Gas Stations

Gas stations have to be a germaphobe's second worst nightmare (shaking Courtney Love's hand of course being first). Between the oil-splattered blacktop, the dried-grease-coated rotating hot dog grill, and those bacteria petting zoos commonly referred to as gas pump handles, every square inch of a gas station's property is a festering Petri dish of undiscovered diseases. Have you ever seen someone cleaning a gas station restroom? Me neither. Someone pushing an already dirty, wet mop around the floor doesn't count. That janitorial tool is likely adding to the tile floor's stockpile of purulent infections that end in "-itis."

Let's be honest, wearing anything shy of a hazmat suit at a gas station is an outright gamble with a communicable rash.

And then there are the puddles. The murky, rainbow-colored, seemingly omnipresent puddles. They're by the gas pumps, in the parking lots, along the sidewalks, in the mulch below the pointless boxwood shrubs... creating this obstacle course of small, flowing streams and stagnant pools that await your white running shoes' misstep should you venture inside to claim that 5-liter Big Gulp fountain drink for 79 cents. The individual components of these puddled amalgams are inconsistent and unknown. Is that water down there? Is it oil? Maybe antifreeze? Or spilled coffee? Urine? Vomit? Toxic waste? Afterbirth? All I know is my personal primary objective of each gas station visit, besides aiming for the "perfect pump" on a round dollar figure, is to avoid all surrounding droplets or collections of liquid on the ground, no matter the cost or awkward stance while pumping gas. And, believe me, I've pumped gas in some awkward, shameless stances. One foot flat while the other is on toes; two feet propped on the pump's side with my back leaning against the car; both feet tiptoeing while straddling the hose like no straight man should comfortably position himself. But I drive away in puddle-free shoes, man -- no dirt, no spots, no chlamydia.

Another thing about gas stations that irritates me is that stupid little "9" on the gas station signs. You see that? That forgotten "9" standing behind the price per gallon at a fraction of the height of its numerical counterparts? Yeah, gas stations are still doing that -- tacking on .9 cents to each gallon of gas. And we've let them continue that crap, just surrendering and accepting it without question. That may have made more sense when the gas cost a quarter (though still bastardly), but now it's just inordinately egregious. Look, oil companies, you're already hosing me with each fill-up -- how about letting me keep my 9/10 of a penny per gallon of fuel, huh?

Readers: call your congressmen and tell them you want that miniscule "9" dropped from the prices! ...No? They won't do that? Well, what about enforcing clean toilets?

Clubs

Let's open up with some brutal honesty: I'm a worthless dancer, which is actually a bit odd considering I can beatbox (no, seriously) and several years ago won a freestyle battle competition at a Busta Rhymes concert (no, seriously); yet somehow the rhythm just doesn't transfer from my head and mouth to my hips and lifeless limbs. There are worse dancers out there, but I absolutely do my share in reinforcing that white-male stereotype. Suffice it to say, I dance like Helen Keller jump-roped. So I typically do everyone and my ego a favor and stay off the dance floor. But like NCAA rulings suggest, there are exceptions to every self-mandated rule. If the situation, music, and cleavage are right, sure, ol' Claude might cut a rug or two.

But rare exceptions aside, I stay away from clubs. It's not my scene and I'm mostly uncomfortable there. My inability to dance well is a large contributor to that, but it doesn't help that I'm not tall enough to be noticed, I don't own any skin-tight T-shirts slathered with dragons and tigers and indecipherable cursive, and my body is free of barbed wire tattoos around my biceps. Call me old-fashioned, but I far prefer to sit down with someone and, you know, talk.

If you haven't been to a club in years, even decades, nothing has changed. While modernity is always at the forefront of all visual and aural aspects of and within clubs, the fundamentals remain the same. It's still a meat market with nearly everyone in competition with their counterparts. There are still lights and effects, vibrant-colored drinks, and fire marshal-disapproved crowd capacities. The guys are still overplaying their hand, the girls are still flaunting fashion that's hot now but mockable in 10 years, and the DJs are still hand-picking the bottom of the barrel of Billboard's Top 100 and then remixing the crap out of it until its level of stupidity matches that of the increasingly intoxicated club-goers who have been busy equally dumbing themselves down by way of sugary mixed drinks and shots christened after various sexual positions.

The sociology you can study in clubs supersedes what any college course offers. As more of the sit-back-and-watch-the-night-unfold type myself, I take great, great pleasure in observing the predictable uniformity in roles all men and all women automatically assume upon receiving the literal stamp of approval from the bouncer. Without hesitation, we men go on the prowl with tongues hanging, eager to nudge any other male bystanders so as to point out any remotely sensual sights and build instant camaraderie with each other around our shared appreciation for the female body and those who parade it well. This is when we men are at our lowest and most vulnerable point; it's embarrassing. And women know this, which is why they, also without hesitation, taunt and tease anyone breathing and dance with each other in impenetrable, hip-locked groups, acting like attention is the last thing they want -- until 17 guys give it to them, and then it's all smiles, poses, and whatever it takes to get more attention and hopefully a night of endless free drinks.

Ah, clubs... if they weren't so pathetic and clichéd, they'd be funny. ...Actually, no, they're still pretty funny anyway.