DoktaKra.com

If you're wondering why I haven't posted anything here in two months, it's not just because I've been lazy (though that's certainly a part of it). In between covering the NBA Draft and several other Sacramento Kings-related events -- I've actually written 13 NBA articles in the last two months -- Michelle and I were also out of the country for two weeks in early June.  We traveled through Germany and England, and I've finally found the time and motivation to bring you some stories, random observations, and anecdotes from our trip.  Though if you want to skip straight to the photo album, I won't blame you one bit. 

Wedding in Bavaria

Instead of a "Just Married" sign, the bride and groom had a Star Trek starship and a Spock figurine on the hood of their card.  Considering that Michelle and I met at a sports bloggers' happy-hour, I'm really in no position to pass any judgement here.

During the wedding, several guests competed to see who could crow the loudest, which is apparently some kind of German tradition.  The winner then had to stand up and crow at the top of his lungs once an hour, and buy dinner for the bride and groom each time he'd forget.  I don't get it either, but you'd better believe Michelle and I will be holding some kind of equally-awesome contest to get people to do funny things at our wedding.

Neuschwanstein Castle, Germany

The castle itself is amazingly beautiful, though, as we were constantly reminded, incomplete because King Ludwig II and his psychiatrist mysteriously drowned in a nearby lake during construction (there should really be a movie about this).  If I didn't have an irrational fear of stairs, especially narrow ones atop gigantic rocks, I probably would've enjoyed the hike down the scenic path above a waterfall a little more (many more pictures in the album).

Tour of Munich

Since we were there a month ago, neither of us remembers exactly what we saw from the bus.  I've captioned most of the photos as, "something on our tour of Munich" -- very helpful and informative, I know.

From what I do remember, on the left is The Glockenspiel (I love the sound of German), which has chimes, bells, and moving figures that re-enact some kind of very long story, in the Marienplatz city center; in the middle is the fantastic view (and I don't mean just us) from the top of the Olympic Tower; and on the right, you'll find Michelle posing like Athena the Goddess in Nymphenburg Palace.

The Beer and Food

Yep, nothing like getting beer served by the liter.  Did I finish it?  Not even close.  Did it get me a just tad tipsy?  Perhaps...and mine was actually half-lemonade.

Of course, Germany is extremely pro-vegetarian -- just look at all of those ripe tomatoes next to the globs of cured meat!  My typical dinner consisted of four pretzels and this zucchini schnitzel that tastes as good as it looks (which is surprisingly awesome).

Kings of Germany

Perhaps the highlight of the trip (at least for me) came during our walk through in the English Gardens, which, confusingly enough, is in Munich and contains the Chinese Garden (above). We stopped to watch a drum circle in the park, and noticed a familiar sight.  Yep, one of the drummers was wearing a vintage Sacramento Kings jacket.  I mean, honestly, of all teams and in all places, what are the odds of this happening?

Petting Zoo in Bavaria

My other favorite part was the petting zoo, where sheep, goats, llamas, and pigs walk around freely and eat out of your hand.  We tried to get the baby goat's attention, but he clearly wasn't interested in what I had to offer him (that's him dissing me by walking away in the background).

And amongst the crowd of pigs on the right, of course, is the infamous, overanxious one that bit Michelle, who then tried to convince me to eat bacon to defend her honor...

Quick Views of London

We spent a few days doing some of the touristy things in London, all of which were fun but none of which are all that exciting to discuss in much detail.  Let's just go through these from left to right: standing in front of Buckingham Palace after the changing of the guard; the view from the London Eye (basically an enormous Ferris wheel); and outside of the Tower of London. 

Michelle and her friend Phil rocked American flag capes during the United States vs. England World Cup game. I figured no one would pick a fight with Phil because he's 12 feet tall or Michelle because she's so cute, but I stayed out of the patriotic displays for my own safety. U-S-A!

Also, I Tweeted this at the time, but it's worth mentioning again -- this was in the men's room at one of the London pubs, and doesn't cease to make me laugh.

And finally, we have Michelle looking beautiful at Kensington Gardens, and me, doing what I do best after an exhausting two weeks.

I was excited when I received a jury duty summons in the mail.  Sure, I'd probably sit around doing nothing, but I'd also get a couple of paid days off, get up later than usual, and come home earlier.  And if I didn't have a job, I would've pocketed a cool $40 a day.  What could be so bad about this?

My first order of business was ensuring that I wouldn't get selected as a juror.  I didn't cut my hair and grew out a fantastic beard to look a little more intimidating...or at least more of a mess than I usually am.  

Now, does that look like the face of a man who should be deciding another person's future?

But my plan began to unravel when my name was on one of 120 pieces of paper drawn from a ballot box (it's almost endearing that they haven't embraced the whole automated craze yet).  I was directed into a court room, where the judge asked if anyone couldn't be impartial, and -- well, that was just about the only question I heard, because I noticed the district attorney had something stuck in his bushy mustache and spent the next 15 minutes trying to figure out if it was oatmeal or a piece of hot dog,

After a two-hour lunch -- a staple in the court house, as I learned -- 24 people were randomly chosen from the ballot box to be jury finalists.  I was the second one called.  Of course I was.

I had to answer a few basic questions from the judge and both attorneys -- and by the way, it's always fun to talk about where you live and what you do for a living in front of an alleged criminal -- to show that I wasn't prejudiced.  I told them my dad was recently held up at gun point (true story) and that my cousin works for a law firm, figuring at least one of those facts, combined with the disheveled appearance, would be enough for disqualification.  Not a chance -- I was the first juror put on trial.

The case was stretched out over five excruciatingly long days, during which I learned an exorbiant amount of information about the drug market, such as, a gram of cocaine goes for $28 on the street and an eightball, which is 3.5 grams, sells for $100 (no idea who decided to make the math so damn hard).  The defendant talked to a drug dealer who sold cocaine to an undercover police officer and stood on the corner where it happened, looking up and down the streets.  The dealer then came over and gave him the full $100 from the drug sale a minute later.  Now, does that sound like the defendant had at least something to do with it?

As the first juror, I was assigned as the foreperson, meaning I had the life-altering job of announcing the verdict to the court room.  I started practicing saying, "on the charge of drug trafficing in the third degree, we, the jury, find the defendant ... (extended dramatic pause) .. guilty" in my head.

Of course, one of the 12 jurors had to mess everything up and insist he didn't think the defendant was guilty, because despite receiving the money from the dealer, he may not have known it was from selling drugs.  Seriously.  Instead of deliberating for all of 20 minutes, we spent the next nine hours locked in a windowless room, trying to convince the outcast juror that his line of reasoning defied all logic and common sense.  In the end, I had to announce that we were deadlocked and the disappointed judge announced a hung jury. 

But wait, there's the twist -- just like in a real Law & Order episode!  The defendant wasn't in court for the last four days of the trial, but we were instructed to disregard his absence because it was his right  In fairness, he was out on bail, and could've been in the hospital or taking care of his kids, for all we knew.   

Except he wasn't -- he skipped town and the police are still out looking for him.  The judge ruled that the jury couldn't be made aware of this fact during our deliberations.  I love our judicial system.  Because, you know, an innocent person would take off in the middle of trial and all...

On the bright side, we received a free lunch courtesy of the taxpayers on the last day.  So there's that.  And I don't have to deal with this nonsense for at least the next six years.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I really need to shave.

It seems like only six months ago, I was single and hating on everyone in a happy relationship. Oh, right, that's because that was six moths ago, and not too long before I met Michelle.  I knew she was the one for me soon after our first date, and I'm proud to say that as of January 9, she's gone from being my girlfriend to my fiancée. But, of course, that doesn't mean everything went smoothly or just as I had planned -- here's the engaging story (see what I did there?) of how it all went down.

I went to Michael C. Fina and picked out a beautiful Tacori ring in early December with the help of one of Michelle's best friends (according to Wikipedia, it's the same kind of ring that Chandler proposed with to Monica on Friends, though that wasn't my primary reason for choosing it...or so you'd think). As luck would have it, Paul Tacorian, who I later found out is that guy from The Bachelor, along with several other multi-millionaire company owners were in the store at the time and congratulated me on giving them a sh*tload of money my decision (notice that I'm standing credit card-in-hand).

The ring was supposed to be ready on December 28, and I originally planned on proposing at some point during our New Year's trip to California.  But unbeknownst to Michael C. Fina, Tacori was closed for two weeks in December, since, you know, no one ever decides to propose over the holidays. They assured me it would be ready by Friday, January 8, the day before our six-month anniversary.  So what happened on January 8?   A huge snowstorm hit the east coast, delaying all UPS shipments and leaving my ring stuck on a Newark Airport tarmac. Despite my outrage, it was out of the company's hands -- the ring wouldn't get to the store until Monday, January 11.  I begrudgingly agreed to have the jeweler temporarily fuse my diamond with the stock setting so that I could at least propose on our anniversary date.

My new plan was to put the ring inside a Miami Dolphins lunch box for the biggest Fins fan I know, which I had shipped to my parents' house in New Jersey so she wouldn't see it. The only problem, of course, was that as of Saturday morning, it was also yet to arrive due to that damned snowstorm.  But just as I started thinking of yet another backup plan, my dad called me to say that the lunch box had just come in and they were on their way into the city.

The next problem was getting Michelle out of the apartment to get everything in order. Unfortunately for her, but very fortunately for me, she had to work in the afternoon, giving me a two-hour window to pick up the ring and the lunch box. When I arrived at Michael C. Fina, the store clerk happily informed me that my ring -- the real one that I'd picked out -- had just come in 20 minutes ago. The off-duty UPS delivery man who brought it in had already changed into jeans and was on his way home when he received a call about a package in Newark, and only went back to get it on his own time because he wanted to go to Michael C. Fina to buy a ring for his girlfriend.   What are the odds? I must've been wearing that lucky deodorant. I ran back home after getting the lunch box from my parents and picking up a bouquet of flowers, and patiently waited for Michelle to come home.

The lunch box ended up being a huge hit. In fact, Michelle was SO excited about it, that it took what felt like an hour for her to finally open it.  When she saw the jewelry box inside, I got down on one knee and tried my best not to hyperventillate as I blurted out that magical four-word question. A dozen "yeses" later, we were engaged and on our way celebrate over a candlelit dinner in Rockefeller Center.

And then, as if things couldn't get any better, this happened last week on Twitter.  

doktakra @Candace_Parker Hey, Candace. I got engaged over the weekend & my new fiancee made me take down your poster off my wall. You okay with this?
Candace_Parker @doktakra LOL! congrats!  aww its okay i forgive you

That's right, after all this time, the (former) dream girl finally acknowledged me, and it wouldn't be possible without (the current dream girl) Michelle. I guess that's the way love goes...

Coming Soon: A major announcement that you might already know if (a) we're actual or online friends; (b) you follow my Twitter; or (c) you listen to this Jagged Edge classic...

You know how CSI and CSI: Miami will have those occasional crossover episodes to make you tune in to each show to get the entire story, even though don't really need to watch both episodes to get the scoop on everything anyway?  That's kind of what's going on here.  By now I'm sure you've read all about my gloriously entertaining first visit to Sacramento (and shame on you if you haven't), but here are some other highlights from my three-day trip to the Westside (do people still say, "Westside" or am I living in 1996?).

Santa Monica Pier:  I've got a long-running streak that goes back all the way to my summer camp days at the Green Lane "Y" in New Jersey -- I've never gone home empty-handed from a boardwalk basketball hoop.  In fact, I used to be so good at hitting those tricky shots, that other campers would ask me to shoot for them just to get the prize.  You'll be glad to know the streak lives on -- I won a stuffed animal shark for Michelle after eight attempts on my first try, which is now promptly sitting in a box in our storage unit.  Good times.

Someone So Unforgettable:  We were on five flights with three different airlines over the weekend, and despite Virgin Airlines' free in-air TV and WiFi and Jet Blue's timely NFL package, my hands-down favorite was Southwest Airlines.  As we prepared for landing, one of the flight attendants announced that we'd be treated to some entertainment -- Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."  That would've been fine and all, but she then proceed to sing the entire song herself over the PA system.  Look, you just had to be there...it was like being trapped at an "American Idol" audition 10,000 feet up in the air.

Just Win, Baby:  It would've been far too easy had we boarded our flight out of Sacramento early Sunday morning and been back in New York by eight o'clock at night.  But of course, our plane was diverted to Oakland due to heavy fog, so we missed our connecting flight out of Long Beach.  Fortunately, Jet Blue gave us the option of leaving out of Las Vegas, complete with a three-hour layover in Sin City, which no rational person could possibly be mad about or decline.  Things got even more interesting when an earlier flight to Vegas was held up in Long Beach just as we arrived, and the security people inexplicably let us on board without even checking our IDs (gotta love the way they've stepped their game up after those recent scares).

Long story short, we rented a cheap hotel room and spent a solid six hours gambling at the Flamingo and Caesar's Palace .  I wasn't old enough to enter the casinos the last time I was in Vegas on a family vacation in high school (thanks, mom), but I more than compensated this time around.  I won't disclose how much money I lost, but let's just say that it was roughly three times more than what Michelle gambled away.  Note to self:  the roulette tables are not your friends.

By far the greatest moment was when a woman won $1,000 in the "Wheel of Fortune" slot game in front of us, and then told me, "now it's your turn" before walking away.  She left $20 worth of credits in the machine, which I went on to lose in about three minutes, but still, that type of thing just doesn't happen every day.  Or hell, maybe it does in Vegas...I should go back more often.

I feel I should explain the huge internet controversy surrounding my submission to straightcashhomey.net.  Okay, so it's not really a controversy, and only several dozen 11 people know or care about it, but I've got little else going on right now.  For those that aren't aware, Straight Cash is a website specializing in capturing random people quite simply wearing bad jerseys.  For years, I tried to get something posted, sending in pictures of someone in a Muggsy Bogues Hornets jersey and another person in a Chan Ho Park Dodgers one.  No dice...until, I had a genius idea while shopping at TJ Maxx (I needed undershirts -- don't judge me).  I found an Aaron McKie 76ers jersey on the discount rack, and promptly put it on so that Michelle could take a picture of me in the store.  Yes, I technically cheated since it was staged, and someone went on call me out in the comments.  But I could care less -- that's another goal I can cross of my list (and for the record, one of my other submissions was coincidentally published the day before, so there).

Anyways, let's move on to something a little more interesting.  Like most people, I fast forward through the commercials now that I've realized it's almost 2010 and there's this new techonology called "DVR."  But there are still some advertisements that are just too funny, ridiculous, or otherwise entertaining to pass up.  Let's just call these babies "DVR-proof."

You'd think a name like "Tasty Torpedo" sounds homoerotic enough, but Quizno's doesn't stop there.  In fact, this is quite possibly the most disturbingly awesome commercial I've ever seen (though there's no way I'll ever get a Quizno's sub after seeing what their employees do with the ovens).  I love the way the guy subtly looks down when he says, "that burned."  High comedy. 

A commercial doesn't need to try too hard or be extra long to make me laugh.  Sometimes, all it takes is 15 seconds of Biz Markie repeating "Oh, snap!  Guess what I saw?" over the "Just A Friend" instrumental.  The motto is, you can never go wrong with Biz...well, unless you have a bunch of white hipsters singing his music in a cab, which I prefer to think never happened. 

Maybe it's because I've never owned a dog, but I didn't really get the big deal when I first saw this one.  But the mom kills it with her priceless reaction.  And of course, anything with "steamer" in the title warrants a chuckle because I'm 12 years old.

If could, I would nominate the German guy for an Academy Award. I feel his pain...I'm hungry all the time, too.

Who doesn't love ice cream and cake?  Well, besides me, since I can't eat dairy.  But if I could, I would annoy everyone around me by singing this jingle every time I took a bite out of my Carvel treat.

I was never a big Halloween fan.  Even as a kid, the first and only time I ever put a hint of effort into my costume was in fourth grade, when I convinced my parents to buy me a horror movie mask that I wore to school with my normal clothes.  For the nine years that followed, I went the cheap cop-out easy route by putting on my trusty Mitch Richmond jersey and "dressing up" as a Sacramento Kings fan.  During my freshman year of college, one of my roommates and I snuck into the New York City Halloween Parade.  There I was, marching among the most creative and interesting costumes around -- including a man wearing a suit made entirely of MetroCards -- in (what else?) a replica Chris Webber jersey.  I decided that was the last time I'd celebrate Halloween.

But of course, in a year filled with changes, I came out of my semi-retirement.  Since I'm (we're?) obsessed with the Rocky movies, Michelle and I ended up going to the Halloween Masquerade Ball at Bryant Park Grill dressed as the Italian Stallion and Adrian, after also giving some consideration to Mickey and Ivan Drago.  We went the distance, spending weeks planning out our costumes and applying a few final touches on fight night (check out the shiner she gave me).  If you're wondering, we kept track of the number of times people yelled out, "Hey, Rocky!" or challenged me to a fight versus the number of times Michelle heard, "Yo, Adrian!"  After taking an early three to one lead, I ended up losing by a split decision, most likely because "Yo, Adrian!" is just so much more fun to say.  

And as you might know, if I can change, and you can change, then everybody can change.  Click here for the full album.

No, no, Michelle and I haven't broken up...far from it, actually.  But I'm guessing you don't want to hear about that stuff, since I've been told that I was more entertaining when I was resentful and miserable.  I'll just get right to the big announcement and get it overwith: Candace and I are done.  I mean it.  I don't know exactly when it hit me, but I've stopped caring about the one-time dreamgirl.  Of course, her marriage to the-one-who-shall-not-be-named and their love child (shudders) didn't help, and a second straight snub at MSG might've been the final straw. If you don't think I'm serious about it being over, look no further than here -- that's right, the infamous bedroom poster is no more.  No, I'm not gon' cry, I'm not gon' cry, I'm not gon' shed no tears...

Anyways, I've moved on, and eventually, so will you.  To help with the grieving process, Iet's get back to the basics with a good ol' fashioned hate list.  This week's theme is elevator etiquette which I have not previously covered (see Things I Hate in the sidebar for more thoughts on people who block the exit or take the elevator to go down one f'ing floor).

*People who hold the elevator door open to continue their conversation:  I think the rules are pretty simple here.  If you're getting on the elevator, then either stop talking to the person on your floor or don't get on at all (note that in the latter case, I'll still be mad that you've wasted precious seconds of my time, but considerably less so).  Amazingly, this also works in reverse when you're on the verge of disembarking, but find yourself in mid-conversation.  The point is, I'm already irritated that the elevator stopped on your floor and ruined my express ride, but you then compound my anger by standing in the doorway and carelessly talking while I wait for your inconsiderate ass to finish.  I'm giving you the evil eye as I type this.

*People who leave farts in the elevator that I subsequently board:  This is even more offensive when another person enters and assumes that I was the culprit.  Not cool at all.

*People who press the elevator button repeatedly after it's already been pressed:  Once again, this concept seems simple to me.  If the button is lit-up, it means that someone before you (probably me) already pressed it.  Do you think that I'm an idiot and didn't do it correctly, or that your magic touch will make the elevator come quicker if you keep on pushing it?  Similarly, if your floor has already been pressed when you step inside, there is absolutely no reason to push the button again.  It will change nothing, I promise you.

*People who squeeze into a crowded elevator when there's no room:  Self-explanatory, I'd imagine.  Bonus hate points awarded if you're with a group of people and feel that every single member of your large party (intentional double-meaning) needs to get into the same elevator, because clearly, another one won't come a few minutes later and make the ride more comfortable for everyone involved.

*People who don't say, "thank you" or otherwise acknowledge my act of kindness when I hold the door for them:  On those rare days when I decide to do something nice like that (nine out of ten times, an attractive woman will be involved), I'd at least expect a nod or a smile in return.  It's ungrateful people like you who make me frantically press the door close button as you're approaching the elevator, which more often than not, does nothing anyway, aside from making me look like an ass.  Sigh.

My family is weird. I know, everyone thinks their family's crazy and embarrassing, but I've always been terrified of bringing people over to meet my relatives. For one, they take the Russian drinking stereotype to the extreme, toasting everyone from long-lost cousins to deceased pets with shot after shot of Stolichnaya vodka.  They get into heated arguments about things that allegedly happened 30 years ago or about some senseless rumor they heard on Russian radio, occasionaly leading to someone storming out in a profane huff. My 85-year-old grandparents make embarrassing comments without even realizing it (more on this later). And then there's my great-uncle, who not only reads his fantastic Russian poetry at the dinner table, but sees nothing wrong with bursting into song regardless of where we are or who's present. He's probably the main reason why we no longer celebrate birthdays in restaurants or any other public places.  And they're also secret spies for the KGB. Okay, I made up that last part...or so you think.

You can probably guess where this is headed.  Yep, I brought Michelle to meet my folks and suffer though enjoy a glorious family birthday celebration, where she was treated to an hour and half of my parents' vacation stories and my childhood pictures (thankfully not the naked ones this time).  The undeniable highlights were the following photos of me when I was 16, decked out in an ill-fitting Dan Marino jersey and a pair of size 36 Boss jeans that were almost as big as those glasses, and living out my life dream by rocking an awesome 'fro that made me look like a rejected "Semi-Pro" extra.

Fortunately, most of my relatives were on their best behavior once we made it to my grandparents' apartment for dinner. My great-aunt kept conversation to minimum by making sure the guests had enough food, while my great-uncle read a half-dozen poems, but thankfully refrained from singing. Towards the end, he gave an impromptu toast for Michelle, which I attempted to loosely translate, and my grandmother chimed in to call her a "young beauty. " But because that wasn't awkward enough, after confirming that Michelle is Jewish, she suggested that the two of us should (wait for it) get married.  Sigh.  And I came so close to going an entire evening without wishing I was adopted.

When I was alone in my apartment later on that night (somehow still sober), I remembered that my mom gave me an envelope on my way out the door.  When I finally peeked inside, I found a $100 bill along with a three-word note: "Don't be cheap."  What can I say?  You gotta love family...sometimes.

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you, without a mailbag to step to....okay, that made no sense, but you get the point.  I've received a few inquiring emails from people who've visited this site (all two dozen of them), and I'm here to set the record straight on a variety of topics, and maybe even share some unexpected developments.

Previous reader mailbags:  December 6  |  October 16

Q:  So how are things going with the new woman and have you converted her to hip hop/R&B yet?

Ha, I'll answer the second part first.  The hip-hop hasn't really been an issue, especially when she can show off those dancing skills.  R&B?  Not so much.  In fact, I almost gave up on that endeavor entirely when she called my man Maxwell "a woman." I'm still trying to recover from that vicious blow.  To her credit, she's a fan of Motown, but has no appreciation for cheesy smooth '90's soul (and if anyone knows a thing about soul, it's a white guy from the suburbs).

All that aside, we're doing all right.  We've now passed the one-month hurdle, the highlight of which was undoubtedly watching terrible Color Me Badd and MC Hammer videos on YouTube last weekend.  I think we look ridiculously cute, if I may say so myself, and at one point, she forced me out of the pool to do my fantasy football draft. You know what, I'll just let Luther take it from here...

Q:  I recently read that soy "has the power to undermine everything it means to be male." Given that your diet is 70% soy, 20% cheese [Ed. note: 90% soy] does this article worry you?

Huh, well, I guess that explains why I'm so in touch with my feminine side then, doesn't it?  But on a more serious note -- ***Breaking News*** (because honestly, doesn't everything sound a little more exciting when it has "breaking news" in front of it?) -- I've been looking for a reason to start eating fish again, and I think this one's as good as any.  So yes, I'm once again becoming a dreaded person I hate, a "pescatarian," or more commonly referred to as a "hypocrite."  Sigh.

Q:  I'd like to know what your favorite animal is and why.

I have two.  As a kid, I collected toy pigs (no idea why, but I'm guessing toy stores in Russia had very limited selection), and annoyed the hell out of my grandfather by burying them in the backyard, hoping they'd grow bigger and reproduce.  I was a brilliant child.  I later discovered the awesomeness of monkeys swinging by their tails at the Bronx Zoo when I was 12, and became instantly hooked.  In fact, I may or may not have a stuffed animal monkey on my bed right now.  Um, let's move on...

Q:  Are you worried about your girlfriend leaving you for Dan Marino?

I can say with 100% certainty that I'm not concerned about losing my girlfriend (or as I like to call her, "gf" for short) to Dan Marino.  I wish I could say as much for a couple of other Miami Dolphins who are on her "cheat list."  Yep, like every other couple in a happy relationship, we've allowed each other five exceptions.  For the record, mine are Candace Parker (shocker, I know), Beyonce, Rihanna, Mary-Louise Parker, and Christina Hendricks (what? I had to fill the white woman quota).

Q:  How about those Lakers, baby!!

And...that's where the mailbag shall come to a close.  Thanks to everyone who submitted a question!

Before I get into the latest hate list, I'd like to take this time to apologize to you, the reader, for breaking no less than three of my own rules over the last three weeks.  I took cover under an obnoxiously oversized umbrella during a rain storm, texted during a movie in the theater, and perhaps most egregiously, engaged in and even initated a lot (PG-rated) PDA.  The moral of the story is that women are evil.  Or that I'm a hypocrite...whatever.  I'm almost as bad at apologizing as Chris Brown.  In either case, I feel better now that this is out in the open, and to make it up to you, I vow to never, ever become one of the following despicaple people.

*People who walk/run shirtless:  I get that it's the summer and it's too hot to wear clothing -- believe me, if anyone understand this, it's me.  But if you're running shirtless on the street, then I'm sorry, but there's no other way to say it: you're a douche bag.  And it's not just because of the shirtless thing -- it's because you also took the time out to shave your chest and apply a tub of tanning oil so that everyone can check out your glistening body.  This isn't limited to Matthew McConaughey-types either.  It especially applies to the overweight bankers who think their pale, bouncing gut is something I need to see when I'm trying to enjoy a nice day in the park (though it can be a little mesmerizing).  As a general rule of thumb, gents, if you're a B cup or above, you should keep your shirt on at all times.

*People who watch The Food Network at the gym:  Aside from actually snacking on the treadmill, I can't imagine a more ridiculous and counter-productive activity.  I mean, it's just cruel to show food during the one time in the day when I'm trying not to think about eating.  Maybe there's some kind of masochism in watching something you're trying to deny yourself that makes food porn so pleasurable. Whatever it is, I end up leaving the stupid gym hungrier than ever and ready to binge on chocolate cake because of your twisted mind.

*Close talkers:  This one's pretty self-explanatory, I'd imagine, and falls under the whole buffer zone concept I covered earlier.  I get that there may be cultural differences in play, but at least stop inching closer when I'm trying to back away so you're not all up in my face.  If I can smell your breath (good or bad) or see that you missed a spot shaving, then you're too damn close, bro.

*People who park too far apart:  Parking is hard enough to find on the city streets, and it's even more frustrating when drivers leave too much space between the car in front of them, consequently leaving too little space for another car to fit behind them.  I mean, seriously, is it that hard to move up just a tad and be considerate to someone else?  I hope you get a parking ticket just for being an ass.

*People who are obsessed with Purell:  I'll admit that I don't pay much attention to the news and every new apocalyptic virus that signals the end of civilization .  Are we still afraid of contracting swine flu? Avian flu? SARS?  The Bubonic plague?  I don't know, and I don't care.  Look, there's nothing wrong with using hand sanitizer once in a while, especially if there's a cold going around the office, but that doesn't mean you need to carry a little bottle with you at all times and use it every 15 minutes, as if it's some kind of magical vaccine (and what about the .01% of super bacteria that it doesn't kill, which then rapidly reproduces, huh???). 

And I have news for you -- by no means is it a subsitture for soap and water.  I actually had a coworker who never washed his hands after going to the bathroom, even when there were people in there who saw him.  I couldn't stand it, and finally called him out on it.  His response was something like, "Oh, don't worry about that. I use Purell when I get to my desk."  Um, even if bought that, what about the door knob and everything else you touched on your way back?  Gross, and I'll bet he's not the only one doing this.  The dependency needs to stop, and it begins with you.