Gentlemen's Quarterly

Let me begin by saying that GQ is Gentlemen's Quarterly, yet it is published monthly, and this confuses me. I suppose Gentlemen's Monthly wouldn't sound as good, and GM was taken. Quick research from my usual source explains the history (originally quarterly), which eases my mind, but leaves me with my following issues, pun not intended (but pretty cool, anyways).

My friend Camille has been promoting GQ for the articles, and finally won me over with features on breakfast. I have picked up the last few issues, and have mostly been happy with them. Wikipedia suggests that GQ has been closely associated with metrosexuality. To a point this is forgivable. It's slightly more acceptable to buy a largely naked Jennifer Aniston or Megan Fox on the cover of a GQ than it is FWM or Maxim, but I don't worry about this too much. The problem, which is much harder to justify, is that the last two issues have had Robert Pattinson and Zac Efron on the covers. This is a no-win situation. I went ahead and purchased the Robert Pattinson issue because there was a Barry Bonds article. When I saw this most recent issue with a very metro Zac Efron on the cover I didn't even take a closer look at the front cover for contents.

I am forced to reconsider, however, when I see a tweet from Camille regarding America's Newest - and Gutsiest - Food City. As luck would have it, it's Portland. This is a weak spot for me. I'm already there in my head, but appreciate any form of validation that I'm heading someplace wonderful. Now I have to buy the magazine. Zac Efron and all. At dinner I make a feeble attempt to have a female friend go purchase the magazine for me, but it doesn't work out. So yesterday I go to the supermarket and decide to try my luck. Pride won't let me roam the aisles of the store with Zac Efron staring out of my cart, so the magazine lies face down. I choose the checkout line with the homeliest looking checker--the one least likely to give me the "really" look, and place the magazine face down on the conveyor belt. There are plenty of other items, so there is little chance to focus on the magazine. I check out without event. Out of the corner of my nervous eye I am pretty sure that the only part of the magazine visible throughout it's voyage is a back page Hennessy ad. I am relieved. I have escaped judgement. And it's a good read. Maybe I should just read it online next time.

Sign Language

Occasionally at work I need to use sign language interpreters for the deaf. The deaf, and those who sign, have got to be the most demonstrative people in the world. The last few times I have used an interpreter I have begun to notice how much I use my hands when communicating. I begin to wonder if I should limit my hand gestures. I think about just putting my hands in my pockets to avoid misspeaking. Do the deaf have a filter?

When I am using an interpreter for a Spanish speaking patient I will throw in a little Spanish here and there, but I know that I'm doing it, and apparently they know what I am saying (not to mention I think most of them speak fairly decent English anyways). With the deaf, I have never tried to sign, but little gestures, pointing, etc. leave me thinking, "what did I just say?"

Speaking of Spanish, I have noticed that when I am studying Spanish in the car or on the iPod, I use my hands a lot. I think I do it for rhythm, but it probably looks like I'm studying Italian.

My Ghetto

Well, it's official.  I live in the ghetto.  One could easily be confused by the fairly nice houses and the gates that protect our housing complex from the outside world.  Further investigation, however, reveals the truth.  Within the walls of our own complex, we live in the "good corner."  Park across the complex and it gets rather seedy.  Outside our walls, directly across from my bedroom window, is a 7-Eleven and an out of business liquor store.  However convenient it is having a 7-Eleven right across the street, it's doubtful that a neighborhood has ever been improved by one.  The view out of my bedroom is that very 7-Eleven, and right behind that, the freeway.  So far, these things are easy to explain, and by themselves do not qualify my residence as ghetto.  But today, as I was walking back from parking over at the seedy side of the complex, I saw a stolen shopping cart outside a garage.  While usually the homeless grown-up's equivalent of a child's Radio Flyer Wagon, this was empty, and apparently not currently being used.  One could argue that in a complex of town homes without front yards, that this is our equivalent of the broken down car up on blocks.  This was the first, and hopefully last sighting of the shopping cart, but rest assured, if there starts to be a small collection of such items, there will be an update right here.

My Amazing Fingernails

Let me just start out by saying that this is probably a story I should keep to myself, but that's not going to stop me. While I might not cut my fingernails nearly as often as Mike Bibby, I don't let to let them get too long. I never bite my nails, and think that nails look gross when cut too short, but if the white tips are showing I usually start cutting. I feel the need to cut while people looking at them think they're well within reasonable limits. I've got fingernail clippers in my work desk, in my car, in my travel bag, in my room and a few other places.

My dad tells me that one of the first things he did when I popped out of the womb was cut my fingernails. I don't know if this is true or not, but it sounds plausible. When I was first getting contact lenses, my optometrist stated that looking at a person's fingernails was his quick judge of hygiene to see if he would even let somebody try contacts. Also, I use my hands on human flesh, and if they're getting too long the could be uncomfortable for the patient. Since reality dictates that no matter how much I love Spanish guitar I will probably never learn to play, I have little reason to grow claws.

I am not a multiple stage manicurist. I'm not clipping, filing, buffing, etc. I've never used fingernail scissors. If I can clip the white off I'm usually happy. Well, yesterday as I'm heading out the door to work I look at my fingernails and decide it's time to cut. I'm ahead of schedule, so it's going to be the first thing I do when I arrive. But as I look at them at various stop signs and lights I notice something unusual. Somehow this is the most even and symmetrical my nails have ever been. It was amazing. Almost like they had been professionally done. Yes, there was white at the tips, but the were perfectly even, finger to finger, hand to hand. I had to stop and admire them. I wondered what I had done differently the time before. Anything? I ended up not cutting them until evening, and believe you me I showed some people just to get feedback on the beauty. My show and tell was not met with equal enthusiasm, but I didn't so much need the affirmations or others on this matter. At one point during the day I did think they were getting in the way. I knew all along that they would not make it to bed time.

Last night before going out to dinner I had my clippers in hand. Never before had I experienced the fingernail clipping performance anxiety that I was feeling. The bar had been raised. Should I give it extra attention? Had I just experienced the best it was ever going to be? I began a cautious clip. So far so good. Another. But within a couple more clips thirty plus years of auto-pilot took over, and I was just getting it done. They look good. They feel good. It's too soon to tell if this job will be as good. Now we wait. Only time will tell.

Edible Eggs

Just to clarify, this is about the edible eggs, the food, unless somebody was hoping to read about reproduction.  I consider myself much more qualified to speak on the food, although there will be little discussion of science.  Tonight I hard-boiled some eggs in preparation for an egg salad sandwich that will be my lunch tomorrow.  I've been thinking about this off and on for years, but more often over the last week or so.  Egg temperature and tastiness seem to have a completely random relationship.   Let scrambled eggs get cold and I wouldn't eat them with your mouth.  Let a hard-boiled egg get cold and it's delicious.  Fried eggs gone cold are bad.  Deviled eggs are fantastic.  Why?  Do eggs cooked in their shells magically maintain whatever it takes to make them delicious after cooling?  If an egg is cooked outside of it's shell is it destined to have a shelf life of only a few minutes?  I don't know!  Does this go beyond chicken eggs?  Do fried ostrich eggs taste good cold?  I may never know.

Green Porno 2

It has come to my attention that there are some new installments in the most amazing Green Porno series starring Isabella Rossellini. These short but life changing videos can be found online here. You'll laugh. You probably won't cry - unless it's from laughing. But they're funny.