Chivalry is dead, and it was killed by this guy ----->

On the way home from work yesterday, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some yogurt and granola. You see, I recently arrived home after my MFA residency where I was served yogurt, among other things, for breakfast every day, so I had a hankering for active cultures.

Anyway, I grabbed a big bulk box of yogurt and a bag of granola and headed toward the self-checkout. When I got there, all the lanes were full, and this one guy was waiting in line. As I approached him, he said, "Go right ahead," and made this little sweeping gesture with his hand. I figured, ok, he must be letting me go ahead of him because I only have two things and he's a genteel. So I stood in front of him.

A second later, he made this little clearing-of-the-throat sound and said, "The line's behind me." Really? REALLY? From what I deduce, his "Go right ahead" statement must have actually been meant as a signal to cross in front of him and then take my "rightful" place behind him in line. So I stood there stunned for a minute and moved behind him.

First of all, I don't need some guy's permission to cross his path. (This isn't Iran.), and second, who would go through the bother of specifying that I should move to the back? I mean, there were only a few of us in line and eight lanes! I've been told lately that I should be nicer to strangers, but it took every ounce of self-control not to say, "Oh, I thought you were being A GENTLEMAN!"

Karma allowed me to swipe my two measly items and pay and get the hell out of there before he even finished. So there. Ha.

Gentlemen's Club and Other Euphemisms

The other night, I came back to my car to find a little 5 by 7 card stuck under my windshield wiper. Ah yes, a popular form of Vegas advertising I like to call "the dribble," which I named after what our more productive city-dwellers, pigeons, leave on my windshield. While you're inside a business, peons dribble bulletins advertising psychics, health food stores, hookers, and, as was the case the other night, strip clubs. I unlocked my car doors, settled into my seat, started the engine, and looked up to see the high-gloss (classy), double-sided, card-stock ad, which I plucked through my rolled down window.

Beautiful. This particular dribble advertised Crazy Horse, a Vegas strip club of moderate reputation. I'm sorry, a "gentlemen's club." Where did this euphemism start, anyway? Do they think they're fooling anyone? If Crazy Horse called themselves a strip club, would men shy away from going there. "I'm sorry, Lou, I can't go to your bachelor party and look at naked women. I only fluff my nosegay at GENTLEMEN'S clubs."

I don't think this ever happened. In fact, when I studied the ad closer (for research purposes), I notice two other euphemisms on the same card. In honor of football season, Crazy Horse is now featuring a special unit of dancers known as the "tight ends." (Hee hee hee.) Also, they claim to showcase a variety of "ladies."

Ha. Ladies.