Mack the Knife

I am no man’s fool. Just ignore the motley colors and the little bells.

But I have been a fool for many women, which has been pointed out to me as an interesting flaw. At least, depending on what side of the story you’re on.

Case in point: This past weekend, I took a particularly attractive girl-friend (i.e. friend who is female, not to be confused with anything else, EVER . . . or so I was instructed to say) to breakfast. I had a ham and cheese omelet with biscuits and gravy (you may have heard my arteries slamming shut). At some point, my birthday cam into question, and with the much-practiced delivery, as will often be heard upon the subject, I replied: “February 31st.”

Now, it’s not so much that I don’t like to get older. My palm hasn’t started flashing red, and so that’s yet to prove an issue. It’s just a matter that . . . well . . . I seem to be particularly hard to buy for. People are forever asking me what I want, and how do you say, “1956 cherry-red convertible corvette,” without sounding greedy?

If you figure it out, let me know.

This year I managed to ask for socks. Not the cat, the actual article of clothing.

So, in deference to the poet, I prefer to go quietly into that good night. If at all possible I don’t bring it up, shy away from, or otherwise change the topic with all due haste. It worked like a charm last year, in which only my parents (who are required by law) remembered. Ahhh, the genius of silence. So pure, so golden, so . . . easy.

But I digress.

So my friend, sitting across the table from me, not entirely certain of the joke that I had just laid out, gave me a look. That happens a lot with my jokes. They are either too subtle or too stupid to be gotten. I, however, always laugh! And this, for you dumb men out there (which is pretty much a redundant statement), is the wrong thing to do, NO MATTER WHAT.

But I did; and then the jig was up. Though that battle was lost, the war was still on.

But how does one procure such information when the procure-ee doesn’t wish it to be procured (conjugating is FUN!!). I’ve been trained by the best. I can be a deaf and dumb as any man watching television. I just flipped the switch and I was good to go.

But my friend is cunning. She’s lulled me into a false sense of security by constantly playing a sweet and innocent character TO THE HILT. She attends church regularly, avoids drinking and smoking, and for the life of me I can’t imagine why she should eat breakfast with me. But she did, and so at the time she simply inquired into the Palm Pilot in my day-planner.

Completely oblivious to the obvious (why NOT impress her with my state-of-the-art technology planning system?!?), I passed the planner over so she could get a better look.

And there lies the rub.

My day-planner. The same one that contains my checks, my credit cards, and all my various forms of identification including my DRIVER’S LISCENSE.

If you’ve never seen a shark smile, well, “The shark has pretty teeth dear,” Frank let’s us know, “and [she] shows them pearly white.”

And boy did she ever.

Now, I’m ok with losing. I’ve been a loser for years. Ya’ have to go with what you are good at.

But this wasn’t just losing. This was being outsmarted by the obvious. Something you would think my many hours at mastering Free Cell would have trained me against. But Free Cell has no practical applications in the real world (unless aliens attack and can only be defeated via moving cards from one pile to another). And that stings, baby. Stings the fragile male ego of which mine has a glass jaw, a weak heart, and is allergic to EVERYTHING

In the end, it’s not as bad as all that. But she followed her victory with, “So what do you want?”

“Socks, please.”

Worse than Gout

Yesterday, as luck would have it, I had a minor medical procedure. Nothing to be alarmed at in the least, just a little check-up. I did, however, have to war one of those wonderful hospital issue gowns. And here is where, as Bruce would say, my rampant gay-gene kicks in. Everyone is aware that the gowns suck cold rocks in the desert at night. No one looks even remotely attractive in these drapes of material, which makes it incredibly difficult to pick up chicks while in the operating room.

Trust me, I know.

Ok, I don't really know.

But I thought about it once, right before the anesthetic kicked in.

Most of my operating room experiences have been while under heavy sedation. This is probably more for the benefit of the operating room staff then for me. I tend to get little punchy under stress, and my jokes, marginal at the best of times, go down in humor by an order of magnitude at least.

But, and here's where I get serious, why don't they make gowns that are reasonably attractive? Perhaps in some color, ANY COLOR, other then the white with paisleys. Is that really too much to ask?

Apparently it is.

When Sue, my nurse, asked if I had any questions, I decided (as any good investigative reporter would) to take this opportunity as a gift from the Almighty Reporter. Apparently, Sue didn't see my concern as a valid one, as she laughed off the subject.

Or perhaps that's what she's been TOLD to say!

The old party line seems to be ringing in my ears.

The collaborators aren't talking.

It seems as much a conspiracy as it does simple human (fashion) concern, that a hospital or medical facility would worry about the form over the function. Given the old axiom, obviously gowns are quite functional. They exceed function better then a 1969 Corvette on the open roads of Montana where the speed limit is "whatever is reasonable."

So now should come the Guccis and the Tommy Hilfigers, hell, even the Kathy Lee Giffords, for the medical set. They've already set up the medical professionals. And I must say, if you can find a doctor or nurse attractive in scrubs, someone is doing their job right.

So why not the patients, without whom all this (grand gesture here) wouldn't be possible or even necessary? Why not the seething masses yearning to be free of bad fashion? Why not the tired, the sick, the hungry (usually hungry, because they had to purge their bodies for the previous 48 hours prior to a medical procedure) yearning not just for breathable cotton, but something peppy, something snappy, something free of bad fashion?

Did I say that last bit twice?

Well, I stand by what I said. Twice.

That, and I am tired of a room full of people having easy access to what I would otherwise consider my dear and privates.

Oh, and something in a nice forest green for me.

It brings out my eyes.