While shopping, my mom mentions having recently bought pants for an elderly family member of ours. "We can only buy him dark pants now: blacks, grays, and browns. You know why that is, right?"

I freeze instead of responding. He's an old, extraordinarily flatulent man, so I get where she's going. But I'd rather not have a confirmation that he poops his pants. That's a piece of information I don't mind being left in the dark about.

As my mom begins to answer her own question, I brace myself to hear the worst. "It's because he's always working in the yard and gets dirt all over himself. When he wears light khaki pants, you can see all the dirt stains on them when he goes out later."

Oh. DIRT stains. Really glad I kept my mouth shut and didn't answer what I thought was a rhetorical question.


Canned Food Drive

Before descending into a pitiful pit of unpopularity in junior high, I was considered to be reasonably cool, smart, and likable by my elementary school peers. This personality combination was my ticket to getting on student council. Thought it was a big deal to me at the time, I can't really remember what we actually were responsible for as representatives. I'll be damned if they let ten year olds actually make substantial school decisions, and it's not even like we had dances to choose themes for at that age.

One responsibility I do remember, however, was drumming up excitement for the annual food drive. As a sixth grader, I volunteered to present to my former first grade teacher's class. I used to really like her, aside from the fact that she would tease any kids she saw picking their noses, which was problematic considering how much I excelled at that activity at that age.

Knowing first graders to be pretty dumb, I figured it might help to bring in a canned good as a visual aid when I explained the process to the little nose-pickers, so I brought some Spaghettios from my cabinet at home. As I started presenting, my teacher cut in to give a preemptive lecture to her students: "And remember, this is for Thanksgiving, so think about the kinds of food that you would want for that. Don't just bring in anything in a can like Spaghettios."

At this point, the Spaghettios can was still stuffed in my pocket, protruding a bit. Maybe my teacher was just being a bitch, but I don't think she noticed that I had brought them in as an example. There was, however, a kid up front who had noticed the can. I want to say that I remember this kid's face clearly, but I also want to describe him as both wide-eyed and Asian, and like not to be racist, but I'm doubting my recollection for this reason.

Anyway, when the teacher made the Spaghettios comment and I tried to shove it deeper into my pocket, this kid up front made two sudden movements. One arm shot straight up in order to get called on, while the other hand pointed straight at my pocket with a firm index finger. This kid was going to rat me out for being insensitive to the poor's holiday dietary needs. Doesn't he have better things to do with his hands like shoving them up his nostrils? To silence him, I gave him a condescending head pat, and made a quick exit from the classroom.

Ashamed to have brought in the Spaghettios in the first place, rather than donating the can, I brought it back home and ate the contents. It was great. Anyone who thinks they're too good to enjoy some Spaghettios for Thanksgiving probably doesn't enjoy the finer, simpler things in life... like nose-picking.



It's official: I'm ugly.

After all of this talk about the new TSA security measures, I was skipped over at LAX this past weekend. Here I was waiting to either be patted down or full body scanned, but neither occurred. Am I to believe that, despite having permission if not legal obligation to sexually harass me, the agents declined to take advantage? The closest I came to being propositioned was when someone asked me to remove my shoes.

How will they ever know that that's not a weapon in my pocket without investigating further? Surely I'm hotter than that morbidly obese man and the housewife wearing mom jeans and a visor, both of whom warranted a closer inspection.

It is a great irony that, after passing through security, I've never felt so insecure.




- The large graffiti message Alice painted on a wall following a 2003 anti-war rally. She was pretty dejected when I pointed out that she left out a letter because, more than a mistake, it looked like a supportive reference to Dick Cheney, the biggest warmonger of them all.


Chasing a Butterfly

At recess in second grade, I had to pee - though at that age I called it "tinkle" - but didn't want to go through the lengthy process of asking permission then walking all the way inside. My first instinct was to run to relieve myself in the woods, but the lady on recess duty was always diligent to shoo people away from there because, like in Grimms's fairy tales, forests meant trouble. Instead, I ran out to an open field, kept my back turned to the other kids, and watered the lawn like it were my job.

As I finished up, I noticed the recess supervisor walking in my direction. I began to act like I had been playing and running around by myself, but she was on to me. "Were you just going to the bathroom?" she asked me directly. "No," I told her. "I was chasing a butterfly."

She bought it. More likely, she just wasn't feeling up to following through on disciplining me, but at the time I thought I was some evil genius... a wizzing whiz kid, if you will.

I was reflecting on this time today and realized that one day I'm going to be detained on a public urination charge (my friends will tell you it's inevitable) and I'm going to instinctively reach for the same excuse. The I-Was-Chasing-a-Butterfly defense holds up in court, right?


Address Me Accordingly

I love when I get mail addressing me by both of my middle initials.

The only thing funnier than being known as Kevin "VD" Ma[redacted] is that Pitzer thinks I may be interested in giving a gift of $100 a month.


Sisters United in Love

Saturday Night Live's "The Kissing Family" sketch may seem farfetched, but I used to live with two adult sisters who would put these actors to shame. They were not only emotionally close, but super affectionate, hugging and kissing constantly. They would go so far as to tell their boyfriends that they could never love them as much as they loved their sister, and the boyfriends would just have to accept this weird dynamic and watch their girlfriends cuddle.

One time, a bunch of us broke into teams to play a board game, and the sisters decided to be a pair. After brainstorming a team nickname, one finally shouted, "SISTERS UNITED IN LOVE!", an idea they both loved, prompting them to hug for a long time. They have since made matching shirts with this slogan on them.

Just like in the James Franco skit, the sisters were no strangers to communal bath time, often showering together. On one such occasion, my dad was in town. As we had a conversation in my room, we could the sound of running water, kissing, and the two ladies repeatedly saying how much they loved one another. Part of me knew I should explain how unbelievably close they were, but the rest of me felt too awkward to address it. I continued to say nothing when they walked out the shower wearing only towels and holding hands.

Later in the day, while making reference to my roommates, I referred to the girls as sisters. Surprised, my dad asked, "Wait, they're sisters?" At first, I didn't get why that was so astonishing to him. They were showering together and saying "I love you" - how would you not think they're sisters? Only then did I realize he must have assumed they were lesbians, which, if you think about it, is a way more reasonable assumption than incestuous sisters united in love.


Danger! High Voltage

Electric Six - Danger! High Voltage (2003)

Though I've heard this song at many a party in my college days, I have never seen the music video until this week. Ohmguh, it just might be my favorite thing, perfectly capturing the 80s in sound and aesthetic. All at once, it is both the sexiest and unsexiest thing I have ever seen, from his cheesy 'stache to her oversized glasses and mouth. And when we reach the uncomfortably long makeout scene, part of me wants to vomit, while the other part of me is forced to acknowledge that if I had electric genitals, they'd be glowing right now.

Also, let's give credit where credit is due: Electric Six pulled off "I'm on a horse moose" years before Old Spice.

This song just catapulted from forgotten tune to lifelong jam.


Found Dog

"Hi, I'm calling about your sign."
"Oh, did you lose your dog?"
"No, he's still right here next to me, but I figured since you're going to be finding him in the future, I'd give you my contact information now to save us both some time."


Who's the Whore Now?

The Erotica Book Club met this past weekend. In addition to feasting on Christine's homemade penis-shaped pumpkin bread, we discussed two short stories that could best be described as sensual fantasies for women. The literature wasn't of high quality, but it led to some interesting conversations about the genre. In spite of all the hot sex scenes, it seems the readers' real satisfaction comes from the lovers getting married and living happily ever after. Whatever!

To summarize, here are my six favorite quotes of the night. The first three were shared aloud by group members, while the last three are quotes taken directly from the texts:

1. On the matter of whether it's fair to call a character who is an occasional prostitute a "whore" when she also owns her own business; Lena: "It doesn't matter, she could be a ninja even. But if she has still has sex for money sometimes, she's still a whore ninja."

2. On a prostitute who pays a man for protection, but also insists that he has sex with her so people assume he's her boyfriend and not a bodyguard; Greg: "Who's the whore now?!"

3. On a woman who walks in on her fiance cheating on her on an expensive Edwardian desk she bought him for his 40th birthday; Lena: "That's rude."

4. After a woman is stabbed, her doctor gives her lover some sound advice that is ignored not a full minute later: "She may be more fragile than usual in the next few days... She'll need care, not to be hounded by your desires."

5. In one story, a woman, Terri, accidentally travels back in time to 13th century Scotland where is held captive in a nunnery and her abductor tries to impregnate her. Make sense? Maybe my favorite line by Terri, in which she reveals her true identity will help: "Perhaps [Terri] is a bit androgynous, but it is my name, and I am from the future, whether you choose to believe me or not."

6. The best scene that depicts the sexual differences of a 13th century Scot and a modern promiscuous woman: "Her finger brushed against his puckered hole. A place no woman had ever touched. Yet she did, her slender finger sliding into him. Unaccustomed to the strange sensation, he pushed her away, his cock sliding from her mouth."

Our next book will be better or, failing that, trashier.


It's the End of the World as We Know It

Kevin: Ack! I have a new credit card that expires in 2014.
Eric: You don't want a credit card?
Kevin: No, 2014 is just so long from now, it scares me. I can't even begin to picture my life four years from now.
Eric: I know.
Kevin: Isn't the world supposed to end in 2012, anyway? Because the way I'm living my life, I'm kind of banking on that happening.
Eric: Yeah, that'll help tie up a lot of loose ends for us.


Murder Mystery

Last night, I attended Clare’s murder mystery birthday party. As a lover of mysteries and games, all my life I’ve wanted to participate in an activity like this one, and it finally came true!

The mystery was set in the 1920s with a lot of stereotypical characters. There were shady mobsters, shadier politicians, and every woman was a whore. There wasn’t a woman there who(se character) wasn’t fucking multiple men in the room. For example, I was engaged to marry a woman who was already engaged to one of my business associates, as well as secretly married to another one of my business partners. I played the boss of the mob bosses, making me very important. At least that’s what I told everyone.

Going into the game, I told myself I was going to play super hard, interrogate well, and take detailed notes so that I could solve it. This plan was quickly derailed by the fact that the mystery took place in a speakeasy. By golly, the booze really got in the way of the sleuthing. I didn’t end up jotting any clues down, but if shots were notes, my notebook would have been full.

Consequently, I wasn’t able to play the game as slyly as I had hoped. My dossier had secrets that I was supposed to reveal as well as those that I was supposed to keep to myself, but I kept mixing them up and just sharing everything. I was the most loose-lipped mob boss the world has seen; every conversation I had was as if I was speaking with my psychiatrist given my penchant for indiscriminately telling people everything I knew, as well as what I ascertained from others.

Though that’s not how the game was supposed to be played, everyone was so ridiculously drunk, that we really had to drop any pretenses of being subtle and just read our clues to each other off the clue sheet in order for any information to be exchanged.

Partway through the night, after the first person was killed, there was a scavenger hunt to find a weapon so that you could kill someone else. I had no interest in offing anyone (what a lame mob boss, huh?) but I searched hard out of self-preservation, as I had ascertained that several characters stood to benefit from my death. Picture an intoxicated bunch of people in 20s getups frantically opening drawers and behind books for weapons: the house look ransacked.

Someone was soon killed, but I got lucky, and it wasn’t me. At the end of the night, we had to write down who we thought the two murderers were. I was disappointed in myself because I had hoped to be a better sleuth, but I used the evidence that I knew to make two semi-educated guesses. I spent all night wooing a woman and not suspecting her, but when I reconsidered her motives and accused her. As it turns out, I was the only guest who actually fingered both killers accurately. Looks like I’m not such a bad drunken detective after all!

It was a lot of fun, so I want to play again – next time sober. Although maybe if I had been soberer this time, I would have over-thought the game and guessed incorrectly. I know a lot of people think I dumb lucked my way into my victory – and maybe they’re right – but I will gladly wear this badge of honor until the next time a murder needs solving.


My Mom Has Been Killing It on Email This Week

What does this mean? Does my mom think I'm a prostitute?

In small town Connecticut, any break from the monotony, even vandalism, is worth cheering for.

I was going to explain that it would make no sense for AOL to abruptly cut off the only people in the world who actually still pay for its services, but then I got this...

My mom has only six email contacts, and half of them are Nigerian princes. "duh. All set! No worries." I can't get over how cute my mom is.


Sexy Amelia Earhart

On Sunday, I went to my very first West Hollywood Halloween. I was under the impression that it would be some wild gay orgy, and though it was more flamboyant than your average affair, it was really just a fun dance-y and costume-y time with tens of thousands of people publicly drinking in front of police officers who were laughing too much to intervene. I had a great time.

In addition to the sexy chimpanzee and sexy Roman solider I was hanging out with, one of the new people I met was dressed as a sexy Amelia Earhart (an aviator jacket and hat and little else). She was cool, but had trouble when she tried to be “in character,” referencing that she died in a train wreck. On the first occasion, I let it slide because she was nipping from a bottle of Jack, but when she mentioned it again, I couldn’t help but make a joke.

So that’s why they never found Earhart’s body! They kept looking for plane wreckage rather than searching for her on a locomotive. They should have known a woman could never fly around the world without cheating for a portion of it. To her credit, Sexy Amelia Earhart laughed off my teasing of her “train wreck” comment.

But as I was increasingly discovering, train wreck might have been right. The girl was a mess.

Sexy Amelia Earhart tugged at my arm to show me her pocket watch. “Is that part of your costume?” I asked. “I don’t know, it just looks cool,” she said. I started dangling her pocket watch in front of her face, asking if she believed in hypnotism. “My ex-husband is a hypnotist,” she said. It turns out that, even though she’s in her early 20s, she was married for four and a half years and only recently divorced. “My parents say he hypnotized me into marrying him,” she added. I asked whether she thought that was true, and she sighed, “Probably.”

Shortly after participating in breaking the world record for most people dancing to “The Time Warp,” the sole of Earhart’s shoe broke off, causing her to have trouble walking. When she inquired whether anyone had any tape to repair it, I knew that I had some pieces of duct tape inside my pants taping back my pockets. Chivalrously, because I had tights on underneath my pants, I pulled my pants down to pick at the tape. Accidentally, however, I yanked the tights down, too, exposing myself, surrounded by thousands of people. Here I had stereotyped West Hollywood and thought I’d be seeing penises all night, but the first penis everyone saw? My own. What’s worse is that in my haste to pull my pants back up, I ripped my nice twenty-five dollar reversible belt in two. My friends said they didn’t even know how that was physically possible, but I guess I’m capable of Herculean strength in the face of embarrassment. Consequently, for the rest of the night, my tattered pants kept sliding down.

Who’s the train wreck now, Kevin?