Thing I like: Singing in my car.
I love belting out the likes of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody and Pearl Jam’s Why Go when behind the wheel alone, in an attempt to drown out the radio, which is usually cranked up to max. Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly not crazy enough to think that I’m a good singer, but I find that if you sing loudly enough your ears can’t keep track of the actual melody and you sound pretty damned amazing to yourself. I don’t even mind when I turn to my left at a stop light and notice the Asian family (complete with 2 kids and a piece of shitzu of a dog) gaping in my direction, awkwardly ignoring my glance as I roll down my window and holler I see a little silhouette-o of a man, scaramoush scaramoush, will you do the fandANgo? in their general direction. In fact, I may have single-handedly scarred several Chinese children, permanently implanting my bearded bellowing face into their memories, frightening them away from Karaoke machines forever.
Thing I don’t like: Singing at a Karaoke bar.
What genius decided that it would be a good idea to get a Karaoke machine and invite every neighbourhood yahoo with American Idol aspirations over for beers? I mean, we’ve all seen the show and its embarrassing moments, when grossly overweight men, pimple-faced teenagers, and people with just too much attitude decide that they should share their vocal gifts – ahem, burdens – with the world. I mean, if there are enough deluded “aspiring singers” in America to fill the 329 seasons of American Idol that have thus far been aired, is it really necessary to add alcohol to the mix? Alcohol lowers inhibitions, but, for most, inhibitions are exactly what are needed for the sake of the ears of innocent bystanders. It doesn’t help that these people have friends enabling their disgusting singing habits, although I suspect it’s more of a “let’s see how badly we can embarrass that guy that no one likes” situation rather than pure friendly encouragement. I mean, come on:
Oh, and trust me, I have tried the Karaoke and failed horribly at singing The Police’s Don’t Stand So Close To Me. No one can sing Sting, not even Sting, and I don’t know why I tried. Actually I do know why I tried: beer. Yes, beer: that most wonderful and horrible of social lubricants – a veritable Astroglide of stupidity.
Thing I like: Riding my bicycle through the streets.
There’s nothing better than dipsy-doodling through traffic at intersections, flying in between cars while cackling evilly at disgruntled drivers while flashing peace signs at their passenger side windows. The satisfaction of cruising through stop signs, beating drivers through traffic, and sadly, but self-satisfyingly, shaking ones head at motorists clearly angry about the parking situation is pretty much unmatched in this world.
Thing I don’t like: Cyclists!
I hate those fuckers, always splitting lanes and getting to their locations faster than me, not to mention the horrid parking mess that is San Francisco exacerbating my anger. God damnit, I hate those pricks. Cars may cause smog, but these assholes are causing a serious case of smug, contributing to my personal road rage. And that one time I accidentally, accidentally, cut off some biker floating obliviously through his bike lane, he had the nerve to smack my car, yell at me “Thank you!” and then speed away. And then he turned around and return for a second quip: “Just because you pass a biker, that doesn’t mean we disappear,” and he was off before I had a chance to retort. Then he was back for a third time: “And we can hire lawyers too!” Oh yeah? With what money? You look pretty old and I would wager that your trust fund money is pretty damn close to running out.
Thing I like: A little bit of public displays of affection.
Well, to be specific, I think it is sweet when an attractive couple show their affection for one another in a subtle manner. Maybe a quick peck on the lips, or the classic resting of the head on the shoulder. I say attractive, because whenever your see a power-couple, a Brangelina or Branniston, together, you briefly feel like you’re in the presence of celebrities, and drink in their aura, hungrily absorbing their good looks. Once the initial novelty wears off, you play that fun game called “I wonder what their kids will look like.” This is particularly effective for mixed-race hot couples, as halfsies are usually quite attractive, or so the stereotype goes.
Thing I don’t like: Ugly people displaying too much affection.
It seems to be that the sum total attractiveness of a couple is inversely proportional to how much inappropriate loving they share in public. That is, the uglier the couple the more grossed out you will be watching them – and not just because they are ugly. If your cheeks and/or neck and/or eyebrows are glistening with saliva from your heavy make-out session, your partner may be using too much tongue. Gently suggest that he or she save some saliva for digesting the 3 double double In ‘n Out burgers he or she will surely be consuming later that day. There’s nothing worse than dry mouth while trying to stuff your face with half a cow.
And, like with the hot couple, you will end up playing that same game called “I wonder what their kids will look like,” except this time not nearly as fun because it is immediately followed by thoughts of infanticide, and that’s just plain wrong. I suppose everyone needs loving, just not in front of me while I sit on the bus and choke on my morning bagel, strawberry cream cheese spewing from my nose. If your love is causing me violent convulsions, that may be a good place to draw the line.