Leave Me Alone David Boreanaz, I'm Trying to Sleep

If sleep were an Olympic sport, Misty-May and He Kexin would be in awe of my athletic prowess. Sleep is by far my favorite activity on earth. And for those of you who think this is pathetic, you clearly never had a good night's sleep.

When I lived alone in DC for a year and a half, I would be in bed at 10pm on weeknights. Good times. No late nights at the office, no phone calls after 9:30, no one hogging a communal bathroom. Ahhh. I awoke each morning, mildly refreshed and ready to start the day after a solid 10 hours of sleep. My skin was amazing.

But now that I share my bed with a night owl, I am exhausted.

For the past few weeks, CinS has been working like a dog and getting home at all hours of the night. In an effort to be supportive, I have been staying up until around 1am so we can spend some time "unwinding" together. Now, "unwinding" is not in quotes because it is code for something sordid. It is in quotes because unwinding can involve a variety of things that bring my husband joy.

May I submit, for your reading pleasure, the things that have been keeping me up at night.

• Watching back-to-back Bones reruns. You know your love of Bones has piqued when you break into interpretive dance each time the theme song is played.
• Crying over the DNC on DVR. I am an emotional basketcase. I was crying throughout Michelle Obama's entire speech, and again during Hillary's. I don't know if I'll make it tonight. Listening to three politicians I've heard of, may be a recipe for disaster. I guess I love my party. Who knew?
• Spectating Geometry Wars. For those less-versed in the X-Box arcade, Geometry Wars is a seemingly low-tech game involving shapes shooting other shapes to techno music. It's very Euro.
• Pillow-debating the merits of being a vampire vs. being a werewolf. I am not kidding. CinS is going for werewolf with a remote summer home. I am going for Vampire, because it's just sexier to be undead.

CinS will be out of town tonight for business. And while I will miss him, I will very happily watch TV in bed and doze off at about 9:56. No calls after 9:30 please.

I Now Pronounce You Rulio

My husband and I went to a wedding this weekend in glamorous Pittsburgh. The wedding was great, the city was fine (despite channeling a vampire movie with zero humans on the streets), but the absolute highlight of the trip was one of the wedding's groomsmen.

The bride's 11-year old cousin is the dopest kid ever. And without a doubt, the coolest wedding guest on record.

We first met the kid on Friday night, at the rehearsal dinner. He was ridiculously friendly, confident, and likely drunk, as he mingled with dozens of strange adults. His behavior reminded me that when I was 11, I did not rule.

At the rehearsal dinner, the kid informed me that he would be doing the worm at the wedding when he was introduced as a groomsman. Rulio.

The kid played it cool during the ceremony (as he should, kudos), but at the wedding reception, he was back in action.

He kicked off the night with a jaunty strut into the room (no worm), when introduced along with the bridal party. This was quickly followed by a full-on jam to Soulja Boy's Crank Dat. For those who haven't seen the dance, it is pretty badass, particularly when executed with panache by a gangly 11-year-old white kid.

Later in the night, as the party started to die down a bit, the kid saved the day. He marched out to the dance floor, gathered a crowd, and lived up to his promise of the worm. He did the worm on a cold marble floor. Now that's dedication.

The worm got everyone so revved up that the kid was then hoisted up in the air and thrown around by his fellow groomsmen. They were practically undressing him like he was David Cassidy incarnate. But it's all fun and games until a kid cracks his head open. This is did not actually happen, mind you, but his mother may have stepped in with these wise words.

It was very refreshing to go to a wedding with a crazy kid. We have no kids in our family, so not only did we go without any Soulja Boy-style antics, we also missed out on flower girls announcing that they have to pee, and ring bearers running down the aisle at top speed. At the time, I was relieved to not have to share the spotlight with a child, but looking back, our wedding video would have been way cooler with some Persian kid doing the C-Walk.

Stank

My walk to work smells like sewage.

Yes, it's sad but true. The majority of my 15 minute stroll to the subway is plagued with rotting garbage. And it’s not just any garbage, it's Chinatown garbage.

They say that your sense of smell is tied most closely to your memory. I really hope that each time I smell hot, rotting trash I am not whisked back to Canal Street. I've had enough thank you.

It's not all bad, once I clear the sewage radius, my walk is relatively scent-free. But one morning, I took the route that passes behind one of SoHo's swankiest restaurants. And I was very disturbed to inhale the scent of vomit wafting on the breeze. Not a lovely croissant smell, or even something mildly offensive and food-related like rotten bananas, but vomit. This caused concern. Did someone vomit on the street after the breakfast rush? Did someone puke in their kitchen? Why was I the only one with the common sense to put my hand in front of my nose? The whole scene was very strange. But I have vowed to not eat there again.
Sorry fellow NYers. I won't reveal the restaurant. I am most certainly over-reacting and would hate to ruin your good time with these nasty thoughts the next time you decide to dine here.

I find that I have an unusually heightened sense of smell, which is a totally lame super power (as proven by Pee-Wee Herman on Pushing Daisies) that causes more problems than rewards. Some scents are so strong to my delicate nose that I get completely turned off by common-place pleasing aromas. But then there are times when my super nose pays off.

A few years ago there was a cloud of maple syrup hovering over the New York area. I am not kidding. A strange maple syrup smell permeated the air over Manhattan and I smelled it first. OK, maybe I didn't exactly smell it first, but it did start over Lower Manhattan and I smelled it before anyone else I knew.

When folks (literally) caught wind of the scent, they were concerned. Was it bioterrorism? Armageddon? But I was unafraid. If this was the end of the world, it sure did smell nice. No one is worried that the whole of Chinatown smells like sewage, so why the concern over Eggos? It seems a bit counter-intuitive. If I was Shiva the Destroyer and planned to end the world, I would certainly opt for odor of Chinatown over maple syrup any day. But maybe Shiva’s got a twisted sense of humor.

Love In An...

I am not ashamed. I get all of my news in the elevator.

I work in a schmancy office building with TV in the elevators. And the elevator TV is super-informative. Not only do I get sports scores, stock market leaders, and celebrity birthdays, but I also get a word of the day. Awesome.

But the best part about the elevator TV is the subtle continuous advertising block. While you are catching up on today's headlines (delayed by 20 minutes) your subconscious is bombarded with countless travel ads. I now have an unexplainable to fly Korea Air. Not to go to Korea, per se, just to fly around with gorgeous flight attendants serving blue martinis.

Elevator TV is way better than the years of elevator music that plagued office buildings before the advent of flat screen technology. They always bastardized the greatest stuff, like when Opposites Attract was slowed down to a ballad and piped in over mall stereo systems nationwide. I'm sorry Paula, but without the dancing cat, this song does not hold up on its own.

Elevator TV is a great addition to my life. I have no patience for the news and need it delivered in appetizing segments by Matt Lauer or via the free Metro newspaper. Sadly, there is no free paper option at my current subway entrance so without the elevator TV, I would be blissfully unaware of critical tidbits like the Georgian/Russian conflict and the age Ed Norton turned today (39, Happy Birthday Ed).

But elevator TV has gotten me into a pickle once or twice. Some news is just too good to be kept to myself. Some news inspires comments, or at the very least, murmuring. This makes for an awkward ride when others are in the elevator with me.

But such is life. It has its ups and downs.

that was really terrible. i apologize. but it had to be done. it's for your own good.

Petty Cabs

The most recent census data pegs New York City's population at roughly 8 million people. You can break up that 8 million in so many ways -- by race, gender, creed (whatever the balls "creed" is, maybe it means people who realize that Creed is the worst music ever and people who don't), age, etc.

To think of it, there are so many demographics groups here: white men, black children, waiters, female bank tellers, gay hedge fund managers, Broadway performers -- the list goes on.

After 3 years of living in this dump, I think I've come up with the worst demographic out of all 8 million New Yorkers: Pedicab Drivers.

Pedicabs are the dumbest thing ever. What works great on the Atlantic City boardwalk or throughout the San Diego Zoo does not translate into New York streets. They're hawking (and/or "hocking" and/or however you spell the word for selling something that sounds like a bird of prey) the dumbest service: let me bike you around a crowded street at a third of the price of a car for thrice the price.

Maybe in or around Times Square, near where I work, it can make sense. If you want the novelty of getting your tourist lardass around 9 square blocks of traffic and don't care how much it costs, then a pedicab is totally werf it.

But if you're not traveling to Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., then it makes no sense. Which is fine. But it's ridiculous when you're trying to hail a real cab and one of these buttholes pulls over on their Huffy and tries to solicit a bike ride. Dude, I'm clearly a pissed off over-stressed corporatemonger trying to get home; nothing about my demeanor says I am a tween or overweight Midwestern mom trying to experience the excitement of Times Square tourism.

Say what you want about car service drivers who try to get people hailing cabs to pay $40 to go down to the Village -- at least it's a car that is nice and comfortable. In a city that caters to people blowing money on decadent excess, that's not a big deal. But pedicabs/bike taxis/asstrons offer no service that is even close to comparable to a vehicle.

Yet, every night I'm coming home from work late, I'm somehow a magnet for a pedicab solicitation. And everytime, the driver is either (a) a Scandinavian teen or (b) Port-au-Prince's finest. This past Thursday was the worst. Dude pulled over and even though I was shaking my head 'no' furiously and saying 'no thanks,' the petty bastard wouldn't let it go.

Butthole: C'mon, I can get you wherever you want to go in 10 minutes.
CinS: No thanks, dude. I'm waiting for a car.
Butthole: C'mon, where are you going? I can take you there faster.

*OK -- the empty promise of getting me somewhere faster than a machine with an engine notwithstanding, this is where you employ the conversation-ender; you realize that you are not dealing with a rational human, and it's time to initiate the stop-gap exit strategy. I learned this one from my father many years ago. Whenever we were at a car dealership, and a salesman wouldn't take the blatant "I'm just looking" non-commital/"back the fuck up buddy"/slow your roll answer, my dad did all you can do in this situation. Make an absurd low-ball offer that makes it clear that you are not going to negotiate anymore. Case in point -- a car dealer at a Mercedes dealership keeps hounding you, so you offer "$7000 cash for the new SLK". Then the dude will back off. Back to Thursday night...

Butthole: C'mon, where are you going? I can take you there faster.
CinS: Okay, fine. If you can get me to Tribeca in less than 10 minutes for under $8, I'm in.
Butthole: Sure, get in.
CinS: Dude I was joking. Do you know how far Tribeca is from here (here = Times Sq.)?
Butthole: Of course. It's only 20 blocks.
CinS: No, it's at least 50. It's 47 blocks down to Houston, because we're on 47th St. And Tribeca is below Canal, and Canal is at least 10 blocks south of Houston. [Note to self: Scandinavian teens and Haitians both suck at using the transitive property in real-life situations.]
Butthole: No, Tribeca is like 24th street and 6th ave. I can get there in 10 min.
CinS: Dude, that's CHELSEA. Tribeca literally stands for Triangle Below Canal. As in south of Canal. How are you not getting this?
Butthole: Below Canal?
CinS: Yes, dude. Below. And if you can get me there in less than 10 minutes for $8, let's go.
Butthole: No, I can't go that fast, but I promise I can make it in 20.
CinS: Ok, how much.
Butthole: $70

Burn in hell, Haitian.

People are Starving in Africa

Ug. I ate too much lunch.

One of the reasons I love living in New York is because all of the chain restaurants are now required to post the calorie counts of their foods. It makes ordering very simple. Sure, I could have that sandwich for 750 calories, but no one is going to feel good about themselves at the end of the day if that happens. After all, I do need to save room for my 1,324 calorie dinner.

But the problem is, the calorie counts have spoiled me. I've been eating reasonably-sized meals for about a month now and my stomach has thanked me by not making embarrassing noises from my cubicle.

But my streak has ended.

I went for lunch today at the giant chopped salad place, where I had been ordering a more reasonably sized salad wrap instead of the 2 pound salad. When I was ordering, I forgot to order myself a wrap and got stuck with a salad the size of my head. Normally, this would be a good thing, but after so many weeks of modest portions, my stomach is a big ole bloated mess. Ouch.

So now I am faced with the awkward task of attempting to mask my belching and strange stomach noises with extra-loud typing and throat-clearing. I am not fooling anyone.

Why do we eat ourselves into oblivion? It never feels very good when you're done. (says the person who has spent the last 800 Sundays immobile and hungover)

At times like these, I always think of the competitive eater. I know those crazy Japanese folks spend their lives traveling from contest to contest to make ends meet, but what about the everyday schlub who enters the Nathan's contest every July 4th? He is not an "athlete." He does not train. He must be feeling pain when he downs dog 22. It's just not natural.

I guess the difference between them and me is that it is socially acceptable to hurl after eating 40 hot dogs in 10 minutes. Puking up a salad is a little too Tracy Gold for my taste.

And speaking of... does anyone remember that made-for-TV movie she was in where she played a girl with an eating disorder? I think that was all a little messed up. Hey, former teen star who suffered through the death of Matthew Perry and getting constantly picked on by Boner! Why don't you play a character that hits a little too close to home? You won't even get an Emmy!

Kirk Cameron's all crazy too with his Jesus-freakery. And that little blonde one? Has that kid overdosed yet or is he slated for Dancing With The Stars 7?

It's a sad day when your show's jump-the-shark character becomes your series' most famous star. You all know who I mean. That troubled youth from Mike's class, who coincidentally needed a place to live, Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I digress...

A friend of mine IM'd me once to complain about eating too much and having gas. She works in an office with one private bathroom that leaves telling signs of the previous inhabitants, if you catch my drift. I told her to go fart outside. I may take my own advice.

For the rest of the day, I will be in Bryant Park, loudly flipping the pages of a magazine and clearing my throat.

Won't You Be Mine?

My husband and I are not friendly. We don't make friends on vacation. We don't talk to our row-mates on a flight. And we never, ever, talk to our neighbors.

We have been living in our apartment for 3 years now and do not know a soul on our floor. Sure, there's "Z," the flaming (both in demeanor and in hair color) 30-something who blasts En Vogue and other 80's R&B at all hours. And our loud sex next-door neighbors to the left. But since we've never spoken to any of these people, I would hardly call that "knowing" our neighbors.

Ironically, the only neighbors we have spoken to are the people on the other side of our living room wall (not the loud sexers. clearly, we share a bedroom wall), and these discussions are always nasty and involve noise complaints.

It all started when we got our new TV and surround sound system. We were enjoying our electronics on a mere 25 volume when we got a knock on the door. “Please turn it down,” the neighbor said. And we obliged.

Since we hadn’t met our neighbor, we had no idea at the time that the person who came to tell us to turn it down did not actually live next door. He was just visiting.

-5 points to our neighbors for pawning off the uncomfortable task of asking us to turn down the volume.

The next incident was right after we got Rock Band. We were rocking out on a Friday night and got a call from the doorman asking us to turn it down. It was only 11:00. On a Friday. But still, we turned down the volume on the game, but continued to sing our hearts out. I was way too drunk to remember this correctly (as I see Rock Band as an all-immersive experience involving both rock and partying like a rock star), but I'm pretty sure the doorman called a second time with another noise complaint.

-10 points to our neighbors for having the doorman do their dirty work. Twice.
-25 points for being lame on a Friday night.

Have I mentioned that our neighbors have a dog? No? Well, that could be because I assumed that you and everyone within a 50 mile radius have heard their dog yap its head off on a daily basis. They also use the hallway outside our apartment as their personal dog park, so the dog can chow down on a squeaky toy at maximum volume directly in front of our door.

-15 points for raising a dog with no manners.

The guy next door also smokes cigars. In his apartment. With the door open. So the hallway and inevitably, my kitchen, reeks of cigar smoke.

-5 points for your self-important nicotine habit.

The guy next door also is a major D-bag with non-ironic mutton-chop sideburns and a spare tire. He is some kind of photo journalist who is constantly name-dropping in the elevator to our other neighbors who have been trapped into conversation with him. I really, really want to smack this guy.

This morning, he and I left our apartments at the same time and shared the elevator. After we exchanged hollow good mornings, the D-bag actually said, "I think your husband hates me." Obviously.

"Oh, really?" I feigned innocence.
"Yeah. I think it's about that dumb karaoke game. I bet you hate it as much as I do."
"No way. I love it." And anything else that you hate.
"Really!"
"Yeah, it's one of the only games we play together."
"I bet he's always playing, like, Ghost Recon or something. Well, he should go to Iraq like I did and then he won't want to play those games anymore."
I am not kidding. He actually name-dropped Iraq. -50 points.

So the residents of 14B are down 110 points for the year. And it's only August. I guarantee they make it a cool 200 by the New Year.

Olympic Dukakis

I'm not so into the Summer Olympics. I can't get behind swimming, track and field, or softball. And as my friend Sharon said, I used to enjoy gymnastics, but now I'm just too preoccupied with the gymnast's freaky body types.

Besides, I feel like there are more lovable characters involved in the Winter Olympics, like that Apollo Anton Ono and the Flying Tomato guy. The only Summer Olympian I know is Michael Phelps. And his ears bother me.

I remember when I was younger and both the Summer and Winter games were in the same year. Now that was exciting. We used to have to wait four whole years for an Olympics., and there was a sense that the Olympics were awesome because they were so rare. Now that there's an Olympics every other year, it's decidedly less special.

Maybe it's because I am forced to watch Sports Center every morning that I don't have Olympics fever. Perhaps if I watched one of the 17 hours of the Today Show I would feel differently. I'm sure the Today Show is full of athletic stories of hardship and perseverance. Especially the Kathy Lee hour.

Ann Curry covering the top US athletes with grace and disingenuous smiles. Matt Lauer interviewing former medalists who are too old to expect gold a second time. Al Roker forecasting the weather and air quality of Beijing. Now that would inspire me!

But no, I am stuck listening to story after story about Brett Favre. Apparently, Brett Favre is the last remaining athlete on the planet. In addition to leaving Green Bay for the Big Apple, he is also the power forward of the Indiana Fever, and the best spiker on the US Beach Volleyball team.

This NBC Olympics monopoly is really bizarre. The Olympics are arguably the biggest sporting event possible and yet the network dedicated to sports cannot cover it in real-time. It doesn't seem fair. The Disney people really screwed the pooch on that one.

Anyhow, I'm hoping to get introduced to the US Olympic darlings at some point in the next week so I can tune in and root for my country. Because watching under-developed 16 year olds flip around on a bar is much more exciting when you know their morbidly depressing back story.

Nothing On in August? I Beg to Differ

Since we're nearing the dregs of summer programming (with my favorite show ever, SYTYCD, ending tonight), I thought I'd share my new favorite shows to last you until all the good stuff comes back in September.

The absolute best bang for your buck in gratuitous reality programming is I Love Money on VH1. You may recall my love for all the Love shows: Rock of Love, Flavor of Love, and I Love New York. Well, they have all been eclipsed by my fandom for I Love Money.

And why shouldn't they be? I Love Money is the best of all possible worlds - combining the dirtiest "talent" from all three shows.

My favorite part is how everyone is "in love" with each other after only 6 days. Oh yeah, and watching them degrade themselves in weekly challenges while doing body shots off each other ain't too shabby.

If you haven't yet tuned in, it's never too late to get started. I'm sure there's a marathon scheduled. Plus they show mad flashbacks every episode to make sure you are properly acclimated.

But I Love Money is just one hour in the entire TV landscape. But have no fear! I have some other gems too.

If you are a horror fan like me, you should check out Fear Itself on NBC. It's like the Twilight Zone in that the storylines are rip-offs of classic horror tales, and the cast changes every week. Some of the episodes were pretty lame, but the recent tale about Brandon Routh (yes, Superman has been reduced to a schlocky NBC horror show) and his wife in a creepy suburban neighborhood had even CinS engrossed.

One episode even featured two stars from one of my other favorite summer shows, Psych on USA. Psych's not a new show like the others, but I sometimes get the bad feeling that no one else is watching but me and that it will be cancelled like my other two USA favorites, The Dead Zone and The 4400. Please watch Psych. It's really funny and involves both crime and over-the-top mugging to the camera. What more do you want people?

But the hidden gem of my summer is a show that I'm just now discovering after its original air date back in 2005. A friend of mine told me that I would like it, and I'm glad I listened. No, I'm not talking about The Closer. I'm talking about Bones.

Yes, Bones. That show on Fox with Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Zooey Dechanel's square-jawed sister. It's really good. And the re-runs are on EVERY DAY on TNT. This makes me sublimely happy.

Procedural crime drama? Check.
Mildly attractive cast? Check.
Creepy skeletons and other miscellaneous body parts? Check.
Mulder and Scully-like sexual tension? Check.
On every freakin day? Check.

I rest my case. Bones is the best show ever.

Now if only there was a reality show in development on VH1 called "Boning for Love...."

Mood Music

There is a guy in the subway who plays the bamboo flute every morning in the underpass at Bryant Park. He plays his little heart out, God bless him, but I still want to cram his flute down his throat.

It's just way too shrill to be played in an acoustical-nightmare subway tunnel first thing in the morning. The sound echoes throughout the tunnel, making it inescapable to my virginal ears. And no matter how high my iPod is turned up, the bamboo flute always weasels its way in.

I feel bad for the bamboo flutist. If he was playing someplace less confining, I'm sure his music would be lovely. He plays the soundtrack to the token nail salon mood music. The music that is supposed to relax you as someone carves strips of skin from your heel with a razor blade.

Mostly every nail salon and massage parlor in town plays the same soundtrack. Asian Spa Moods 05… or something.

The tunes are always in the background, unassuming and not meant to be noticed. So you may imagine my surprise one afternoon when, at a nail salon, I found myself listening to the mood music.

It wasn't that I was bored, or that there was no sound in the shop, it was because something about the music caught my attention - the exact opposite of what mood music is supposed to do.

I looked around the salon and noticed that the other girls had their ears cocked as well. We all heard it. And we were all waiting to hear that strange something again.
My ears were peeled for about 30 seconds when I heard a small cry break through the noise in the salon. It didn't seem to be coming from the speakers, so I figured that the mood music was standard-issue and that the strange sounds were coming from the hall or from a neighboring store.

When I heard the cry a second time, louder and longer than the first, a woman next to me said, "Is that a baby?"

My sentiments exactly. Is there a baby in your wall?

"No," the nail technician replied. "It's a cat."

"Oh! You have a cat."

"No. The cat is on the tape. Very relaxing."

Ummm. Wha?

Yes, that's right, there was a dying cat on their mood music tape. This did not put me in the best mood.

I spent the remainder of my pedicure thinking about what kind of record label would actually market a series of dying cat tracks to spas. The only type who would find such music relaxing would be a dog. Maybe the tape was meant for doggie daycare centers to put their lodgers at ease. Like that episode of How I Met Your Mother when Lily sold her paintings to the vet.

The whole experience was pretty creepy. But I did get a good pedicure out of it so I will be going back for more. Maybe next time I’ll borrow someone’s pooch for a little auditory pampering.

Field of Dreams

So my husband bought a Yankees hat the other day and it makes me angry. The physical hat. It makes me mad.

First, I don't really like baseball. I find it boring and lame. I don't understand how people can find enjoyment in it. It's not even fun to play.

Second, I don't really understand why people wear sports clothes when they aren't watching a game. Sure, I have a McNabb jersey, but you won't see me wearing it to the Whole Foods in June.

And lastly, I hate people who like the Yankees. Sorry, but I'm judgmental.

I used to work for a guy who was a Yankees lunatic. He had a poster of Yankees Stadium in his office that listed the times they had won some kind of championship. He had a Yankees mug. He had an entire team of bobbleheads on his desk. And I guarantee that his office decor was just a small sampling of the Yankee haven that he calls home.

I honestly liked this guy, but when he started talking about the Yankees, he turned into a giant douche. And since then, I've noticed that most people become giant douches when talking about the Yankees.

I wonder if I lived in Boston if I would feel the same way about the Red Sox fans. Probably. It's not so much the Yankees per se, but more about what happens to the people who love the Yankees.

When D-Bags Attack!

I mean, it’s enough already! Enough with the Yankees and their dedicated cable TV network. Enough with Derek Jeter and his cheap cologne. Enough with the new stadium, which (as I was informed by CinS in a moment of Yankee clarity) is within spitting distance of the original stadium and being built to look exactly the same.

Please no more.

All of this rage and more are held within my husband's new hat. A hat that causes me to audibly retch each time he puts it on. A hat that he tried to wear out to dinner last night. A hat that was quickly replaced with a Mets hat as soon as I made my stank-face.

Fix Your Face Please, I'm Trying to Eat

There's a salad maker at my salad place who removed his giant ear spacers and now has creepy, African-inspired lobes dangling in my $12 chopped salad.

It's a bit of a turn-off to watch his mutilated lobes tossing my romaine and avocado around in that silver bowl. Not that his lobes literally do the tossing, but like a predatory Looney Tune, in my mind's eye, the guy just turns into a giant earlobe.

I wonder if he replaces the spacers after hours, or if they are permanently removed. If they are permanently removed, I can't imagine this guy getting a date, ever. It's really a gross sight. Not that a properly installed spacer is much of a turn-on, but I'm sure some people are into that.

I also do not understand those people who got their upper ear pierced in the 90's (myself included) and then let their ear get infected and deformed over the years. I'm sure you've seen these giant, bulbous-eared folks minding their own business, not seeking medical attention to get that thing lanced.

These days, it's easy enough for both genders to cover their gross ears, so why do these people opt-out of making society feel comfortable? In the words of the meth-addicted Stephanie Tanner, "How Rude."