Mary Carillo Touches Yao Ming

Mary Carillo is really manish.

For some reason I’ve been getting uncomfortable during her on-the-street segments during NBC’s coverage of this year’s Olympics. In her last piece, she prowled about the streets of Beijing in Wrangler-looking jeans and a tucked in man-blouse looking for really gross cuisine. She was served cow stomach in a hotpot and snacked on scorpion on a stick from a street vendor. She’s gross. That’s gross. Gross.

This morning, I woke up a bit early to catch the USA men’s basketball “Redeem Team” face off against pseudo-rival Greece. Prior to tip-off, NBC aired a teaser for a Mary Carillo/Yao Ming one-on-one interview. The clip went something like this:

Mary Carillo: So, you’ve become something of an icon here in China…
Yao Ming: Like a panda?
MC: Well, people constantly want to see you, to touch you…
YM: (*giggling bashfully*) To touch me?

I’m still not sure whether I dreamed this, but the whole thing was surreal and in some strange way… homoerotic.

Life Tastes Sadder with KFC

A thought:

There's nothing wrong with going to KFC, but there is something wrong with looking like you belong there.

Break(-Dance) in Case of Emergency

In the lobby of Natalie’s building, I noticed this sign:

I began thinking about emergencies that would prompt me to call Mario Lopez. Here’s what I’ve got:

• I need to borrow a pair of elastic-waist stonewashed jeans.
• I need a last-minute partner for a contrived all-male dance-off to save my favorite diner/hangout.
• I need someone to watch my lizard for the weekend.
• I’m casting a stage version of Greg Louganis’ autobiography Breaking the Surface.
• I’m having trouble embracing my Mexican heritage.
• My band is performing a version of Michael Bolton’s “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You” and the drummer (or lead male vocalist) has called in sick.

Any others?

Doin' Time

This morning as I walked out the door for work, I grabbed the wrong keys.

To explain: When I go running, I carry a subset of my keys--solely the ones I need to get into my apartment. They are on a separate key ring and detach from my full key set. Anyhow, this morning I grabbed the full key set sans the keys to my apartment. As I walked out the door, I locked it behind me. As I took the two steps to the steel gate that keeps troublemakers from kicking down my door, I pulled the keys out of my pocket and realized that I wouldn't be able to unlock the gate.

So there I was--in a five by five vestibule/cell--surrounded by mosquitoes. Fortunately, I was able to get a hold of my ex-landlord's ex-boyfriend and--within ten minutes--he was able to come and bail me out before the mosquitoes were able to do too much damage.
I was 15 minutes late for work, but my boss didn't mind. He found the story hilarious.

A Special Message from the Department of Office Redundancy Department

At my office, we are only allowed to use the old, stained, chipped coffee cups. The new, white, nice ones are for guests only. Apparently some of my coworkers have been using the guest cups for their morning cups of joe--prompting this mildly funny sign to be posted in the kitchen.

Dexter: Leaping Legend

Last summer at the Panathinaiko Stadium in Athens, Greece, my brother, Dexter, executed one of the most brilliant freestyle walking moves I have ever seen. Unfortunately, I was watching through my camera's viewfinder, so I didn't get to take in the full glory of the breathtaking jump. The upside is that I captured it forever.

A couple of fun things to note in this photo:

• The unbelievable air Dexter is able to get.
• The dramatic posture that he takes (arms up, knees bent, head turned).
• The look of sheer disbelief on the face of the girl who's watching the jump unfold before her.
• The Sellier family in the background preparing to board a minibus.

Consider this: Freestyle walking is not an Olympic sport... yet. But if it was, I believe Dexter would be the man to beat.

Dropped Calls

This past Friday, I was catching up with Sten—my west coast brother from the very same mother—on the phone. After about seven minutes of conversation, the call was dropped. Now, I’m not going to point fingers as to whose fault it was (AT&T or T-Mobile), but the bottom-line is someone’s network failed (T-Mobile’s). I sat there and waited for him to call me back. Nothing. After a few minutes I called him back and he immediately answered saying, “You know, someone really needs to come up with a convention as to whose responsibility it is to make the reconnection after a call is dropped.” And you know what? He’s right.

We began brainstorming.

Should it be the person who is responsible for the call being dropped? No. There may be some confusion as to whose fault it was.
Should it be the person who made the initial call? No. Again, there may be some confusion.
Should it be the oldest person? No. This may not be known.
So what did we decide?

It shall be he whose first name comes first in alphabetical order who is responsible for forging a new connection.

In our case, for example, it would have been Sten (since his name comes alphabetically before “Tobias”).

I encourage everyone who reads this message to embrace this protocol and disseminate it amongst your respective social circles. No longer will you struggle to reconnect with the people from whom you’ve been cut off. No longer will you try and call someone back while they are simultaneously trying to call you—casting both of you into an endless cycle of immediate voicemail greetings (not unlike when you’re trying to get into a locked car and you’re pulling the handle at the same time that the person in the car is hitting the power unlock switch).