's something wrong with me, something that needs fixed. I'm not good with confidence. I'm good with sarcasm. I'm jaded, and a lot of my friends have come to expect that. I've been burned by dating, lost love and tons and tons of disappointment, and a lot of people don't like to be around me, thinking me weird or needy. I've had people tell me that I'm nice but try too hard. I've had people who tell me that my cynicism is a self-fulfilling prophecy. People tell me that I have low self-esteem, that I apologize too much, that I don't promote my own writing enough. Some friends tell me that I'd be a lot better off if I just counted to 10 before I said something, that I tend to think before speaking. One person once said to me, "I thought you were TRYING to be strange."

Exes have told me that I'm too critical of myself. I need other people too much. I'm weird. I'm the sort of cute that people won't notice until I'm old and not cute anymore. One ex said that, by the time I turn 35, everyone will adore my bitchy sarcasm but that I'll hate everyone. One ex told me that I thought too much with my heart and not at all with my head.

I remind myself of the moment in Athens Brewing Co. because I need to know that someone can and will look at me like that. They have, and they might again. People can still see me, beyond the walls and the bad anecdotes, and they think I'm a beautiful person full of loyalty, worthy of affection and capable of loving someone.

The boy in Athens Brewing Co. wasn't the only person to look at me and love what I love about myself, but his story is the most poignant. The one time he chose to talk to me, he said what he wanted me to know. And it helped me.

When I went out with Lonnie on our one date last year, before he broke his promises to me and didn't call me for two months for whatever reasons, he told me that I had an untapped affectionate side that people should see. He told me that I needed love, and, for a moment, he offered it to me.

Then, he hurt me. And I closed the shutters, and I put the walls back up and reinforced them.

But I want to be seen. I want to be seen that way.

I'm getting older. Days are humdrum. And I was hoping to know more of love and about love than I do. I want to stop with the apologies, the bad dates, the uncertainty and the silliness, at least to a degree.

I want love. I want to believe in it. I don't want to get stepped on, passed over, glared at or belittled.

My favorite poem is Edgar Lee Masters' "George Gray," about a man longing for life and yet afraid of opening himself up and taking chances.

I don't want to be that man. I'm cautious and caustic, but there are reasons for that. I'm jaded, but there are reasons for that. This attitude is not my fault. This attitude is my best defense. And few people understand that.

I don't want to be misunderstood. I don't want my desires misinterpreted. So I'll be as confident as I can be, as smart as I know I am. And I'll tell you all the truth about me.

When I tell my best love story, I don't want it to be a tale of something fleeting yet satisfying. I want more from life.

I am loyal and good. I am a friend. I am a man. I am strong. And I know myself well enough to be both cautious and wild. And I'm ready for optimism, love, happiness, change and hope - whenever it's ready for me.

This is not some Hallmark card. This, if you've been truly listening to me for years, isn't even a change of pace. I'm the same good man I've always been, despite the bad things that happen to me.

People who think they know me wouldn't think that I felt that way. People who think they "get" me probably don't pay the proper amount of attention.

But, I've found, some people who think they know me don't actually know me at all.

Before an audience.

On Saturday, I'm supposed to meet Black at the Phi Kappa Literary Society anniversary meeting, which I try to attend every year.

Black should be there ... if his Headhunter Lady doesn't try to kidnap him over the weekend and force him into sex slavery ... or if COLD MOUNTAIN Leslie, his latest couplehood prospect, doesn't make him watch really bad movies instead of heading down to Athens.

Black was in the Society before me, but I never met him. When I joined, he was already studying corporate law at Harvard, working to become a Tool of the Man. Some years he couldn't make it because he was in New York. Other years, he couldn't make it because he was in London. This year, though, he lives in Nashville, and he promised me that he is coming. (Of course, that was before COLD MOUNTAIN Leslie.)

I'm supposed to read "Patty Melts and Redemption" at the meeting on Saturday, which I picked because it generates good response from people and it's got a theatrical quality to it -- so I perform it more than read it when I'm in front of a crowd. Plus, my friend T. Kyle, a fan of Southern Lit, says it's his favorite of all my essays, and he's going to be there.

Though I read the piece in front of one of my friend Larry's parties and have read more harrowing things in front of people, I'm nervous. I called around a couple weeks ago to see if there were local Barnes & Noble stores that still did Open Mike Nights so that I could practice, but the store I called said they weren't aware of any in the area.

I want to be on stage again. I want to do readings. I want to try, seeing what response I get.

It should be a fine reading this weekend. If Black's there, it's sure to be fun, anyway.

"But J.Lo's only in it for 15 minutes!!!"

Mike, Kacoon, Marley and I are supposed to attend a screening of Kevin Smith's new film "Jersey Girl" tomorrow. Marley and I got tickets through the Peachtree Film Society.

There's a Q&A with someone after the movie, which I didn't know about until Marley pointed it out to me, but Marley told me that I'm supposed to be on my best behavior, lest I say something out loud and upset a Kevin Smith fan.

Marley says I'm occasionally too loud. I respectfully disagree. The arguments that I've gotten into with other people in random ticket lines - about the atrocious "Cold Mountain" and the disappointing "Big Fish" - were not my fault. But Marley says I'm too loud.

I told both Marley and Kacoon that I can't believe we're going to see a Bennifer movie. I mean, if we'd seen "Gigli," I'm sure we would've hated it, but we didn't see it. Have we learned nothing?

I love J.Lo when J.Lo's in a movie where she is more interested in acting than in looking pretty. Hence "Out of Sight" is amazing, and "Maid in Manhattan" is crap. Hence "The Cell" is interesting, and "Enough" is enough.

Kacoon told me that J.Lo is supposed to die in the first 15 minutes of "Jersey Girl," which I'd read about, so she said it wasn't a real Bennifer movie.

I was, like, "Um, if they're in it together, it's a Bennifer movie ..."

But, I guess, since Bennifer is over, we can all see their movies again without tremendous fear, but I'm scared of "Jersey Girl."

If it's a "Look at how sugary-sweet and cute this kid is ..." movie, I think I may vomit in the aisles. If it's about a cute kid, that's worse than it being a Bennifer movie, I think.

Marley'd probably consider me rude for saying that, though.

My last phone call to Steven.

Last night, I was in such a mood upon leaving my office - after 8 p.m. - that I, in frustration, answered a call from Steven. Steven's been calling me for about two weeks, apologizing for that phone tag-maybe date fiasco.

Since he was staying in for the evening to do necessary homework, I suggested, in spite of my better senses, that I come over and watch a movie. He told me that was fine, and he suggested that I bring a toothbrush with me, in case I needed to "crash." Then, he asked me if I wouldn't mind picking up a pack of Doral Ultra Lights for him on my way over. (Granted, he'd already heard about my money woes. He still asked me to buy him cigarettes. I don't even smoke. What sense would it make for me, low on money, to buy cigarettes?)

While talking to him, I became so distracted that I ended up venturing the wrong direction down I-85. So I told him that I'd see him in a few minutes.

Then, getting off the phone and turning around at Jimmy Carter Boulevard, I thought about whether I really wanted to go over to Steven's.

It was late. I was unshaven, unfed, broke, tired and depressed. He only has VHS, and he told me that I could bring over any movie from my own collection that I wanted to watch. When I met him, he smoked cigarettes instead of kissing me.

As I got back on the interstate, I considered both the feasibility of seeing Steven and my actual desire for Steven.

Then, noting the irony, I called him back and cancelled the date that I'd just set up three minutes before. I apologized. I told him I wasn't trying to be funny or rehash the reason that I was initially upset with him.

I just told him that I wasn't in the mood.

And I wasn't.

The Passion of the Christ.

Last night, after watching a report on it during INSIDE EDITION, I had a dream that I went to see Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ." And it started out all pretty, and I kept waiting for it to get gory - like the reviewers said it would.

But, in my dream, I fell asleep during the movie. (In my dream, I fell asleep. Is that weird?) It was like I blinked, and everyone else in the theater watched the crucifixion ... and I'm just there, going, "Huh, is that it?" I hope that I don't exit the actual movie feeling that way.

Marley, who's not religious, wants to see it. And I am curious about it, more in a car wreck kind of way than anything else, so we may go eventually. I'll have to ask her. At first, I didn't want to see it because I generally hate Mel Gibson. But I like Jim Caviezel, who plays Jesus. And I think Monica Bellucci is a beautiful woman, though I'm not sure how she'll do as Mary Magdelene. (I heard her say she was an agnostic on "Good Morning America" yesterday. I thought that took guts, considering she was there to promote a Christ movie.)

The movie should be pretty harrowing, if what the reviews say is true.

"Arms ... Arms ..."

Looking over my friend Kurt's blog, I found a photo of him in a tanktop and was reminded of something stupid that I do when I'm out with Kacoon. Seeing any guy with decently or moderately defined arms, I immediately become rapt, cooing, "Arms ... arms ..." until Kacoon is forced to either confirm or deny the presence of decent arms.

I myself have terrible arms. Because of cerebral palsy, the left one doesn't straighten completely and will never grow at the same rate as the right one. It's not completely atrophied, but there is a noticeable difference. I have the smallest left wrist you'll ever see on a guy.

I was out with Marley a couple weeks ago. We were browsing in a bookstore after a screening of "Hidalgo," and I looked over at a guy in shortsleeves putting away books.

"Arms ...," I said to Marley. "Arms ..."

Marley looked in the direction I was looking, thinking I'd seen a book on the shelf. After a moment, she realized what I was actually looking at. And she refuted my claim. The guy had unimpressive arms, she said. She was probably right. I define good arms as "arms that are better than mine," which means that everyone qualifies, except when I'm on a workout kick - which does happen.

When I was dating Welsh Guy back in 1996, he told me that he and his "blokes back at Uni" would walk around and check out guys together. Seeing one they liked, one would look at the guy and nonchalantly say, "Actually ...," just out of nowhere.

My statement of "Arms ... Arms ..." makes Kacoon laugh. She says I notice it about the most random people.

I think that eventually someone will notice what I'm doing and punch me with their well-defined arms, but I hope that doesn't happen. (I always assume that I've had my last fistfight already.)

Perhaps I should go back to saying "Actually ...," which I did do for a while after Welsh Guy left, but my phrase alerts my friends at what I'm looking at. I'm not looking at a guy's face. Just his arms.

BIO

For the record:

PERSONAL:

REAL NAME: Benjamin
AGE: 27
BIRTHDATE: 6/21/1976
ZODIAC: Gemini-Cancer Cusp.
BIRTHPLACE: Cobb County, GA
GREW UP IN: Buford, GA
CURRENTLY RESIDES IN: Atlanta, GA
SEX: M.
HAIR COLOR: Light brown.
EYE COLOR: Blue.
HEIGHT: 5'8
WEIGHT: 175
DISABILITY: Cerebral palsy.
MARITAL STATUS: Single.
SEXUAL PREFERENCE: Gay.

EDUCATION:

COLLEGE: University of Georgia
DEGREE: ABJ, Newspapers. Class of '98. Minor in Drama.
EXTRACURRICULARS, AWARDS, HONORS: Member, Phi Kappa Literary Society; Alumnus, The Red & Black; Alumnus, Lesbian Gay Bisexual Student Union; Winner of 1995 Student Employee Award, Athens Commission for People with Disabilities; Member, Phi Kappa Summer Trivia Team in 2001.

PROFESSION:

FULL-TIME: Reporter, McGraw-Hill Companies.
PART-TIME: Music and Book Salesperson, Barnes & Noble.
FREELANCE: Essayist, features writer, movie critic and fiction author.

TRIVIA:

PSEUDONYM: Riley McCarthy
ORIGIN OF PSEUDONYM: Asked by a friend to come up with something pretentious - a stage name that I would use if I were ever in an adult film, I chose this name using the titles of two of my favorite songs, The Lightning Seeds' "Life of Riley" and R.E.M.'s "Exhuming McCarthy."

E-MAIL: rileymccarthy@yahoo.com
AOL: rileymccarthy
Y!: rileymccarthy
PHOTO: Here.

And then it all falls apart again.

Giving myself a breather for a moment about the money situation, I decided to splurge and get a bottle of Diet Coke from the downstairs vending machine.

And I looked in my wallet to see if I had a dollar for the machine.

I did have a dollar, which was cool. I didn't have the $20 I intended to use for gas money this week, though. The $20 my mom gave me. The $20 that was in my pocket when I went to lunch with my mother this afternoon. The $20 that was going to keep me from tapping into my bank account. The $20 that I needed, certainly, but it still felt like a luxury.

So I freaked out. Because, if I'm already having money troubles, why is it that I then - on top of everything - have to lose money AGAIN? I mean, seriously. I was looking all around, cursing my own stupidity.

I called my mother and asked her to check her car seat for the bill. I told her that, if she found it, she should keep it because I apparently am irresponsible and can't keep up with funds.

The loss of the twenty bucks, though this is going to sound silly, became who I am. And I started to lose my mind over it.

The problem with the bill was solved, but I still managed to find a way to be dumb about money.

I went downstairs, had the Diet Pepsi anyway and tried to put it back into perspective.

Dumb stuff, of course, is going to happen in life when you least want or need it to - because it can. It doesn't mean anything. Life doesn't make any sense.

Someone else probably found my twenty bucks, lying in a parking lot or on the floor of the bathroom or some place. They probably needed cheering up.

I am not going to die over this. I am going to get through this and get past it.

A missing $20 bill doesn't reflect who I am. It merely reflects that I need to put money in my wallet, not my pocket.

Fixed, if only for the moment.

My money problems have been fixed ... again. Don't ask how. I'm ashamed to say. It's not illegal. And, to everyone's great relief, I didn't get a job as a stripper for "chub chasers," as my friend Wes used to call them, or men with disability fetishes.

I'll just tell you that I had lunch today with my mother. It was fun. We went to Maggiano's. I had lasagna, and she had chicken. Good, hearty food.

Her birthday's tomorrow. She told me not to worry about getting her a gift.

Just when I think I'm out ...

A bill on automatic deduct went through my bank account over the weekend. So, ahem, I'm screwed even worse than I was screwed before. It just keeps getting worse and worse.

My financial situation is starting to look like my dating situation in that regard.

My life as a couple women.

Today, doing a read-through of Marley's screenplay, I got to play a straight guy. And four or five of his disastrous speed dates, ranging from a painfully shy, clueless girl to a boorish, aggressive girl whose spewed obscenities.

I think Marley was impressed. She kept laughing ... and taking notes of touches I added to her screenplay.

It was lots and lots of fun, actually. I hadn't acted in a while, not since I read for one of Larry's plays.

Marley's been really great to me, by the way. Today, we had brunch and watched TiVo before working on the script. We're doing another read-through this week to finish the draft.

So, hopefully, I'll be able to cross my legs and get to play a couple more females before the week's done.

If something goes wrong, I'm the first to admit it ... but the last one to know.

If you don't read this one, I don't mind. I'm posting it for myself.

I have no money. None. Well, almost none. I don't have enough this week, due both to fewer working hours at the store and pending bills, to cover a payment on the electric bill I forgot and still survive the week with gas money, funds for food and any bills that may come due in the meantime. It's going to be a lean week, perhaps the leanest week I've ever had in my history of "When times were bad ..." finances.

I've been proud and stupid. (For example, I wouldn't have gone on that non-date if I'd been more aware of my true finances at the time. But I was keeping myself intentionally in the dark, instead choosing to focus on the positives of having a good time with a new friend. But I shouldn't have done it.) The circumstances that led me to this situation were entirely my fault, and I'm very, very mad at myself about this. At the same time, I'm worried, ashamed and ... strangely hopeful that some new solution will eventually come to me.

Mostly, I'm just scared. I'm trying to keep myself busy so that I don't think about it. I'm trying to keep myself quiet, so I don't talk about it too much. (Marley's heard about it. Last night, I talked to Katt at the bookstore about it, and I asked Bonnie the Math Teacher about it over e-mail, not going into specifics beyond, "OK, I messed up with money." I talked to my mom about it, and she sounded justifiably annoyed at me. I've only gone into specifics with my mother.)

People see their way through these situations and get past them. I will. I'm not going to die over this. It's just money.

I can't talk to my therapist about it because I can't afford to pay for a session, which feels like it'd be a catch-22 if it wasn't actually all my fault and didn't feel funny.

I don't want help. I want a solution. I want to come up with my own solution.

And I want to learn from this. I want this not to happen again. Or, if it does, I want to foresee it, so that I can stall it or lessen the impact.

I need to be better organized about it. The Internet has helped me to be more aware of it, but I'm still making mistakes.

I don't want a spouse who can help me solve it. I don't want an inheritance. I don't want my mother's money. I don't want to borrow money from friends, with the friends telling me to pay them back "when I've sold one of my essays - which I need to publish."

I want faith in myself.

I'm going to London next month. This is going to be amusing. I keep thinking that maybe I shouldn't go, that I don't deserve it because I was irresponsible with money. If I have to be bailed out of this, I'm going to cry again. I already cried once. I don't want to talk about this.

I can sell some DVDs. That'll help me solve it. That'll get me over the hump. For the time being. I've volunteered for all available bookstore hours. I have peanut butter and jelly, so I'll be fine. (Actually, I got depressed when I realized that PB&J makes me gain weight, not lose it. I thought of putting days of water-based fasting into my schedule, but then I realized I was just being melodramatic.)

You don't want to read about this. You want to read about boys. You want to hear about movies. Or you want to read about the really good time I had at Marley's today - having brunch, watching TV and working on her screenplay - which I'll write more about later.

Whether I keep it to myself or say it aloud, something is wrong, though. And I need to face it.

I figured admitting it here to myself - even if it didn't make for an entertaining read for everybody has financial woes and I know nobody likes to hear about someone else's - was a way of reminding myself that the problem isn't bigger than me, but it needs to be solved. By me.

I was so depressed about it today that I had to get dressed up in good clothes to put myself in a better mood, which always works. It's difficult to feel bad when you look good. (A piece of advice I once gave my friend Vic was, "If you're bummed but can't change your life, try changing your hair.")

Today I was well-dressed, and part of me was glad I'd done that. Another part of me felt like I was hiding from my problems, so I'm writing this here for myself.

I have problems. I don't want to hide from them.

This is not bigger than me. I will fix this.

Non-date redux.

My nondate was fun. Nick the Cute Waiter liked the browsing at Phipps. He liked the trivia night at the pro-gay restaurant. He liked meeting Debi, this friend of mine who happened to be there. He liked Outwrite Bookstore, and, other than the fact that I was stiff and awkward, continually apologizing and not sure how to act, it was good.

We may do trivia again or go to a movie.

Hopefully, as I get to know him, I'll relax more. And we can be friends. I need to know more gay people, anyway.

I'm supposed to call him next week.

Non-date update.

My non-date's starting to feel like a date.

I called Nick and asked him how he wanted to get into the area, whether he needed me to come pick him up or if he could meet me somewhere in town.

He called back and said all he needed to know was when to "be ready." Um, ready? We're doing trivia and possibly browsing at Phipps.

I started to give him directions, but he only knew I-85 ... and apparently he didn't know that all that well.

So I'm going to get him. I told him to "be ready" around 6.

The "RILEY MCCARTHY NON-DATE -- YOU MAKE THE CALL!" contest.

ATTENTION READERS!!!!

Tomorrow, I am supposed to hang out with Nick the Cute Waiter at someplace other than the Mall of Georgia. Now, the jury's still out on whether this is an actual date or not. I think it's not.

Nick the Cute Waiter just turned 21. I'm 27. I've known him since he was in high school. He used to not like to talk to me, when he was an irksome customer in my store, but he says I'm nice to him now.

Regarding the non-date, I asked him, but I said I wasn't hitting on him. He said, "Oh, one thing you'll have to notice is that I'm flirtatious with everyone. It doesn't mean anything." We stayed on the phone for about two hours, watching LEGALLY BLONDE in our respective homes and making comments. We've been talking on the phone since Christmas, though he and I have done the number exchange since last summer. He does not have a boyfriend, for he just broke up with the person he was seeing. So this is not a date. He's way cuter than me. I'm a troll. Not a date.

The only criteria regarding this meeting with Nick is that it must occur somewhere other than the Mall of Georgia. We both work there. We both shop there. He lives near there. Once, when I was asking him to hang out, I said that I just wanted to see him someplace other than that same block where we met, which is the only place I've ever seen him.

I, myself, am against seeing a movie with him, though he suggested that as a potential thing.

I told him that I would come up with something interesting. Honestly, I just want to be able to talk with him and do something quirky yet entertaining. I don't want him to be horribly bored. Brainstorming the possibilities, I've realized that I'm not good at spontaneity.

The options for my non-date are:



* Window-shopping at Phipps Plaza and dinner there. Nick likes designer clothes. He's pro-Gucci. He's also, he let it leak, pro-Phipps Plaza. I like designer clothes. I'm pro-Armani. (Not the evil Armani Exchange. Actual Armani.) It doesn't matter if you can't afford anything if the store is so pricey that you're basically just there to look anyway, and I have fun browsing at Phipps, where I will not be able to actually purchase anything until I've sold my second bestseller. Nick said he was keen on this idea, to be honest, but ... come on, window shopping??? I had fun doing it with my friend Michael, but I don't know if this is so much a non-date of a non-date that I'm not being tested by Nick the Cute Waiter in some way. I don't want to come off bad, even if I'm not (and shouldn't be) interested in him.



* Over coffee, I prove to Nick the Cute Waiter that I can write. Imagine the scene. At a Starbucks, perhaps the pro-gay Ansley Mall Starbucks that used to intimidate me, we sit and chat, and I bring some of my essays and attempt, in an animated way, to be myself and be charming. Hopefully, he will laugh. If not, then he'll just call me a jaded, old queen and maybe throw hot tea in my face. Either way, it's a memorable outing.



* Trivia, the Atlanta gay community and eating at Joe's. This has actually worked for me, with friends, before. Usually, though, I know the person better. Jai and I did trivia at Joe's on Juniper one Wednesday a couple months ago. And it's right in the heart of gay Atlanta, so Nick the cute waiter will be able to indulge in the requisite "Oh my God, it's the oft-rumored gay community I've only dreamed of!" cultural awakening that little gay boys his age are prone to do, if he hasn't seen the rainbow flags of Outwrite Bookstore already. (Of course, I think this would be amusing, though slightly boring since I don't go to Outwrite Bookstore and it is still a bookstore -- so it'd be like going to Mall of Georgia, except gayer.) But what if he's bad at trivia? Or what if he thinks me old and boring? Oh wait, this isn't a date.

* Other suggestions. If you feel the need to fill in the blank, remember that I can't afford skydiving, that not everyone's into bondage or art cinema ... and remember that my outing with Nick the Cute Waiter is NOT A DATE. Of course, I don't think he's going to cancel, but I'm not sure what might happen. I don't know if I have to pick him up ... or if he's going to meet me somewhere. It's all up in the air.

To participate in this contest, please e-mail me your choice or suggestion regarding the non-date, set to take place Thursday night in the metro Atlanta area. If you know of some event that I'm missing and could afford, let me know. If I end up doing what you suggested, then you win the contest. If you end up picking one of my suggestions, which is also fine, then I will choose a winner at random from the selectors of the winning option.

The winner of the contest will win a dinner with me, set to take place some other time during which I'll host the second "RILEY MCCARTHY NON-DATE -- YOU MAKE THE CALL!" contest.

So, you see, it's cyclical.

Now let's play.

I can't find my book.

I got to page 87 of ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE, and now I don't know where my book is. I don't know if I left it in my apartment somewhere, though I searched there for it. I can't find it in my car, and my car is clean - so you'd think I'd be able to find it if it was there. I don't know if I carried it into the bookstore and left it in my locker. Or I don't know if I, for the third time or so since I bought it, left it at Larry's house. I'm into it now. I don't want to lose it. I don't want to put it down. It's not here in my cube.

OK, this is the most pointless blog entry ever.

But if you've seen my personal copy of ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE, then e-mail me at rileymccarthy@yahoo.com, for I want my book back.

It has a postcard in it of the Eiffel Tower being struck by lightning.

Valentine's weekend redux.

* My first customer at the bookstore, on the day before Valentine's Day, was this 18-year-old anorexic-looking girl who asked me where the Kama Sutra books were. She wanted to surprise her boyfriend. I hate Valentine's Day. Another customer, who asked me if I was bothered by something, told me that I was too young to be so bitter about Valentine's Day. "No, I'm not," I said to her. I can be bitter if I want.

* I didn't get over my Valentine's funk until I spoke with Lupo and my friend Kate on Valentine's morning. I thanked them for helping me.

* Checking on my checking account this morning, I realized that I'd forgotten to pay my power bill. I had to make a phone call. I hate this.

* Speaking of bills, I can't figure out how to pay Dell over the Internet, rather than by check. I think the Dell payment on the Dell website ought to be easier to figure out since they're a computer company.

* Black's dating a girl who likes COLD MOUNTAIN. Apparently he told her my thoughts on the film, then backtracked on his statements when he realized that she liked the film and was getting upset about it. She says that she felt the corny, overdone romantic dialogue was suitable for characters of the time, and it was a period piece. I said to Black, "Yes, but the film is made for modern audiences who are more aware of cliches." I told Black that, though this girl may otherwise be terrific, her COLD MOUNTAIN defenses were weak. Marley told me that she liked COLD MOUNTAIN and that, if I were a girl, I would like it better, too. Kacoon, a girl, hated COLD MOUNTAIN and thought the romantic dialogue and cheesy storyline were bullshit. So I'm willing to bet that I'm right.

* Marley and I broke our bad movie streak on Sunday by going to see the surprisingly entertaining 50 FIRST DATES, which was quite good. Someone brought a screaming two-year-old into the theater, and Marley and I complained after the movie. We got readmission passes to another show. On Valentine's Day, Marley and I attempted to cook chicken and pasta, which was a success (though Marley did not share my penchant for orange bell peppers). After dinner, Marley and I watched this Woody Allen movie, ANYTHING ELSE, which was an absolute piece of garbage. Then, to try and recover, we watched this Disney-produced film called THE OTHER SIDE OF HEAVEN with Anne Hathaway. Marley, who rented it, didn't realize it was a religious film until I told her that it was about Mormon missionaries. When one of the missionaries healed a dead child through prayer, Marley turned off the movie in frustration.

* I had Presidents Day off at my office, so I used the free day to get a shift at the bookstore. I don't think I'm a workaholic.

* Steven called me last night, but I was on the phone with Nick the cute waiter and didn't talk to Steven for very long. Steven told me that he wanted to get together this week. I was iffy about that suggestion, for I'm mad at Steven still. When I called Nick back, he told me not to go on a date with Steven but to instead tell him that I had another date planned - with Nick. I asked Nick, as friends, to hang out this week, and we're doing something on Thursday. It's not a date - but, if Steven asks, oh, it's so a date. Nick and I, in our respective apartments, watched our "Legally Blonde" DVDs simultaneously last night and stayed on the phone all during the film. I've not done that in a while. It was fun.

* At the mall on Sunday, these three cute guys were walking together, looking around at people. One of them looked at me, smiled and said, "Hello." So I said hi back to him. Then, he paused and asked me if I could answer a few questions, and he pulled one of those religious flyers out of a hidden handful that he had. He was going to ask me if I knew Christ. I said, "OH NOOOO ...," and I walked away from him. As I escaped, he told me to have a "God blessed day." I went to the security kiosk and turned the guys in for soliciting on private property. That was fun.

Psyched.

My supervisor Ethan, who had me do twice my workload today because everyone else in my job position was out sick or on vacation, just asked me if I'd finished the task.

"I have four more reports," I said to him.

"Sure you do ... PSYCHE!" he yelled at me, putting five more reports for me to do down on my desk.

Well, I would've been annoyed about this, except that he said "psyche." That was funny.

"What is this, middle school?" I asked him. He's three years older than me.

"Haven't you said 'psyche' before?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, "in middle school."

My heart doth go pitter-pat.

Marley and I, spending Valentine's Day together but not "together" tomorrow, made each other a list of our favorite romantic movies.

Here's mine, which was written to include ones she might've missed:

BEFORE SUNRISE. (They meet on a train. They spend an evening together in Vienna. And they have the best chat ever. And the sequel comes out this summer. If you have never seen it, you NEED to watch it.)
THE PHILADELPHIA STORY. (This Katharine Hepburn movie may very well be my favorite movie ever.)
SID & NANCY. (Yeah, they're freaks, but they get each other.)
PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE. (Yeah, he's a freak, but she loves him anyway.)
SECRETARY. (Granted, this is a completely messed-up relationship, but it works for them.)
THE GRADUATE. (Again, messed-up romance.)
HAROLD AND MAUDE. (If I'm listing messed-up romances, I have to mention the creme de la creme of messed-up romance movies. It's just bizarre.)

Miss Gibson called me a 'quirkyalone.'

Apparently, there's a new movement "sweeping the world," according to this article in The Guardian.

I went to Amazon to find the "Quirkyalone" book by Sasha Cagen, and this was sampled from the book.

quirkyalone (kwur.kee.uh.lohn) n. adj.

A person who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and generally prefers to be alone rather than date for the sake of being in a couple. With unique traits and an optimistic spirit; a sensibility that transcends relationship status. Also adj. Of, relating to, or embodying quirkyalones.

See also: romantic, idealist, independent.

The return of an old acquaintance.

I signed on to Yahoo tonight, and Crocker was online.

We chatted for a couple moments.

It was polite. I sent him an essay.

I also made mention of the fact that I was mad at him and haven't spoken to him in months because I was mad at him. He was too busy to spend time with me and was sorta inconsiderate, a situation that apparently is incredibly common among gay friends and acquaintances of mine.

I'm doing something wrong. There's something about developing new friendships and relationships that I'm taking too seriously. Or I'm picking the wrong people. Or I'm getting too angry too soon or too late. Or I'm wasting my time altogether.

I don't know what I'm doing wrong.

"Barbie's a Bitch," cries Ken.

Just in time for Valentine's Day, the shocking news now comes out that Ken and Barbie, dating since they met at a TV commercial shoot in 1961, have broken up, according to Mattel.

Rumors have been circulating, of course, since word of this massive celebrity breakup was leaked by their "business manager" in New York.

Luckily, we here at my blog have obtained an exclusive interview with Ken regarding the news.
_____

RILEY: Ken, how are you coping now that you and Barbie have decided to part company as friends?

KEN: I now feel like a stronger man. For some reason, during the years I gave myself over to that bitch, I felt somehow incomplete, as though I were not a full man. Barbie's a tough doll to be with, at times I honestly felt as though she were in control of our relationship. I felt ill-equipped to deal with her, to be honest. Like I was just one of her millions of accessories.

RILEY: So then you called an end to the relationship?

KEN: Yes. It was difficult yet necessary. I stopped by her Dream House over the weekend, lucky to catch her because she has all those jobs - at the hospital, as a fashion model and working part-time at McDonald's - and I told her that I wanted out. After that, she tossed her hair and threw a damn fit. Drama queen. The castrating bitch tried to control me again, throwing some of the shoes from her last collection at me, but I stormed out of there. I have had enough diva behavior to last me several lifetimes, let me tell you ...

RILEY: Oh, we can imagine.

KEN: That fake plastic bitch nearly put me into debt every Valentine's Day. All the ballgowns. All the necklaces. All the summer outfits. The dream homes. The convertibles. The VW Beetle painted pink to her goddamn specifications. This year, I couldn't take it. I swear, do you know how much effort it takes to find something new for her every year, something she doesn't already own? People keep comparing us to Ben and J.Lo, but ... let me tell you, that Affleck was lucky. At least, he escaped with his balls intact.

RILEY: This year, it's been said that Barbie's been out a couple times with a new fellow named Blaine, a doll-faced Australian surfer. Now, he's featured in her new advertising campaign. Is there any truth to these rumors? Did this have anything to do with your breakup?

KEN: Heh. I wouldn't believe those rumors. Barbie's actually spending most of her time now with her sister Kelly and old friends of hers, people from her rock star days.

RILEY: So then, the Blaine rumor is untrue?

KEN: Truth is, Blaine and I hang out a lot, and he was my chief confidante when things with Barbzilla turned sour. He's been there for me in ways that I never even expected, and I care for him a great deal. He and I actually plan on hanging out a lot more together now that Barbie's out of the picture, if you catch my drift.

RILEY: I think so. Are you saying that you and he will be "catching some waves" together?

KEN: (Laughing.) Let's just say that, even though Barbie's gone, my dance card is still full. Barbie's fans may be disappointed. But, in the long run, I couldn't be around such a spoiled girl - particularly one who either looks like an angel or a whore. If I wanted that, I would go after Christina Aguilera or one of the Bratz dolls. Believe me ...

RILEY: Yes, but you've been with Barbie for such a long time.

KEN: Trust me, it's not romance that kept her looking so young. The bitch has had work done.