Battlestar Galactica Bloggin!

You may think Battlestar Galactica has nothing to do with dating, but in my home it does. In fact, our anniversary is known as Battlestar Galactica Day ... and Susan doesn't even watch the show.

At any rate. I need you guys to help me make a decision. In my hands, nestled in a snazzy leather bound folder complete with really big glossy photos of hot Cylons, I have the first four episodes of season three of what the press release calls "the best frakkin show on TV."

The question is, should I watch them? Why do I hesitate? Why haven't I shoved this directly into my work computer? The press release also states: "Please also note these are rough cuts, with temporary picture, sound and special effects."

I've written about this before. It's nice being able to catch up with the show, but it's not so much fun seeing a lot of green screens and sub-titles that say "View of swirling space cloud here" and dealing with badly dubbed dialogue and a cheese-rock soundtrack. It sort of pulls me out of the moment.

Anyway, should I watch? Yes or no? Leave a comment.


Note: This is NOT a scene from Battlestar (but it is one of the Hot Cylons).

A funny dose of reality

People in couples often kind of miss their single days. People who are single often can't wait to be coupled with someone. But what's been striking me funny lately is this. Blogspot blogs have been around, by this point, for roughly 100 years. If you're trying to start a new blog, often the best names are taken, especially if the topic is a popular one.

So when Susan wanted to start a blog about dating, she was worried the name she wanted would be taken. Then again, since she is working under the delusion that Dating is Fun, it came as absolutely no surprise to me that Datingisfun.blogspot.com was not taken. (But fun names like Dating Sucks and Dating Blows were...)

One for the Sisters: The Low Down on the Down Low

For whatever weird reason, a couple of us in the office were talking about using the phrase "the down low," when I was told there is a gay definition for this phrase--a very specific gay definition.

The down low is when "men in heterosexual relationships have sex with other men unbeknownst to their wives or girlfriends." Even more specific I was told by a coworker, white gays usually reserve this term for black men who sneak around. I found this sort of funny, but not nearly as funny as this post on About.com that tells sisters how to handle a man they suspect of being on the down low.

I loved this line: "It is possible your husband or boyfriend is bisexual, gay or simply curious." Curious. Right. Curious to see if a big old penis tastes any different when sampled at 3 a.m. in Prospect Park.

Particularly useful and very dangerous tips on how to confront your man are included.

Pick a time when you both can be alone.
Let him know you are concerned about his current behavior (talking in male chat rooms, hinting towards a sexual attraction to men, etc.) and that you suspect he may be gay or bisexual.

Actually, considering how the average man would react when asked "Baby, why does your breath smell like semen all the time?", I'd suggest confronting him in a very public place, such as the steps of a police precinct.

Either way, read the whole thing.

Labor Day in South Louisiana

A little gallows humor:

Q: "So, what are you doing for Labor Day?"

A: "Evacuating!"

The Smoove Line

A guy like me, someone who has, as I like to tell the honeys who work in HR, a considerable "skill set," gets used to being gawked at while riding the mass transit system here in New York. Hey, it happens. A person sees an exemplary specimen of the human race walking amongst the common folk, it's hard not to look.

But this morning, after the sideways glances and flirtatious flits of the eyelids gave way to almost-disconcerting stares, I had to wonder if I'd perhaps reached my prime. Granted, it's scientifically proving that I'm 20.2% more dashing when decked out in my gray Donna Karan suit (which, to be honest, is my only suit) and a pink shirt. So when the first woman on the 5 Train this morning eyed me like I was a $100 wedding dress at a Vera Wang sample sale, I chalked it up to that (after first checking my fly to make sure it wasn't that).

But then another woman checked me out. And another. A little disconcerted and a lot lazy, I transferred to the 6 at Brooklyn Bridge so that I could sit for the rest of my ride in to work. At 14th Street/Union Square a woman stepped into the train and took the seat next to mine, eyeing me as she did so. I rattled my paper in a manly fashion and went back to reading after sneaking my own peak. After all, if you're going to be treated like a piece of man-meat on the train, it should damn well be a hottie checking you out. Satisfied that she met my stringent standards, I could coast along for the remainder of the day, confident that not only did I still have it, but I had it in spades.

Then: "Excuse me," she says.

Well, in the infamous words of Foghorn Leghorn, "Wuh-hoaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Nelly!" She was not only checking me out, she was going to try to pick me up. And, being a faithful man in a happy relationship with a beautiful woman, I was going to have to crush this young woman's dream. Here, in the middle of a dreary work week, she'd plucked up the courage to approach a complete stranger and ask him out, and I was going to dash all her hopes.

This, my friends, is the burden of the beautiful.

"Yes," I said, looking into her eyes. I wanted to send the message that while I had to deny her these earthly delights, I understood her motivation and saw her worth as a lovely woman.

She gave me a quick, nervous smile, too a little breath and said to me: "You have this... I don't know ... blob of lotion on the side of your nose that isn't rubbed in all the way."

EDITOR'S NOTE: For more hot subway action from me, buy this book!

Nondate Movie of the Year

Once a week, Susan goes out to Queens to visit Grandma--over the river (or under it, depending on the train) and through the hood and all that noise. Tonight, that weekly trip left me with the opportunity to see a certain movie. I'd been hearing about this movie for months and was looking forward to seeing it. I'd heard it was best seen with a group, so I e-mailed a few of the guys: one claimed he was out wine tasting (he already knows what Franzia tastes like), another had some excuse about a sick wife and two babies, and the other simply didn't respond to my email.

Such is life. But I'm always up for a movie alone. I don't have to wait on tend-to-be-late jerkwads or a certain girlfriend who likes to sneak in half of Duane Reade because she refuses to pay for the jacked-up snack prices.

At any rate, tonight I saw Snakes on a Plane. Best. Movie. Of. The. Summer. My only complaint is that it was a little too gory at parts, but otherwise it delivered about six cases of cheese-whiz PLUS two of those 2-gallon sacks of yellow goo the movie theater pours on its nachos. My other decent summer flick experience this year was, of all things, The Devil Wears Prada, which was entertaining and delivered exactly what promised.

Snakes on a Plane was the exact same thing. It delivered snakes, a plane, some muthafuckin cursin by muthafuckin Samuel L. Jackson, and gratuitous nudity and gore. Hell, I'da paid $15 to see that movie.

And, double hell, it might actually make a good date movie because your girl will be all screaming and clutching your arm and jumping up in your lap and such.

A definite must-see.

The Ace o Spades Lifestyle

For any Ace readers popping by looking for some hot Flat Fatima action or further hints on how to live the lifestyle, I'd say scroll around but all the good stuff (with the exception of the upcoming book noted in the post below) is in the Chapters section on the sidebar. A good place to start? Breaking up made easy. And the always-popular Friend Zone.

Me. In Print!

Dropping on book stores next week, "The Subway Chronicles: Scenes From Life In New York"

Edited by Jacquelin Cangro, with essays by Jonathan Lethem, Francine Prose, Colson Whitehead, Calvin Trillin and KEN FRICKIN WHEATON (Yes, that's my middle name.).

The New York Times says: "Reading a Chronicles story is like spotting a person undressing in an apartment across the street."

I don't know about you, but I really like looking at people getting nekkid, so this book must be really, really good!

Pre-order your copy now.

Buy it. Read it. Review it. Link it. Love it. Let's see if we can move it just a bit up the Amazon charts.