Str8jacket Hits the Airwaves

Our beloved Jeremy, of Str8jacket fame, and his band of merry men hit the big time this weekend on the Discovery channel.

As the boy writes:

It’s official! Our goofy “Future Weapons” spoof was chosen to be part of the one-hour Discovery channel show, “You Spoof Discovery.” It will air this Sunday, Feb 25 @ 10 p.m. (EST). Discovery Channel stated that they will also post the video in its entirety on www.discovery.com. Pretty cool! The spoof was written and directed by Jeremy, stars Trey and Holt, and was filmed by Allister and Holt. Mike Rowe* (from Discovery’s “Dirty Jobs”) is set to host the parody show. Set your DVRs, and watch the cocky Navy Seal and the sweaty, sloth-like guest explore the wonderful world of “Rocks.”

Yeah, so the Oscars will be on … but the boring awards will be presented during that time, so switch over and watch Jeremy’s moment in the TV sun. Or stay up for the 2 a.m. repeat.

* What a babe. I even watched his homes-for-sale show when we were in Baltimore. Gawd, I love cute, funny, smart men. Just like Jeremy.

* * * * * *

A Lifetime of Crushes

The adorable Coaster Punchman tagged me to tell the tales of my young crushes. Now, if you’ve read this blog long, you know I adore having crushes, and usually have three or four simmering at any time. Ah, but the crushes of our youth. Innocent … fun … thrilling … void of drama. Nothing like the crushes we had before we hit our teens.

My first crush was Paul McCartney. Yes, I know we’re supposed to talk about those crushes who existed in our real world, but my love for Paul ran deep for a very long time. If you saw my rogue’s gallery, you could see the influence Paul had on my taste in men. I was five when The Beatles hit in 1964, and I got all caught up in Beatlemania. I’d watch The Beatles cartoon and play The Beatles game and talktalktalk about The Beatles with the teen girl who lived next door; she went to their concert at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, and was my hero after that.

I wish I were cool enough to say I crushed on John, but I went for the cute face back then. The sister was cool enough to crush on Lennon; she always went for the funny ones. And their birthdays are a day apart.

I got in trouble in kindergarten for kissing the boys, but I can’t remember which fellow Kiddie Dude Ranchers I locked lips with. (Randy, maybe you were one of the lucky ones.) I just remember liking the boys. All of them.

My first-grade heart belonged to Cary, a cute boy with olive skin and an exotic look. I remember looking at him all the time and feeling all squishy inside. I was a very shy kid back then — so shy and in my own little world that Mrs. Rakestraw called my mama about it — so it didn’t progress beyond stares and longings … longings for what, I didn’t know.

My family moved at the end of first grade, and I started going to Teasley Elementary. I wouldn’t say it was a full-on crush, but my first Teasley boy obsession was Pete Royal. Pete was my first great boy buddy, and we were good friends through high school. He was fun, he was silly, he hung out with the girls, he laughed at everything I said, and he started my love of hanging out with the boys. Pete and I lost touch after graduating from high school. We had a great time at our ten-year reunion and swore we’d get together soon. We never did. He died more than ten years ago, and I still regret that I never planned that dinner.

I harbored a secret crush on Mike beginning in the fourth grade. Like me, he wore glasses and, like me, he had to stand sideways when the class photo was taken. Misfits must stick together, no? He also had beautiful red hair. I guess that’s why I’m crushing these days on sKincarver.

The sixth-grade swoon was over George, a new boy in our school. He was tall and thin with brown hair, and I giggled every time he said something to me. I can still remember the tingles and thrills whenever he said something to me.

I’ll end the list with my first crush in junior high: Matthew. I fell hard for that blond boy in wire rims when he got on the bus the first day of school; he had a bit of a Warren Zevon look going for him, which is the only type of blond I'm attracted to, except for Robert Redford and Brad Pitt. Of course, this being junior high, I was horrified when people found out … “people” being Laura, our area mean girl. You know the type: Full breasts by fifth grade, vicious and mean to every girl in a sweet and friendly voice.

How mean was that evil bitch from hell? Holly and I were swimming at the pool one summer day. We both wore T-shirts over our bikinis so that “we wouldn’t sunburn” (read: to cover our lack of breasts, not realizing that wet T-shirts cling to the sunken chest). Laura called us over to introduce us to new and handsome lifeguard, saying “Joe loves great bodies. Why don’t y’all pull up your T-shirts and give him a laugh?” We both jumped back into the pool, and I cried under the water.

Anyway, Laura told Matthew about my burning crush and set a lovely plan in motion. He came to my table during lunch, and in that very crowded lunchroom and sang the Aunt Jemima pancakes jingle while pointing to my (lack of) breasts. Mortification killed that crush, and I hope he married miserably. And then I met my science partner, David Decker, and all was right and beautiful again in the crush world.

Now it’s my turn to tag. Who do I think will have the most entertaining crushes? No doubt the lovely Mellowlee … the cute cuz Marni … my blog crush Haahnster … the interesting Erin … and that great storyteller Johnny Yen.

* * * * * *

Just Perfect for Me

I went on a blind date Friday night. Missed seeing (to quote Scrivener) the fan-f*cking-tastic Mountain Goats for this night on the town. But a someone in my universe knew someone just perfect for me, and talked (well, bullied) me into going out with him. I’ve never had a problem with blind dates. I like meeting people and, at the very least, I might get a good story to tell while cocktailing. What I’ve often had a problem with is who someone thinks is just perfect for me. Makes me wonder if the yenta has ever met me.

I’m not particularly interested in adding new male types to my life right now. I’m enjoying a couple of wicked crushes on a couple of wicked men, and there are more important things that need my attention at the moment. But I’m working on a short story about a single woman reentering the dating world post-breakup, so I saw this as a good research opportunity.

The descriptions you are about to read are a personal dating preference. I embrace people of all political and musical beliefs, heights and hair coloring, but I have a checklist of specifics for those I want to embrace.

I get dolled up. Tame the wild curls. Slip on nice pair of pinstriped trousers with a not-too-snug turtleneck. Downplay the baubles and heels. Drive off to the agreed-upon meeting place, a restaurant a couple of miles from my place (newbies are not allowed near the Cup’s cupboard) where there’s a heated patio romantically overlooking a busy five-lane road.

I arrive on time — seven minutes after, because a lady should always be a few minutes late in order make an entrance. And, well, the radio was playing a countdown of R.E.M.’s ten coolest songs in honor of their nomination, and I had to hear which was number one (“Radio Free Europe,” of course).

But the grand entrance was denied and I was left waiting. I’m an impatient one. I hate waiting on people, especially dates. I grabbed a dirty martini and sat with that “yes, I’m waiting for someone” look, quickly losing the high of meeting a new guy and that great R.E.M. set. Finally, fifteen minutes after my grandly denied entrance, he (we’ll call him Skip) strolls in. Hopes further dashed. Second cocktail quickly ordered.

Skip is not my physical type. I haven’t circulated flyers listing what I like, so I can’t fault the fixer-upper. But my toes don’t curl. Don’t even twitch. He’s a little on the short side, by my standards, maybe 5’8”. (In my head, I think I’m 5’10”, so I like ‘em 6’0” to 6’4”.) Blond hair combed so perfectly I can see his comb’s teeth (I prefer wild, dark male hair … much like the men themselves). A bit bland, average, boring; Kevin Costner in a golf get-up — vanilla country club button-down, khakis, loafers, his BlackBerry holstered to his belt.

Back in the early 1980s, I had a friend who used to wear his garage door opener on his belt when he trolled Buckhead. He told the little chippies he was a doctor and the opener was his pager. It surprisingly worked about eighty percent of the time.

He says hello and shakes my hand. As if we’re about to review his taxes. No grip, a little clammy. I know it’s awkward when you’re meeting a blind date, but a handshake? He picks up my just-ordered martini and gets a light beer. Light beer? I can’t respect a man who drinks a light beer at first meeting; be a man and order a full-bodied British ale. Or scotch.

And then we sat. Uncomfortably. For far too many beats. He asked a question. I answer. He moved on to the next question. (What? None of my answers were worth a follow-up?) Standard job interview Q&A — occupation, hometown, where I currently reside, where I went to school, whether or not I’d been married, number of kids. The boring stuff. I got the same info from him: sales, Nashville, Alpharetta, Tennessee, divorced five years, no children, no pets. What does he like to do? Play golf. Go to Braves game. “Well, not this year,” Skip scoffed. “You know, they sucked this year, so I gave away most of my tickets.” I dislike fair-weather fans. He lives for SEC football. “You can’t get me on any Saturday in the fall. And Tennessee kicked Georgia’s ass this year,” Skip yelps as he punches me in the arm. Who does he think I am — Peppermint Patty?

Fifteen minutes and two strikes. Looks like he’ll be fanning the plate all night.

So I move on to music. A man can always come from behind if I approve of his CD collection. Well, he saw that awesome James Blunt concert this summer (huge yawn; respect now chopped at knees). I bemoaned the fact that I missed Beck’s secret show on Halloween; he’s crushed because he didn’t know Jeff Beck was touring these days. He loves Jimmy Buffett and his 1980s hair bands, especially Jon Bon Jovi (“ewww!” snarkily escaped between my lips). And then he mentions the name that makes my skin crawl: Toby Keith. I’m on a date with a Republican.

I don’t have a problem with friends who are Republicans. Our debates and discussions make me think, stay aware, help me to see the other side of the political coin. I do not, however, want to date a Republican.

He won’t stop sneaking non-subtle peeks at my not-on-display boobs. That brings out the catty Cup. I tell Skip I don’t listen to country music much these days since it’s really warmed-over adult contemporary pop sung by pretty people, that I prefer traditional country music, but I do have the new Dixie Chicks album, and I’m considering seeing them with Pete Yorn next month. That gets him started. The Dixie Chicks are un-American because they spoke out against Dubya and the war, and he’s glad our fine city’s country stations have banned playing their records. “But, Skip,” I ask innocently, “isn’t the foundation of this great republic the right to say what you believe?” Got a lot of Boortz-spewing on that one.

Must. Stop. The Boortzing. So I move on to books. Does he read a lot? A lot of political books, such as Zell Miller’s, and he g*ddamn loved The DaVinci Code. Didn’t I love it? No, I did not read it. He declares that I must not be a booklover after all. He declares moi a non-booklover, and he’s never read The Great Gatsby or The World According to Garp or In Cold Blood? I don’t even waste my breath asking about dear Tim Sandlin or beloved T.C. Boyle; this guy doesn’t deserve to know about them.

I’ve drained two martinis by this time, so Skip suggests that we “move the party” to a European-style dessert place. It’s a wonderful spot, especially if there’s a spark of romance flickering. Me? I’m just looking forward to chocolate.

We walk to our cars (I want to be sure of the quick getaway). He has a big-ass SUV. “Oh, I thought you said you don’t have children or dogs,” I bitchily cooed. I don’t think he caught the bitch tone, because he bragged about what a great behemoth it is.

Dessert was much of the same. Struggles for conversation, no hits on similar interests, some quibbling about local politics and TV shows and books. He’s sucking out all my energy; the black hole of my Friday night. I pull out the fake yawns … mentioning how rough my work week was … my brunch plans for early the next day … any possible excuse I can think of to get to the end of the evening. But the chocolate torte and cappuccino were scrumptious.

How can I make sure he doesn’t call? I start playing the psycho-girl card. I get faux-weepy over “the guy I just broke up with.” Pull out the reliable male-chiller and talk about my biological clock, how I need to settle down soon so that I can get pregnant in the next year. Tell him about my MoveOn.org and Drinking Liberally activities. Anything that will turn him off. I even giggle about how we have nothing in common and don’t understand how our mutual friend thought we’d be a match.

Of course, he called Saturday afternoon. I have yet to return his call.

Have I Lost It?

I prefer not writing about the romance side of my life, but this one screams to be posted.

There’s a new wannabeau in my universe — a charming, handsome, clever man. We’ve had fun getting to know each other the last few weeks, and our humor is in sync. Great banter (an important part of my flirting ritual). And did I mention that he’s cute?

I sent the wannabeau a rather saucy e-mail this evening, one that was very flirty, with just enough of the suggestive to keep it interesting. He replied quickly, showering me with praise … about my grammar.

Mrs. Barrett, wherever you are, I hope you’re proud of your prize student.

Yes, Brat, I Have a Type

One of my favorite bloggers asked me today if I have a type when it comes to men. Boy, do I: tall, cute, lanky, funny, intelligent, a bit flirty, a smart-ass. The kind of guy you may have overlooked in high school (although I didn’t), only to realize post-graduation that he was adorable.

High-school best buddy Janice just sent me a YouTube of Cup’s kind of guy (we think we would have fought over him in the CHS halls):



Yes, I have a crush on Jim Halpert. A television character. But a tall, cute, funny, smart-ass character. And I’m skipping Drinking Liberally tonight to see if Pam and Jim hook up.

So, if you happen to resemble Jim … drop me an e-mail.

* * * * * *

Maybe I'm Biased

But is this the cutest kid or what?

My nephew Matt

Matt's self-portrait

My brother-in-law, Matthew, and my brother (Matt's dad)

I love that kid with all my heart. He's fun, funny, smart, easygoing, a bit too sports-addicted, and (I'm sorry, Matt, I know it's uncool to say this about a teenage boy) a real sweetheart. And he loves to tease me, which I think I like best of all.

* * * * * *

Sex & the Southern City: Barista Boy

From time to time (read: when I have nothing to write about), I’ll share highlights from my life as a single woman. These posts will no doubt be great lessons for those of you just starting the single life. And, yes, these stories are true.

Karen and I have just finished a dinner of sushi and (many) saki martinis … which, of course, leads to ribald conversation and naughty confessions. There are still secrets waiting to be spilled postprandial, so we walk to a nearby coffee shop. A tall, very cute barista waits behind the counter. Fueled by my martini confidence, I order my latte with a flirt and a hair toss. Barista Boy repeats my order.

Me: “That’s a cute accent you have. Where are you from?”

Barista Boy: “I don’t have an accent. I have a speech impediment.”

Single girl scores again!

* * * * * *

So, it seems I’m the town whore

My morning DJs recently talked about a therapist’s book on infidelity. This guy claims that someone who has lunch or cocktails … or enjoys a movie or deep conversations … or shares jokes and e-mails with a member of the opposite sex is cheating on the significant other, committing emotional infidelity. It’s what broke up Brad and Jennifer, you know. If that’s true, then I was an emotional infidel with five men last week.

Ugh. I’ve dealt with this crap since Carl Fuqua and I shared a locker our senior year in high school. I’ve been hated by wives and girlfriends for 30 years. Why can’t a man and woman be friends without becoming sexual suspects?

I love my male friends — straight/gay, married/single, young/old, geeky/cool, arty/corporate — I collect them all. I prefer them to most women I know, which is probably why I have just a handful of great girlfriends. My guys are straightforward, honest and fun, and there in a flash when I need them. (BTW, thanks to Paul and Francesco for their technical assistance when I started my blog.)

Now, you know I love you dearly, but there’s no romance, no sexual tension between us, right? My heart’s taken. OK, so maybe we flirt a bit at times — but who doesn’t enjoy the occasional harmless, witty flirt? Are we having an emotional affair, or enjoying a good friendship? Should I think twice before joining you for Mexican food or sharing our frustrations?

To hell with M. Gary Neuman and his emotional infidelity. Let’s grab a beer and bitch about the opposite sex.

* * * * * *