Sars and I toasted with Bill at Dinnercon, and we actually said, "Gentlemen, to evil." Very surreal, that weekend was. ["I told Bill about how Wing Chun and I saw the Simpsons episode in which the camp director toasts the bully counselors with that very line and both yelled out, 'Hey, it's Team Guido!' He laughed politely." -- Sars]
"Esquire. As we come up on them in the car, I suddenly realize why I object to this damn hat Rob is still wearing. It's because this trip, and these guys in particular, are begging for a beat-up Indiana Jones fedora. If Rob, in this shot, were wearing a beat-up Indiana Jones fedora instead of this goofy little garden-party let's-go-on-a-safari thing, suffice it to say that the situation would be completely different. There's nothing wrong with the hat itself, exactly, it's just the simple economics of opportunity costs. I feel better understanding this. It's the small things in life, really.
Fer cryin' out loud, did I just write a whole paragraph about this hat? I desperately need a life."
If you have followed the forums, where there is a thread that's currently at more than 400 posts that relates to not just Esquire's hats, but poetry about Esquire's hats, you'll know why I no longer feel that I'm the only one who needs a life.
"Loud Pushy Frank says he's 'going to punch [Margarita] in the top of the head' for saying she'd seen a sign for the museum. She's trying to explain that she hadn't meant to commit the entire group to an hours-long hunt for said sign, but the LPFrank ego is not hearing it. 'You're lying,' he says flatly. 'You told everybody you saw a Songwe Museum sign.' 'I said I THOUGHT I did,' she clarifies. Bitterly, she adds, 'Thanks for your support, Frank, by the way.' A flock of birds flies over and drops a pile of leaves on Margarita's head, and on each leaf is a letter. Margarita fails to notice that they spell 'GET A DIVORCE. MARGARITA, THIS MEANS YOU.'"
Apparently, Frank was drunk during this exchange. No, really.
"Okay, total sidebar. I love the kiss-kiss. There is no way to adequately express how much I love it. Men who kiss-kiss? Are my heroes. When I visited Spain at the ripe old age of 17, I met lots of boys -- high school boys, boys my own age -- who kiss-kissed. I was never so happy with boys in all my life. (That, actually, is not saying much, but nevertheless, I am surprisingly sincere.) All men should be required to kiss-kiss. Or at least to kiss-kiss me. It should be a law. I'm just saying."