This, that and the other thing

Before I start, I must make an admission; last week's column was a really bad idea. But I did learn something; defending the French is a lost cause and should never be attempted. Even French people were writing me after the article was published, saying "Ze French, zay suck, so stop trying to zeefend them." I still disagree, but I ought to know what battles to fight, no pun intended. Even our resident HoboMaster himself, one Joel Murphy, couldn't hide his disdain for my efforts. In his newsletter, he "slipped up" with his writing to suggest that the French never really had, in fact, won a military battle. It was the first and only mistake of this kind that I've ever seen him make.

Coincidence? I think not. Check the May 17th newsletter to see for yourself.

Today's column features not some well thought out, coherent and neatly formed mini-essay on Franco-American cultural aspects, but instead is compiled of seemingly random extrapolations from the cauldron of my mind. None are too long; in fact the entire article could likely be read during the first half of your sandwich that you are devouring in your cubicle – the lunchtime literary equivalent of a People magazine article during a well deserved bathroom sit-down.

Sorry if you expected more, but it is all I can muster this week. Perhaps it's better that way.

Let's start with the good – I got engaged to be married about two weeks ago. Is there another type of engaged? Perhaps it is possible to get engaged to the lunar sanitation module of the international space station, or to become engaged in a serious discussion of some kind. That about sums up the types of engaged people can get in to.

But I, in my infinite wisdom, asked some Irish blokette to be my wife, and much to my surprise (and most everyone who knows me), she actually said yes. I didn't know I was going to pop the question until about 48 hours prior to the event; we were staying at a lovely house in Bethany Beach for the weekend, and it had been on my mind to ask the lovely Evelyn for many months (yes, someone named Evan is getting married to someone named Evelyn, and the next person to consider themselves a genius for combining our names into "Evanlyn" is getting kicked in the groin), but it just occurred to me as we made our way down to the beach this would be the perfect opportunity. So I had neither the time nor the financial resources to get a really good ring, thus I figured I'd get something to tide us over until the real thing could be obtained. A little plastic dolphin doohickey ring was just the ticket, or so I thought. She really likes Dolphins, after all.

Everything worked out great, I did the whole romantic thing, got down on one knee at a private beach in the morning without another person in sight, and she said yes. Yippie! But I'm here to tell all you fellas out there a stark, simple truth; you can't, I mean you CAN'T screw the pooch on the ring - even if you are marrying the crunchiest Earth girl named Sunflower who swears she doesn't care about it. Trust me on this; even the most mellow, down-to-earth tree hugger will go into girly-girl romantic dreamy mode when the reality of marriage sets in. And she will want a kick-ass ring to show off to all her friends. So get her one.

Interesting side note – all Evelyn's Irish friends were blissfully happy as they showered us with congratulations, and not a single one of them – I mean not one – made any mention of the ring. But all her American friends? Total opposite. Congratulations, consmatchulations. Let's see the flippin' ring already. Marriage was an afterthought.

So, to paraphrase Will Farrell in Old School, I'm basically agreeing to have sex with only one woman – yes, her – for the rest of my life. But they way I figure, I can have sex with as many women as I want, as long as they live on the Internet.

That was a joke, honey. Ha, ha. OW! MEDIC!

If that wasn't enough for one week, we are moving in together the day after this article publishes, so I've been hauling my crap all over town today (that's the bad), which is something I really do not enjoy. Herein lies Stark Truth #2: Pay people to move for you. If you can't afford to pay people to move for you, then stay put, numbskull.

Lastly, I can't go an entire article without commenting on something ridiculous. This has nothing to do with getting married, as far as I can tell.

During the car ride home this evening, the evening DJ on the "new" rock station here in DC called "The Globe" (which is not really new at all – it's basically the same classic rock station it supplanted - called "The Arrow" - minus Styx, Kansas and Journey, replaced by Talking Heads, The Smiths and Depeche Mode, with a Goreian enviro-message thrown in for good measure) made a brief pause in playing "The Music You Listened While You Were Drinking and Doing Bong Hits In College In The 80's and 90's," and entertained us with a lovely and important story on how Cameron Diaz lost her mind at a party when she saw former beau Justin Timberlake and the current hottest girl on the planet Jessica Biel having cuddle time, and how this whole scenario is causing the promoters and producers of the MTV Awards to have fits because they are supposedly terrified at the prospect of a Biel/Diaz onstage catfight at said upcoming awards show. (Longest sentence – 164 words - in HoboHistory, BTW). The DJ then went on to guffaw, "Hollywierd ... just keeps getting weirder and weirder, doesn't it?"

Gee, yeah, that's so weird. Only saw that type of thing happen about 324,091 times during high school.

It's simple, really; Biel is hotter than Diaz; Diaz knows this, which makes Diaz insecure, as she used to be Mrs. Hottie USA, but no longer holds that title. Insecurity manifests itself into fear, which quickly turns into anger at the sight of recently departed fuck toy making smoochie with new hottie; add alcohol, and bingo, you've got screaming-drunk chick-at-a-party syndrome. Now, apparently, certain people are experiencing trepidation at the thought of the two of them crossing paths again, as if the mongrels at MTV wouldn't actually love an on-stage catfight anyway. Yawn ... stretch ... scratch self.

Did I really need to hear this blithering tripe between Psycho Killer and Kashmir? Who cares!?! Grow up people!

Evan Redmon is a manager of a public golf course in Washington, D.C. and writes a few things about stuff sometimes. Contact him at evanredmon@yahoo.com if you really want.