Blogging Contest!

FCN now has six contributors and all of us are out of school for the Christmas break (that's "xmas" for all of you reading this on your iPhones). We are happy to be on vacation, down from the ivory tower and back in the real world with the rest of normal America. But with the respite from classes, grades and examinations comes a great deal of free time -- free time which is not always put to the most productive use. Free time which makes the six of us feel cooped up and antsy and causes us to grate on one another, forming wounds that turn painful because they can't scab because of the constant grating.

I am finally getting to understand why J. Lo divorced Ojani Noa (hubby #1) so quickly. I think I know why Bernard Madoff was finally double-crossed by his sons. I comprehend Eve's thinking when she ate the apple.

This pressurized tank needs a release valve.

We did this once before and it resulted in two painful posts and one stroke of unadulterated brilliance.

Over the weekend, a theme for the upcoming FCN writing contest will be selected. On Monday, F will post his take on the theme. He'll be followed by, in order: N, Chip, Jessica, Ana and C. If any reader class notes are submitted, they'll come at the end. When all of us have put up our best efforts, we'll make a really gaudy poll and ask you, the faithful few, to select the contributor who wrote the best treatment of the theme.

Sounds simple, right? And very American.

But we're going to make it even MORE American by letting you, our readers, decide the theme. How awesome is that? Extremely awesome. Get your Free Speech on by commenting below with the topic you think we should use for our contest.

Possible examples: War, Love, Donuts, Blogging, Buying a Car, Ear Pressure at High Altitudes, Mouse Traps, Existentialism ...

Dating Disaster

"Everyone has these days." That's what I told myself during a sixteen hour period when everything went wrong before even considering going right. You know what I'm talking about: Nothing works out as it should. Regularly taken gambles and risks are rewarded with the sort of destitution normally reserved for the risk addicted, things that should go up go down and vice versa, polite comments are interpreted as premeditated insults and even friends begin to question your sanity.

You've probably had these kinds of days - you may have even had a day as bad as mine - but it is unlikely that you shared that experience with a beautiful woman.

We'll call her "Alexis" because I don't want to spend a great deal of time agonizing over a name for a woman who probably detests me and wouldn't read my writing for all the orange juice in Florida. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I met Alexis at a nondescript social function through school, the kind of affair that the politically and socially savvy frequent and that neck ties enjoy because they provide a vacation from their wrinkled and lonely closet existence. One look at Alexis revealed she was out of my league. Blond and attractive, she had radiant features and a captivating smile that every guy in the room noticed.

When I first saw her, I was mid sentence with a group of jocks talking about n'importe quoi. I stopped and my jaw must have gone slack since the whole group turned to follow my gaze. As one they answered my unstated question: "She's out of your league, man."

With my friends' statement as encouragement, I grabbed a couple of the cheesy fondue pieces that passed as "refreshments" at the shing-ding and moseyed in her general direction. When we met I was pleasantly surprised that she was able to overlook my many social faux pas and general lack of grace. We had a conversation (she was more than just a pretty face) and, by the end of the evening, a scheduled date. Take that, jealous jocks.

To get to the distant amusement park for which I'd bummed tickets in time to enjoy an entire day of nauseating fun, Alexis and I had to leave at an ungodly early hour. For a derelict like me, any hour before noon is early, but when the alarm rings much before twelve it's easy to ignore the noise as irritation and sleep on. That's exactly what I did. When I rolled out of bed, groggy eyed and rested, I glanced at my clock radio with the curious expression of a six year-old. The green numbers were not what I expected to see when I'd prepared myself for an early departure the night before. Nor, for that matter, did they represent a time at all close to the rendez-vous time Alexis and I had set for our trip.

It's always a tad embarrassing to stand a girl up. There was that time my senior year in High School when I accidentally scheduled two dates at once and took the "where are you?" call from one girl while dining with another. My "thanks for the call, mom" hang up line managed to further infuriate the girl I'd stood up and was unconvincing to the young woman I was with. If you're reading this, Liz, I'm sorry. And you deserve better, too, Becky. Then there was the time I decided to stop for pizza on the way to pick up my date for a dinner and dance. She smelled the pepperoni on my breath when I got to her house thirty minutes late and my flat tire excuse deflated quickly. There was also the time I plumb forgot about a lunch obligation and was halfway through my break and on the other side of town when the young woman called with a reminder.

These "Great Moments in Stand Up History" pale in comparison to my half-dressed, 45 minute late arrival. As soon as I remembered my date, I determined I didn't have time to shower, shave or shine, the three Ss of my morning routine. So I grabbed Lysol from under the bathroom sink and gave my entire body a quick application. The smell was overpowering, so I dug around for the Febreze and gave the strategic locations a few squirts. Still dissatisfied, I turned a bottle of aftershave upside down over my head and toweled my hair dry. In retrospect, a little cologne might have added some musk to my potpourri of scents, but I didn't think to reach for my room mate's bottle of Stetson.

I actually entered my car wearing only underwear but managed to dress while averaging over ninety miles per hour on the freeway. Did I mention I was driving a manual transmission? Or that my super efficient economy car is on the opposite end of the spacious spectrum from Loretta Lynn's Lincoln. I pulled into the parking lot where we were to meet, having been awake only 45 minutes, but smelling, I'm sure, like I'd just gotten out of the soap factory. When Alexis sat down in the passenger seat, she wrinkled her nose and stifled a sneeze. I pointed to my car's frame, which was home to more dirt than the underside of a horse's hoof, and said I'd just had it waxed. Alexis' nonpulsed answer revealed my lie's ineffectiveness and I noticed her glancing furtively at my hair which I admit had a sort of Vegas air.

At that moment, sitting next to a young woman who really did justice to the term "beautiful" in her chic green jacket and white blouse, my day was not going badly. In fact, had it ended right then with some kind of meteoric disaster, I'd have few regrets.

But it didn't end there. Alexis has the political views of a slightly demented Maoist minion and, after a few minutes of listening to her compare Dennis Kucinich to Mike Gravel, two men who have the combined political clout of my deceased dog, I told her as much. Some people watch Crossfire for entertainment, but few want to experience that level of argumentative intensity on a first date. I was no exception. It took the restraint of a Gregorian Monk to keep from pulling to the side of the interstate and leaving her to walk back to her communal abode.

I was just starting to warm up to Alexis when we stopped for breakfast. For some reason Alexis wanted to take a walk, so we hoofed around for twenty minutes before selecting an eatery. With the words of Avril Lavigne ringing in my ears ("I have to pull my money out and that looks bad"), I insisted on paying for the meal. Only the restaurant didn't take credit. And I didn't have any cash on me. I turned glumly to my date. "Alexis?" Like me, Alexis was a plastic aficionado who had about as much of the green stuff as the hairy guy with the shopping cart on Fourth and Vine. In fact, the richest entity between us was my car, which likes to keep some money in the ashtray.

From car to eatery and back was a little over three miles, but I ran it in less than twenty minutes, a pretty good time for an out of shape derelict. I also ran it in jeans and shirt, both of which lost their soapy smell by the end of the ordeal. Alexis enjoyed her meal while my body recovered from the run.

After rinsing out my shirt (Alexis' idea), we got back in the car and continued toward our destination. That's when the unthinkable happened.

I was on a sparsely trafficked freeway, going at about the speed of the other cars, maybe a little faster. I'd stopped sweating and Alexis wasn't talking politics. Things were looking up. Then, in one moment, my biggest claim to driving fame evaporated and, with it, I lost my tax rebate. That's right, I got ticketed. I did everything right. I told the officer I was late for work at In N' Out burger (an establishment that gives uniformed police officers a discount), that my new shoes had a bigger sole than I was used to and that my friend was in labor and that I was driving her to the hospital. When I mentioned my date, the officer took a closer look. His reaction was as unpredictable as it was crushing.

"Alexis?"

"Dad?"

That's right, I got pulled over by my date's cop dad. He wrote me up for the maximum and confiscated his daughter, telling her that she shouldn't be "keeping the company of such..." while gesturing toward me to emphasize his unfinished sentence. He also told me Alexis was out of my league. I drove home alone and went to bed as quickly as possible. I wanted that date to be over.

The next day, I called Alexis twice and left imploring messages. I emailed her, too. A few days later I blocked my number and called, but she hung up as soon as I identified myself. Her meaning could not have been more clear: another dating disaster.

Confessions of a Fat Man

The following was sent to FCN from a good friend and somewhat faithful reader who needed a venue to cry for help. This post is part of his therapy. Please give him an encouraging comment and keep his sad plight in mind next time you visit Sizzler.

I used to think that I was a normal young man. I ate my grandmother's apple pie. I liked baseball. I believed in the American way. I had two dogs and an eccentric family. My mother was an immigrant. I was the classic American boy. Or so I thought.

One lonely new year's eve, I happened to glance at a mirror. What I saw left me dumbstruck. There was a lot more of me in that mirror than I had counted on. Instead of the fit young man I was looking for, staring back at me was an abomination that could serve as a counterweight for the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I was fat.

At the time I tipped the scales at around ** —NOTE: THE EXACT AMOUNT HAS BEEN CONCEALED FOR THE PRIVACY OF THE AUTHOR— It was at that moment that I realized that something must be done. I set for myself a modest goal. To lose five pounds over the course of the year. I failed miserably. That year my weight marched into the triple digits. Each year since that fateful revelation, my New Year's resolution has been to lose five pounds. Sadly instead of losing unwanted adipose, I am consistently gaining weight at such an alarming speed that my mother has had to take me into town each year to purchase new clothes to accommodate my growing paunch. Today, when I step on a scale, I see the needle fly all the way to ***!

The thing about my weight that really bothers me is the way people look at me. When I walk in a supermarket, I see people staring. I know what they are thinking. I know people use words like, fatso, blimp, barge, blubber man, plump, big boned, stocked for famine, pregnant, obese, convex, structurally challenged, couch, Manuel Uribe Garza, and many other words that are too exciting to print, including some that have been banned by weight watchers (who are marvelous loving people, by the way). I see some mothers talk to their children as I walk by, some even point. They are telling their children to eat their fruits and vegetables, but not too many of them. They are telling their children that I am the result of too much candy. The only solace I find in my entire weight situation, is the knowledge that I serve as a waddling warning klaxon to this nation's youth.

I remember when a man approached me and asked“When is the baby due?” This comment hurt me so deeply that I could not think of a suitable response for over 10 minutes. However after some careful thought, I approached the man and asked him “When is YOUR baby due?” I felt that this was an appropriate comment until he demonstrated that he was much stronger than I. So strong, in fact, that he was able to pick me up and throw me through a glass door, which is no small feat given my aforementioned weight.

There is one thing, one person, who makes me more sensitive about my weight than anything else: My girlfriend, the apple of my eye. I know that the joy of my life loves me even with my extra five pounds, but I want to be the best I can for my Jewel. My Ruby is perfect in every way. There is nothing that can stand next to her and scratch even one tenth of one percent of her amazing personality. That smile. The softness of her voice when she greets me. Her very name means pure, and she is the purest of gold. I want my sugar plumb to be happy. I don't want my cookie to be burdened with the sadness of looking at me each day, and knowing that I am overweight; knowing that someday I will die and that my weight problem is only speeding up the process. I know my darling sweetheart would never tell me she is concerned about my weight because she knows how much it hurts for me, but I know it hurts her. I know it when her arms can't quite make it all the way around me when we hug. I see it in my baby's eyes when we pretend to watch a sunset. It is mainly because of the sorrow I cause my guiding light, my love, my soul mate, my honey bee, my 29 out of 29 on eharmony, that I have been diligently working on reducing my weight.

Each year I have employed a different weight loss strategy in the hopes of regaining a svelte appearance.

Year 1) THE YEAR OF IGNORANCE: I ignored my weight in the hopes that my problem would disappear. Though this strategy felt good and was the easiest, it failed miserably.

Year 2) THE YEAR OF LIPOSUCTION: They sucked a good ten pounds out of me. Let me say that liposuction is a real rush. Anyone who has not tried it should definitely give it a shot. It beats any roller coaster I have ever been on. Sadly I could not keep the weight off. I gained that weight back and another 10 pounds afterwards.

Year 3) THE YEAR OF GASTRIC BANDING: Stomach Stapling. It sounds really bad, but it isn't. They give you lots of morphine and other addictive narcotics that make the whole thing truly enjoyable. It certainly made my stomach smaller, but it didn't keep me from eating. I ate constantly and, though I had a reduced stomach capacity, I kept my gizzard stuffed to the brim. I gained more weight that year than the previous two years combined.

Year 4) THE YEAR OF JEREMY: My tape worm...at least he was my tapeworm until my doctor found out. I opted for adoption. Low and behold I had a friend who was searching for a companion. That gentleman took my friend, named him Jeremy and has been treating him with uncommon dignity for many years now. I still go see him sometimes to catch up. I miss him, but I know he is in good care. The surgery that separated me from my friend lost me five pounds. Jeremy had kept me from gaining weight, but once again I could not keep the weight off.

Year 5) THE YEAR OF ELECTRICITY: I got serious. For those of you who have been electrocuted, you know the weight benefits. For twenty minutes a day I would stick my finger in an electrical outlet, and let nature fry my adipose tissue. Let me say that the biggest barrier between me and my weight goal, is my doctor. Right when I have a good thing going, he always steps in and tries to stop it. I think he likes me being fat. One day my mother found me with my finger in the outlet, she immediately took me to the doctor (I wonder if my own mother has turned on me!). The doctor immediately took me off of my weight program (which had been working marvelously) and prescribed me some pills which were supposed to help my heart and liver out after the 'damage' I had caused them. To this day I do not know why losing weight would hurt your heart, much less your liver. I know my heart is important, but I really don't care all that much for my liver, the doctor had put me on 600mg of different medicines a day. I never took a single one of those pills. Imagine how much more I would weigh if you add 600mg a day up. According to Google over one year I would add a whole 219,000mg to my weight.

Year 6) THE YEAR OF THE MACHINE: Kids, don't try this at home. I created an apparatus that would –EDITED FOR CONTENT— I placed myself in the concaver –EDITED FOR CONTENT— needless to say the pain was unbearable –EDITED FOR CONTENT— I really think that my brother chose the wrong moment to enter the room. His shock was understandable after all I had just finished –EDITED FOR CONTENT— That was when they sent me to that doctor again –EDITED FOR CONTENT— I didn't take those pills either. I may get headaches every day, but I think it is worth it. I couldn't keep that weight off though. In one month I gained back the fifty pounds I lost. Talk about demoralizing

Year 7) THE YEAR OF AUXILIARY ORGAN AMPUTATION: This year, is amputation year. My body is chock full of organs and other things I just don't need. I can do without my appendix, and one of my kidneys can go. I heard of one guy who survived with only one lung. Most of my teeth can go. What do the ones in the back do for you? No one can see them unless you choose to make an exposé out of it. I am thinking about removing one of the muscles that makes up my bicep, maybe go for a the unicep look, maybe even do the same operation to my tricep. Really now, who needs two or three muscles when you can have one do the job. I also am going to shave my head, my eyebrows, and cut off my eyelashes. Dedication is a must to seriously lose weight. My ears can go - the outside part is not needed to hear. My nose (which is INCREDIBLY large and weighty) can be removed. If it worked for Michael Jackson, it can work for me. I am also looking into removing large muscles and tendons. Who really needs their Achilles tendon? The only person I know of who did anything with that thing was Achilles, and that killed him. I don't want to die, I figure that tendon can go. If all that doesn't work, I can amputate my head. A friend once told me that head removal is the best way to lose the ugliest eight pounds on your body. I like that, kill two birds with one stone.

The long and the short of it is that I need help. I am writing this to let out some of the frustration that has built up within me. Many people have called me "anorexic," told me I am "skinny" and made other unhelpful remarks about my weight when I bring it up. I have even had some who chose to laugh in my face about it. Only recently did I find someone who showed true understanding and compassion towards my problem. If it weren't for her, I doubt I would have the courage to write this, even if it is anonymous. I am asking for your help, for your collective cybersupport. I am counting on you.

The Day I Cruised Down Main Street Blasting Handel with the Windows Rolled Down

I was driving out to work yesterday and came to a stop at a - you know - stop light. Someone pulled up to my right and I noticed his presence immediately. This is because he had his windows rolled down and was playing Ludacris' "Ludacrismas" * with the volume up all the way and the bass booster even higher.

* You have to listen past the first 30 seconds to really get the idea.

"How thoughtful of this kind gentleman!" I said to myself. "Here he's not only providing himself with music; he's providing it free of charge to everyone within three city blocks! Some of them probably don't have radios and wish they could listen to Ludacris more often."

The light turned green and the driver to my left moved out ahead of me. I noticed as he went by that he was wearing a doo-rag over a baseball cap over a beanie and had a massive gold chain dangling around his neck. His license plate read: IRGANGSTA.

Touched by this anonymous fellow's simple gesture, I drove on and worked my shift. On the way home, as I pulled to a stop at the nearest stop light, I did a moment of brief soul-searching. It didn't seem right, I reasoned, to sit here keeping my music to myself when people all over town probably wanted to hear it. How could I be so selfish, especially after the good example given me by IRGANGSTA?

So I rolled down the windows and pumped up the volume. My radio was playing Handel's "Harmonious Blacksmith" ** at the time.

** The first 30 seconds will give you a pretty good idea.

The light turned green, and I drove on to the next light. As I pulled to a stop, I noticed a few pedestrians at a bus stop looking around in all directions as if trying to find out where the music was coming from. I waved but they didn't seem to connect the dots. They were looking up in the air, in the sewer drain ...

Green light. Off we go. At the next stop, who should pull up alongside me but IRGANGSTA himself. He looked at me for a second with a look of incredulity. I flashed him a thumbs up and a big grin.

He rolled down his windows.

"Hi there, my brother from a different mother!" I shouted over the music. "Are you not totally digging this beat, yo?" He stared for a moment, then turned on his radio. I didn't catch the piece, but it was in the same vein as what he'd been playing this morning. He cranked the volume up all the way.

We listened to our competing musical selections. After a few moments I felt obligated to say something. "Excuse me, home dog. Sup? Anyway, I wonder if you would mind turning your music down. You see, it doesn't sound very nice when played alongside Handel. The tempos are different. So is the melody. In fact, they're not even in the same key. We're talking some serious shizzle here. I mean, what is up with that? Are you with me?"

He made a gesture to indicate he was definitely not with me just as the light turned green. As we drove, side-by-side, to the next light, I wondered how something as simple as community-mindedness could suddenly get so confrontational.

But having been confronted, I was not one to back down. I turned MY music up all the way. I'm happy to report that my speakers were significantly louder than his. Drivers behind us couldn't pick out IRGANGSTA's music, but they could see his car pulsing and vibrating.

Then I leaned over and shouted at him: "Who is the unfaithful woman now, you unfaithful woman? I am not coming on your tab because your tab isn't a hummer. If you want to blow your wig on my blip, that's solid, because I'm perfectly willing to slide my jib until you're done spouting, so help me. Let's face it, you unhep yard dog. You came up on the wrong riff. You can jump this joint all you want. Mellow. But don't you dare start beating it out while I'm busting my conk keeping the port in the groove. You feel me? Because I suggest you latch on to my signification as soon as you can."

I meant that metaphorically. You know that.

I took a left soon after and we parted ways. I declared victory. But I'm sincerely sorry that we couldn't get along more peaceably. Community radio should be about bringing people together. It should be an act of harmony and unity. And it should be a lot of fun. So if you ever see IRGANGSTA around, tell him I'm sorry.

And give him Josh Groban's latest CD. *** I'm good for it.

*** You really don't need to listen to it to get the idea.

Part the Seventh: She has 'Crush' on you

It was like connecting positive and negative energy, but Luce and I were finally able to reconnect and set up a reconciliatory date. She had scheduling conflicts for most of my available times (school, a babysitting commitment and a best friend's birthday party were all pesky obstacles) so I ended up taking a couple hours off work so we could meet for a leisurely lunch and then walk around a local park.

If you're new to this tragic but all too real tale of failed attempts at love, you can check out the sordid and choppy history of Luce and my relationship here. Or, if you're the kind of person who flips to the back of the book to read the annotated version, it suffices to say that Luce and I have never clicked. I've either been too late, too dumb, too condemning or too verbose. Luce, on the other hand, has been everything; she's a charming date and beautiful companion. I've been borderline comatose.

Before heading out for date number four (or three, depending on whether your definition of a date includes an actual meeting), I sat down with a number of guy friends to put together a strategy. In retrospect, I probably should have had a girl on the consulting team, but I preferred the brand of advice my male friends provided.

Before asking for their input, I laid out my situation clearly, saying that my sensitive ego would not take another throw-it-down rejection. I needed to go into this meeting with a crash the board's mentality and approach Luce with a full court press. I wasn't going to be on the sidelines anymore.

OK, enough with the basketball idioms. Maybe I should add a girl to my team of advisers...

The guys and I reviewed my past experience and weighed reader comments for input. We were pretty sure that Luce's sister was in the military, which ruled out jdb and Adrialien's theory of a familial stand-in (the Luce of Part the Sixth had hair that was beyond regulation length). We also rejected matchmaker's input because it involved going to see a chick flick. In the end we settled on a variant of Frederic's idea and decided to strap on some metaphorical peacock feathers.

Throughout the date, I would be a bold, courageous beast in human form. By the end of our conversation, Luce would know every exploit, achievement and success I had ever caused or been a part of. I would pin her ears back with wordy tales of mighty victories, some embellished for grandeur and all told with wide eyes and guttural voice. I would spare no exaggeration and pull no punches. I would be Leonidas against the Persians, Achilles against the Trojans and William Wallace against the English. By the time I got through detailing my credentials of valor, Luce's crush would be that much more resolved and her affection secured.

"Spartans? Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"

The end of our meeting involved some manly shouting, chest thumping and an arm wrestling match and one of my friends twisted his ankle while demonstrating a Bruce Lee wall-chop, but I was in the right frame of mind for a date as I hopped into my car and drove to the sandwich shop were Luce and I were meeting.

Luce was there when I arrived and, after we exchanged brief pleasantries, she felt a need to explain and justify her previous outburst. I put her at ease with the following reply:

"You know, Luce, a weaker man might have taken offense at your comments. A wuss or the guys who trim their eyebrows might have a hard time coping with such a letdown. I'll bet you Ewan McGregor would still be reeling. But not me. I once faced a whole room full of angry, condemning women. They were mad and I still don't know what I did. To this day, it doesn't bother me a bit. Not a bit. Your words were a drop in bucket compared to the kind of estrogen-filled hate I've been on the business end of. A drop in the bucket."

I think it worked, because she grinned while I was talking and shook her head slightly during the more fantastic portions. She even laughed when I mentioned Ewan McGregor and I made a mental note to thank Reginald for the line.

I didn't get a chance to be macho again until Luce had almost finished her sandwich. She looked down at her plate and said something about how "Mr. Pickles," makes large portions. Deep down inside, I think she was fishing for a compliment about her figure, but for me it was an opportunity to brag:

"Hah! This is nothing. How many calories do you think this sandwich has? 1,200? 1,500?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, I once ate almost 3,000 calories in ten minutes. I wasn't even hungry. I was like Takeru Kobayashi at the Thanksgiving table. Just boom; down the hatch. It was all gone before you could say "anorexia." They called me the Alimentary Vacuum and I considered a few sponsorship offers before staying an amateur. In fact, I'm going to have another sandwich. You want one?"

I don't think Luce knew who Takeru Kobayashi was and she looked more disgusted than anything at my comments.

Despite the fact that I was stuffed to the esophagus with a Mr. Pickles sandwich that was, admittedly, quite large, I walked over to the counter and ordered another. Food was never so painful.

Our walk in the park started off very well. It was a beautiful day and we made small talk for the first few minutes of our promenade. Then Luce brought up Reginald.

Luce wanted to make sure I didn't feel competition from my no-good house mate. She felt the time they were spending together might be perceived as more than friendship and she assured me the only reason she went out with him was because she felt sorry for his plight. I wanted to ask what Reginald's plight was, but my desire to appear strong lead me to feign confidence:

"You know, a lesser man might be concerned, but seriously, I've got this situation covered. Did I ever tell you the story about the guy at the place who tried to steal the girl from me? No? Well, he, you know, ended up...looking...less manly after I, uh, you know, finished with him. The girl's serving some time for an unrelated incident right now so you don't have to worry about her, you know, interfering with us. In fact, you could go out with the guy if you felt sorry for him and I wouldn't take that as a slight. I might even beat him up again although his reconstructive surgeon might not appreciate that..."

The more I spoke, the more ridiculous it sounded and I knew my face reflected my personal feelings of incredulity, so eventually I just shut up. My voice trailed off some and that's when I heard Luce's response.

"Why can't you just be the same person all the time?" She asked with a very feminine fire in here eyes. "One date you're Mr. Nice Guy and now you're trying on Macho Man...just give me the straight story. Don't be an arrogant tool. Be yourself. You don't have to try to impress me. You impress me; when you try you just look impotent and weak. And Ewan McGregor? That sounds like something from Reginald's playbook. Look, I know you're trying, but this isn't working. Call me when you are ready to be yourself."

With that, Luce marched to her car and, after a couple tries at the starter, chug-chugged her Bronco out of the parking lot.

I walked over to the playground set and began banging my head against a protruding monkey bar. How could I have been so idiotic? What could have been a great afternoon was ruined by my own meddling. What was that she'd called me? An arrogant tool? Ouch. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd been called that. And my stomach hurt like something fierce. Why did I have to eat that second sandwich? Why had I taken time off work for this torture?

Maybe Luce was right. Maybe I should try a date without any particular "strategy" and just wing it. I could try being spontaneously attractive. Or, maybe I could try coloring my hair or growing a mustache or something subtle but radical and very "me," whatever that is. How do you try to be yourself, when you've been working so hard to be something else?

I don't know. I definitely want to think about it before I call her again.

Confession #1: I like Chick Flicks

"Confessions" are a new series from FCN in which readers submit or the FCN staff write secret or private confessions for the amusement of others. Like other confession driven writing enterprises, the author of the confession will remain anonymous. Unlike other confession driven writing enterprises, the truth of the confession will not be guaranteed or even supposed.

If you have a confession for the faithful FCN few, send it in to us at FunnyClassNotes -at- gmail -dot- com

Confession #1: I like Chick Flicks

I'm a guy. I'm a shade under six feet tall and athletic. I have a pretty deep voice and I know how to talk tough. I don't flinch very often and I can't stand sissies. That's why it's ironic that I like chick flicks.

Guys are supposed to appreciate the "art" of dramatic gun, grimace and go home flicks, a genre generally labeled as "action movies." We men are supposed to be disgusted at the simple plots, thin acting and male pansies who adorn the screen of so-called "date movies." We are supposed to roll our eyes when our female friends talk about the latest Lindsay Lohan, Charlize Theron or Mandy Moore production; we aren't supposed to appreciate the clichéd acting of Kate Winslet or get excited at the thought of a movie with Cameron Diaz.

I break the mold. I thought John Tucker Must Die was an absolute delight of a film. I thoroughly enjoyed The Holiday and thought Mean Girls was one of Lohan's better productions although Just My Luck gave it a run for its money; Bridget Jone's Diary left me panting and Something's Gotta Give was so sweet; The English Patient was slow, but worth it and Titantic, oh, Titanic!

The Horse Whisperer was one of Robert Redford's better performances; You've Got Mail was the highlight of Tom Hank's career and was a perfect showcase for Meg Ryan; The Beach House had me spinning until the end; and one line brings back all the happy memories of Truly, Madly, Deeply: "I really, truly, madly, passionately, remarkably, deliciously... juicily love you...." Oh yeah!.

Don't get me wrong; Rogers and Hammerstein is a bit much and kiddie movies don't do the trick. Some musicals are excellent, others are too slow to justify the viewing and I outgrew Anne Hatheway years ago.

As a rule of thumb, if it's on Lifetime or O!, I will probably appreciate it. Like any genre, it needs to be done well; I didn't confess to liking cheap movies, just chick flicks.

(As an aside, I just realized it took me about three minutes to write the above four paragraphs. That's how conversant I am in chick flicks. Ask me any question about the genre; I can probably answer it).

It's not that I don't like action movies - the Die Hard series was excellent and Jason Bourne is still my man crush - it's just that I also appreciate the tender films. That's my confession.

EDIT: Thanks to an email from a concerned reader for the reminder, I should note that none of the above referenced movies come with the FCN endorsement. In order to garner the requisite knowledge about the films, we are sure our author viewed the Clean Films version or closed his eyes during the inappropriate sequences.