I Am Not Sam Champion

I am not Sam Champion, people.  I assume for most of you this goes without saying, but at this moment in my life I think I really need to state it for the record.

As everyone knows, Hurricane Sandy bent the northeasten seaboard over her lap last week and spanked it in the bad way.  Lower Manhattan was blacked out (sidebar, one of the single freakiest experiences of my life was taking a shuttle bus down the Bowery to get home one night and not being able to see anything around the bus despite knowing I was in the middle of the one of the most populated areas in the country...suddenly Revolution on NBC became a whole lot scarier) and a lot of people lost a lot.  My heart goes out to them.  My heart does NOT go out to people who call me at my job and ask me a) what the weather was like during the hurricane (it was cold and wet.  And DARK.), b) what the weather is like at the present moment and/or c) what the weather will be like during their stay in New York. 

Yes, I work at a hotel...this does not mean that every morning I climb up onto my roof and check my meteorological instruments to have the most up-to-date information for you on any incoming weather fronts.  There are people who actually studied this stuff in college and went out and got jobs in which their sole purpose it to answer such questions and it turns out that THEY aren't all that good at it.  Why would you think I would be any better?  And by the way, if you're not coming in to New York for another month, why the hell do you care what the conditions are like at the present moment?  It really has no bearing on what they'll be like in 30 days, just like my pleasant tone of voice has no bearing on the fact that I'm mentally calling you every synonym for simpleton that I can come up with on the fly (moron, dumbass, halfwit, idiot, dolt, dunce, mouth-breather, parental disappoinment, gene pool hazard...).

If you simply can't live without knowing what the temperature is there is a whole goddamn television channel devoted to that if you're interested.  It's called the Weather Channel and they report a lot of information about, you guessed it, the weather.  It's actually their main focus, which you could probably extrapolate from the name if you really tried. If you don't want to watch TV, I have even better news for you...they set up a website!  It's true, if you want the weather to anywhere in the WORLD, you can go to...wait.  Are you ready to write this down?  Do you have a pen?  Paper?  You're sure?  Okay, you can go to "weather.com" (that's W-E-A-T-H-E-R-.-C-O-M), punch in any zip code or location that you want and they will give you...the weather.  And don't worry...if that sounds just too difficult there's a weather.com app.  Yes, that's right!  There's an app you can download right to your smart phone for free that will tell you everything you want to know.  You know who can't give you all the information that weather.com pulls up upon just a few key strokes?  ME.

I also love people who ask me what the weather will be like in a month.  No, really, I LOVE them.  They give me a chance to gaze into my crystal ball and peer into the future so I can really spell out for them exactly what the weather will be like in three weeks.  I get to use my clairvoyant powers so infrequently, and with that kind of thing it's really use it or lose it.  If I don't exercise these muscles, my ESP will become gangrenous and fall off like a vestigial limb and then I'll never get to be a real life super-hero.  So, thank you hotel guests who wonder the unknowable future...without you I'd never get any practice as a seer and my life-long goal to unseat Ms. Cleo as the go-to telephone psychic for the moronic masses would be dead before it ever got off the ground. 

In conclusion...I am not Sam Champion.  He's the one with the botox.

EmMo

Have you ever tried to set anybody up on a date?  Me neither.  I'm currently in the midst of my first ever attempt at it and let me tell you, it is nerve-wracking.  No wonder that horrid matchmaker woman on Bravo is so out of touch with reality...if she had emotions like the rest of us, she'd be a quivering mass on the floor after a hard day's work.  In any case, last weekend I got it into my head that I was going to set my friend...let's change all the names in this story to protect the identities of those involved...my friend Sara up on a date with a guy I met at another friend's birthday party.  My other friend's name is...Lucy and the guy's name is...Matt.   There, cover identities are established.  I'm SO Sydney Bristow.

Anyway, I won't get into the nitty-gritty of it all...I'm just going to re-create, in it's entirety, the opening email that I sent to Lucy in regards to this little party.  Subject line: "Weirdest question ever..."

Okay, so I have something very odd to propose to you...I hung out with your friend Matt at your party and he seemed like a great guy. I mean, he managed to talk to two gay dudes who he had never met before for almost two hours and I never once wanted to stab myself in the eye.  Believe me when I tell you this is very difficult to do, as I'm judgemental as a hobby and, on the inside, probably not a very nice person. 

 I swear I have never done this, but I thought almost immediately that he would be a great match for my friend Sara (I don't think you've ever met her, but she's awesome). And not only because he has a dog, though that's a HUGE plus. I feel somewhat comfortable bringing this up because we talked a bunch about online dating, and how he had just put up a profile and how I met my boyfriend on an online dating site.  Hey, did you know your friend Matt is online dating?  If you didn't, please don't tell him I told you, because that would be really awkward.  In any case, I was thinking about possibly adding him to my Facebook or something and trying to facilitate a meeting between the two of them, but I wanted to run it by you first.

Now at this point, I can think of a few reactions you might be having:

1) Um...NO. I work with this dude, I'm not stepping in that. Totally get it. If you don't want me to say anything, let me know and I'll keep my aspirations to be a Yenta in the same jar I keep my aspirations to be a brain surgeon. Or maybe you don't care if I say anything to him, but don't want your name attached to it.  I can also do that.  I'm flexible!

2) Um...NO. I'm in love with Matt. I'm totally butt-crazy in love with Matt!! Again totally get it. You should hit that, he seems like a great guy. Also, props for quoting Clueless.  You're awesome and Matt's damn lucky.

3) Um...NO. Matt comes off well, but he actually eats toothpaste for lunch and only washes his socks on alternating Tuesdays. Is that SO bad? He only has one pair of socks.  Oooooh, okay.  This is why I emailed you in the first place! Thanks for the warning, I'm going to go smack my inner-Emma in the face, cause bitch needs to get her head on straight. (For those of you confused by the title of this post, it was my attempt to make a gay pun on the Jane Austen classic.  I don't think I succeeded.  SHUT UP, WRITING IS HARD!)

4) Um...sure. I guess? Don't feel any pressure to participate in this. This whole thing might be an outgrowth of me being in a two and a half year relationship, and just wanting to pick up a guy in a bar even if he's not for me.  I need to know I still got it!

5) Awesome! Have at it! Anything I should tell Matt about this friend of yours? Why yes! She's awesome, she loves dogs and she too can spend two hours in a bar talking to two random gay dudes she's never met before. Also, she's Kat Denning's boob-double.  

6) I'm still hung over from Saturday. Can we talk about this when my hair stops throbbing? Yes, and congratulations! THAT'S a party!

I mean, really? You can smell the desperation on that e-mail.  I've written to guys I was asking out for myself in less of a flop-sweat.  Basically, rather than playing with just your own feelings, you're now putting yourself in the way of the feelings of two friends, a professional relationship and a DOG.  There's a dog involved, and nothing is funny anymore.  I stopped watching Game of Thrones when they killed Sansa's wolf...which was probably played by a dog.  And if it wasn't, it's close enough.  Side bar, does anyone else consider Marley and Me the first snuff film released by a major studio?

In any case, that email is now out in the universe.  I'll let you know if it results in a wedding or a cataclysm.

Timeline

Well, it finally happened this month: Facebook forced me, kicking and screaming, into the new Timeline format.  I've hated Timeline on all of my friend's profiles and thought that maybe, just maybe, Facebook had somehow forgotten about me and I would be able to skate on in blissful, technological idiocy with my in-born resistance to any kind of change unchallenged by the vagaries of Mark Zuckerberg.  Alas, just last week my hopes were shattered.  Again.  This has got to the seventh or eighth time now.  Timeline found me and forced me to join the new age.  And now I'm going to say something fairly controversial.

I kind of like it.

All I've seen on Facebook is people complaining about it, so maybe I was so prepared for it to be the virtual equivalent of an unannounced colonic that the reality simply couldn't compare to the horror movie playing in my head.  Regardless, I find myself enjoying the new format.  Why?  Well, for one thing, I like having a cover photo.  Naturally, I've chosen a close up picture of a mojito sitting in the sun, just starting to sweat in the summer heat, crushed mint floating freely in a delicious rum cocktail.  Now everytime I go to my Facebook home page, my mouth waters.  However, even more importantly, I am loving reliving old memories via easy leaps backward in time to read old statuses.  When you click on the year I joined Facebook (2009) the first status that pops up is:

"To The Guy I Went On a Date with Two Weeks Ago: While I found your company tolerable at best, I simply would not choose to waste anymore of my life in conversation with you. No hard feelings. Literally. Now please stop e-mailing me asking to be friends. I've done this the nice way. You know what way comes next."

Wow.  Apparently, I was really irritated with some dude I went on a date with in February of 2009!  I read the comments and I remember the whole story and have myself a good chuckle and a fond trip down memory lane.  Jump ahead a month:

"I can't believe Natasha Richardson is dead right now and Amy Winehouse isn't."

Oh, and now I have a sad again about Natasha Richardson.  And feel a little bit like an asshole about the whole Winehouse fiasco.  March, 2010:

"I cannot believe they're making a sequel to "The Cutting Edge." Seriously, theyre never going to top the Pamchenko...stop trying."

No, really, stop trying.

There are hundreds of these little bursts of nostalgia just waiting for you on your Timeline people; I've found the first time I realized Vinay suffered from road rage.  I've relived an entire trip to Italy.  I'm remembering all the times I've auditioned for 30 Rock and not gotten it (this can be a double-edged sword). I've discovered that I went to my old job tipsy-to-drunk at least 4 times, openly posted about it, and still couldn't get fired.

I'm not saying it's perfect.  It's still extremely difficult to find specific old posts and the whole thing just takes some getting used to visually.  But seriously, I highly recommend using it see what you were thinking about two years ago, you'll have yourself a good chuckle.  Or go read one of your friend's and relive some glory days.  Or go read mine...it's HILARIOUS.

Kindle Guilt

I moved this month (yes, I now co-habitate with my boyfriend), and I was shocked by something.  My book collection has dwindled.  My once proud, completely over-the-top ridiculous number of books has, over the years, been slowly shrinking like a polar ice cap and now I can carry my full collection of novels, plays and comics over to a new home in three stinking boxes.  Three!  The time was when I would have to carefully plan where to pack my books when I moved so no single box was over-burdened...and there is one reason for this change: my Kindle.

Let me say right now, I love my Kindle.  I mean, I fucking love my Kindle like it's made out of chocolate ice cream with peanut butter sauce and whipped cream.  I resisted getting one for a long time, then Vinay just gave me his because he never used it, and now I can't stop proverbially snorting coke off the hooker's tits.  Amazon has this amazing "Buy Now with 1-Click!" option which allows you to have the book you want to read in your hot little hands in about 30 seconds with "Delivery via Amazon Whispernet," and I abuse the easy access more with every day.

Short sidebar, what the hell is a "whispernet?"  Can any of my tech geeks answer this for me?  I know that in order to download the book I need to be connected to the INTERnet, so what's different about the WHISPERnet?  Is Amazon trying to brand the tiny little bit of web traffic that allows them to fire thousands of pages and millions of words into my little e-reader device in seconds?  And if so, why call it "Whispernet?"  Frankly, I find people who whisper the words while they read to be disturbing, as I it usually takes me a few seconds to realize that they aren't simply talking to themselves and/or the voices in their head.  I live in New York, you don't want to grab the seat on the subway with the secret crazy.  I digress.

My love affair with my Kindle has led to certain things I probably shouldn't cop to on a public blog, but we're all friends here.  I named my Kindle.  You know how some guys name their penis, and think they're the first one to come up with calling it Russell the Love Muscle?  I named my Kindle Clint Barton, CB for short.  Clint Barton, as I'm sure you don't know, is Hawkeye's real name.  Not Alan Alda from M*A*S*H, the comic book character who's a member of the Avengers, portrayed by Jeremy Renner in the film. I know, you don't know whether to laugh or cry at my ridiculous level of geekdom.  I spent my entire youth being oddly fascinated with Hawkeye and apparently I'll be spending my 30's oddly fascinated with my Kindle, so it tracks.  Luckily, while I was lusting after Hawkeye before I really realized what "lusting" meant, I think I'm safe in saying that I have not developed actual romantic feelings for Clint.  Yet.

I know you're thinking: well if you love it so much, why are you feeling guilty?  Well, because I love books.  I think books are the best decoration for any room.  I like physically having the book in my hands, and the smell of the pages, and lining a book series up in order; it warms my heart to see all seven Harry Potter books resting comfortably on a shelf.  Sadly, I live in New York and space doesn't support my book habit.  Double sadly, I'm an actor and I can get the books cheaper on my Kindle then I can in print.  Triple sadly...I just fucking love my Kindle.  It's so light and convenient!

I hope that I, and people like me, don't lead to the downfall of the written word.  There ain't nothing better than a book, and I buy books all the time for my nephews.  Real books, with pages and the inner cover that they can write their names in and the spines that they can break because they read it so many times.  And, after all, I'm still buying all of these books, only not in the format that I used to.  It's just that sometimes I'm overcome with the idea that I am part of the "problem."  I'm not even entirely sure what the "problem" is, but I really don't want to be a part of it if it's a "problem" with books.

Now excuse me, I have to go browse my Amazon recommendations to see if there are any books I want to buy.

Okay, So I'm Not Being the Bigger Person

I'm a bit short on time this month, so I'll keep this brief: what the hell is up with gay activists inviting rabid anti-gay bigots to dinner?  Dan Savage invited NOM's Brian Brown over to debate the Bible.  Family Equality Council's Jennifer Chrisler invited Family Research Council's (man, what a difference a word in a title makes) Tony Perkins over for dinner in hopes of opening his heart to homosexuals.  And even better, Brown and Perkins accepted.  Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that dinner party.

Look, I get it.  We're reaching across the aisle.  We're being the bigger people.  We're generally continuing the mantra of "oh, they'll come around if they can see we're just like them!"  And that's a noble goal, one which I personally do not have the patience to even pretend I can achieve.  Frankly, I'd rather eat dirt than have one of those card-carrying ass-hats over to my house for dinner, unless I was serving a forced watching of the last two season of Glee, which is just about the gayest form of torture I can come up with on the fly.  I'd say watch Smash, but that's only 13 episodes and two seasons of Glee pushes 50...and I really, really dislike these people.

These people are not going to change their minds.  Why debate the Bible with someone who clearly is only interested in it as a tool to justify his own bigotry?  Why try to open the heart of someone who has not demonstrated that he even possesses one?  These are not people who are interested in expanding their minds and hearts, they want to expand their influence.  I'm sure it will be entertaining to watch Dan Savage eviscerate Brian Brown on the very topic Brown regularly uses to justify his positions, but it won't accomplish anything other than a lot of views on YouTube.

Rather than reaching across the aisle to them, why not just wait for them to get up and surreptitiously stick out a foot for them to trip on?

Smash Test, Dummies

Okay, people, the Smash finale has aired...I'm guessing most of you gave up on the show, right?  I mean, I couldn't look away the whole time even though I didn't hear a lot of the dialogue because I was too busy screaming at the television screen for showing me something so bone-crushingly stupid, but I would imagine that a lot of people checked out around Episode 4 or 5 when it became obvious that the writers simply weren't going create an interesting story and about 50% of the cast was terrible (the other 50% is excellent...I'll name names if you want).  I, however, stuck with it through thick and thin and am left a bit at a loss.  Every episode, every single one, had at least one moment in it that was wonderful and interesting...it was just surrounded by a mountain of crap. 

In any case, if you gave up, you're not alone.  One of my good friends gave up early on and when she told me I gay-gasped and clutched my pearls.  "You're missing EVERYTHING!"  I cried. "Debra Messing's son looks like he's Renee Zellweger's long lost twin brother!  People are running out in the middle of Broadway shows and bopping around Times Square in costume!  Katharine McPhee has yet to register an emotion!"  She looked at me skeptically (as if these were not things that would make her more likely to watch the show), so I took further action.  I rushed home and composed the following test for her...all I asked was that she take the test and if it didn't make her want to watch the glorious train wreck, I would never bring it up again.

Here I present to you, The Smash Test.  The rules are simple: below I have outlined four scenarios.  Three of them ACTUALLY HAPPENED in Smash this season, one of them did not.  Please, take your best shot...which one of them is the fake?

1) Julia (Debra Messing) is so overcome with attraction to Michael Swift, a co-star in the Marilyn Musical, that she tells her husband Frank that she's going for a walk, leaves their apartment in Cobble Hill, goes all the way to midtown and meets Michael in the rehearsal room (which he has somehow gotten open).  For those readers who don't live in NY, a subway ride from Cobble Hill to midtown is an easy 40 minutes door-to-door.  When she gets there, she very clearly says she does not want to sleep with him and only arrived to tell him that.  Michael, obviously being someone who's mother should have read him a copy of No Means No, Charlie Brown when he was a child, proceeds to slowly but surely convince her to take off her top.  Side-boob occurs, and they bang on the rehearsal couch (as someone who has used many rehearsal couches in his life, may I just say...ew).  Julia then returns home from her "walk," which, unless she has conquered the space time continuum, took at least an hour and a half assuming she and Michael got the refusal, rape-y convincing and the resulting porking done in a flat ten minutes.  Frank apparently does not notice anything odd, which means either a) it's convenient at this time for the writers to have him be a complete moron or b) Julia takes a lot of long walks. 

2) Eileen (Anjelica Huston), after being dumped by her comically over-the-top d-bag husband, discovers dive bars and the Buck Hunter video game.  Much time is spent with her obsessing over how wonderful the martinis are in said dive bar, which is odd because most dive bars I've ever been to would throw a pitcher of Bud Light in your face for ordering a martini.  There is also much time spent killing fake deer, which might be a reference to Betty Draper going full on Hatfield on her neighbor's homing pigeons back in Season One of Mad Men, but is accomplished with about a twentieth of the subtlety.  Over martinis and fake hunting expeditions, Eileen confides in her new favorite bartender about her money woes...after all, she only needs seven million dollars and she can't seem to raise it!  Said bartender then pulls a stack of money out from underneath his bar and offers to invest in the musical.  She refuses, so he introduces her to Randy Cobra (a Billy Idol-esque rock star and not, as you might have guessed from the name, a Ron Jeremy-esque porn star) who speaks to her for about 5 mintues gives her all seven million dollars, resulting in what I believe might be the first example of rock star ex machina in popular culture.  At this point, she calls all of her former investors who were putting demands on her to the aforementioned dive bar and Randy Cobra lights their contracts on fire in a garbage can.

3) Ellis (Jaime Cepero) is among the most hated characters in the history of television.  He's hated by the audience, by the other characters in the show and, I suspect, by the late Mother Theresa.  In order to secure a movie star to open the show, Ellis (who has been presented as a heterosexual with a girlfriend) bangs the male personal assistant of Rebecca DuVall (Uma Thurman) and with his help signs Rebecca to star. Rebecca demonstrates little-to-no musical talent, and in her neediness tells her assistant to stop spending so much time with Ellis and focus on her.  Ellis decides to grind up some peanuts, which she is deathly allergic to, and slip them into Rebecca's smoothie.  Rebecca goes into anaphylactic shock in the middle of rehearsal and her throat closes up.  In a possible homage to "Pulp Fiction," Karen (Katharine McPhee) takes the epi-pen she always carries with her for no good reason and jams it directly into Rebecca's chest saving her life and the show simultaneously.  Rebecca then reveals that she was able to taste the peanuts in the smoothie, but drank it anyway because she was so scared to perform live that she wanted to self-sabotage the performance.  She recommends Karen take over the role mere days before opening, while Ellis confronts Eileen and demands that he be given a producer credit because he took care of the Rebecca problem for her.  Eileen, in a move heralded by every person that's every seen the show, fires him and he stalks off threatening retribution.

4) Eileen's daughter Katie (Grace Gummer) arrives and everyone rejoices because she is the most angelic person to walk the face of the earth, which the audience is subtlely informed of via her nickname: "Saint Katie."  Eileen and the musical's director Derek (Jack Davenport) contact OneRepublic's Ryan Tedder and ask him to write new music for the Marilyn Musical behind the current creative team's back. Karen is drafted to take part in the sub-workshop and eventually puts on a surprise performance for Julia, Katie and company as a sexed-up, modern day Marilyn writhing on a bed, shrieking lyrics along the lines of "Touch me! I wanna feel you on my body, put your hands on me!"  The audience reacts with appropriate horror and numerous altercations erupt, including Saint Katie dragging her mother outside and scolding her that she should know better than to go behind her creative team's back; after all, she's supposed to be a better person than her odious ex-husband.  Saint Katie then returns to her mother's apartment, furnishes the entire place with what appears to be pieces from Pier One Imports and summarily departs to count salmon in Alaska.  Because that's what GOOD people do.

I'm dying to know...can you pass the Smash Test?  Full disclosure, my friend guessed wrong...but she watched the rest of the season. 

The Ship Sinks

Is anyone else really excited for Titanic to return to theaters?  I know I am; I figure once it finally returns in all of it's glorious 3-D-ness, I can happily return to pretending I didn't sit through it the first time and only be reminded by the soft-strains of it's formerly ubiquitous theme song when I'm caught in a Lite FM Hell like a doctor's office or a Duane Reade.  I can't say I remember much about the movie other than being largely bored by it...the special effects were impressive, but I kind of doubt that they'll hold up to our post-Avatar standards.  This is probably a good time to note that I haven't seen Avatar...but if I'm forced to see one Hollywood film this year starring blue people, I will choose to watch that over The Smurfs.  My boyfriend, on the other hand, is completely pumped to go see this movie.  Below, I will enumerate a few scenarios in which I might be convinced to actually attend.*

1) ABC Cancels Cougar Town.  I expect that if ABC lowers the axe on my beloved cul-de-sac, I'm going to be in a deep enough state of mourning that I'll be able to be convinced of just about anything, so if Vinay tells me that we're going to see a Cougar Town movie I'll believe him because I'll want it to be true. The fact that more people are going to go watch Leo do his best ice cube impression in the re-opening weekend than watch my dysfunctional winos is just sad.  If this does happen, and I do wind up at a screening, I reserve the right to stand up and scream "SIX SEASON AND A MOVIE!!" while wildly gesticulating with a bottle of red wine.  It's what Jules and company would want.

2) I Screw Up Something REALLY Badly.  I'd like to be clear here: I'm not talking about accidentally forgetting the milk or being late to dinner.  I'm talking about something like Vinay winding up in the hospital and me screwing up the information on his forms and rather than getting his appendix removed he leaves the hospital a woman.  Something on that level.

3) The Threat of Becoming a Tribute in The Hunger Games. Did you read the book/watch the movie?  Shit gets real in that arena. My usual fighting technique of cutting people with words would provide about 15 seconds of snarky commentary before I was hewed down like an unwanted weed.  "Oh, big man's got a SWORD, what are you compensating for any--" *dies* .  Just to clarify, if Gary Ross would like to hire me to be killed as one of the tributes in the next movie, I'm in.  Seriously, Gary, call me.

4) Money. Lots and lots of money.

I think that just about covers it.  Other than that, I'm really just not interested in seeing Titanic.

*Management reserves the right to refuse to attend and/or leave this movie at any point up to and including Kate Winslet's orgasmic steamy window slap. 

Restaurant Etiquette

I'm not claiming to be Miss Manners, but having waited tables in New York City for about 6 years in my twenties I think I'm fairly qualified to hold forth on this subject.  It pretty much all boils down to this: don't do anything that would inspire your waiter to hock a loogie into your food.  We all know the basics, like don't be a dick and try to consolidate your requests, but a few of these things slip through the cracks. I'm here to let everyone know about a rampant problem in restaurants today: loitering.

Restaurant loiterers are really the worst people.  As a waiter I would have rather dealt with someone being a dick than someone refusing to get the hell out of the establishment, and that's for one simple reason: money.  Waiters work for tips.  If you're camping out at a table after you've paid your check, you're costing your waiter money because no one else is sitting at that table running up a bill for them to be tipped on.  Obviously, if the restaurant is empty they don't care, but in that case they're probably not making much money anyway.

This past weekend, Vinay and I were out with our friend Hung when we ran afoul of a group of loiterers in the West Village.  We were planning on eating around 9, so naturally we went to the restaurant at 7:30 to put our names down for a table; for all you non-city dwellers out there, yes, that is a normal amount of time to wait for a table on a Saturday night in the West Village.  You are correct, it is ridiculous.  But, hey, we knew what we were getting into...we put our names down and headed out to a bar to kill some time. It's important to note that I had had lunch at approximately 1:30 pm that day, and not eaten since.  Just keep that fact in the back of your mind.

 In any case, the time flew by and we received a text message from the restaurant telling us our table would be ready in approximately 10 minutes.  Off we went, and checked back in at approximately 8:45.  At this point we were told it would be a few more minutes, which we accepted with a shrug and ordered a bottle of wine at the bar.  At this point, everything was smooth sailing.  Cut to 45 minutes later, at which point I had officially been drinking on an empty stomach for two hours, and the entire group is about ready to turn on each other and have a real life version of Alive.  And what was the problem you ask?  Loiterers.

Admittedly, the hostess made a tactical error in telling the three of us that the people we were waiting to get up were sitting directly next to where we were standing, calmly sipping their water a full 20 minutes after they had paid their bill.  I was pissed.  I was minorly pissed for the wait-staff, but I was majorly pissed for myself and my poor neglected stomach.

"Ugh!" I said. "Table of three get UP!"

Now I'll maintain to the day I die that I didn't intend for them to hear what I said.  It was a noisy West Village restaurant, and since their conversation was so riveting that they were willing to inconvenience everyone in their general vicinity by not getting the fuck out, I assumed that they weren't tuned in.  I was wrong.  I calmly went back to speaking to Vinay, while the loiterers asked Hung if we were waiting for their table.

"Well, not your table SPECIFICALLY." Hung lied.
"Whoever said that was obnoxious!" the woman at the table complained.
"Well, it wasn't me." Hung said, and turned back to our conversation.  Meanwhile, I was drunk enough to completely miss this entire exchange.

Another fifteen minutes ticked by, and at this point we had finished our bottle.  I flatly refused to drink anymore until I had eaten since I wanted to enjoy my dinner and not spend it projectile vomiting, so I went over to the hostess and very politely told her that we had been waiting two-and-a-half hours and we're hungry, so those people needed to leave.  And when I say politely, please believe me that I was extremely polite.  She apologized and gave me the "I know, I hate them too, but I can't say it" face, then slid over a few minutes later to ask them if there was anything else she could get them or if they were all done.  They stood up, and the woman left first...making certain to step on Hung's foot and grind her heel into his toes.

Hung is an angry drunk on the best of days...so if you add in an actual reason to be angry you are going to have one pissed-off, 100 pound Vietnamese alley cat on your hands.  Said woman got an immediate body block off of Hung's foot, a quick titty-grab and an extremely insincere apology.  At which point, the following exchange occurred.

Man: "Do you want to get smacked?!"
Hung: "Yes, please, smack me right here in the West Village."
Man: "You want to get smacked??"
Hung: "Be civilized, sir!  Be civilized!"

The loiterers were then escorted out of the restaurant, and we sat down and finally ate.

Three things can be taken from this story.  One, if you're going to be bitchy about waiting for a table, you should to it with Hung around because he's apparently going to be the scape-goat for everything you do.  Two, if you are done with your dinner, GET THE HELL OUT OF THE RESTAURANT. And three, "Be civilized!" should definitely be a go-to argument phrase in some reality show before the year is out, because it's goddamn hilarious, especially when being spouted by a tiny Asian man doing his best sassy black woman impression.

Oh, and don't sit side-saddle.  You know what I'm talking about, the couple who sits a table of four next to each other so they can canoodle and do God knows what else under the table.  Just stop it.  Your waiter and all your fellow patrons hate you.