Angela, I thought that was your sexy ass..

I have made the informed decision that 'So You Think You Can Dance' is the best foreplay out there on the market today.

I mean, think about it - you have all the elements necessary for a good time: hot writhing bodies that can dance much better than you can or ever will, and the free entertainment of watching them girate against each other to the exact rythym of your rapidly burning loins. The doctor couldn't prescribe a better antecdote to an otherwise boring Wednesday nite.

There really is something to be said for this kind of carnal on-screen stimulus - even though some of the modern moves are classics that I perform in my own bedroom when no one (or everyone's) watching, there are also hot little numbers that make me want to grab the nearest man and never let go.

Such is life.

I really do believe that shows like this one are sneaky pornos in disguise, set forth to spread horny into unsuspecting living rooms across the nation. Granted, many of the pieces are also as moving as they are lusty. I'd be lying if I said I haven't teared up. But oftentimes the innate hunger for lovin' that comes with watching this show overrules my tear ducts, and I'm okay with it.

Though I deeply enjoy the strange sensation I get watching these powerful dances on stage, there is also something to be said for the fact that they in turn make me loathe my pitiful non-dancing existence. My body will never move the way theirs do, and I'm pretty sure I won't be allowed to wear a half-dress and frolic onstage in front of millions of viewers any time soon. (Though the world would undoubtedly be a much more scary place if I did.)

So for now I'll continue to blush from the couch, and cross my legs tighter than I thought possible while I live vicariously through the life of an artistic wonder I'll never be.

And wonder bashfully if anyone else has the secret fantasy that a sexy dancing man will suddenly and accidentally appear in their living room.

Yes please.

I'm petrified of nipple chafing. Once it starts, it's a vicious circle.

or, The Weekend of Mexico and a Marathon.

And what a weekend it was.

That's right bros and hoes, I FINISHED the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon. And don't ask me if I ran the whole thing, most people don't. So piss off. I finished.

But this epic and equally tragic event cannot fully be appreciated without reiterating the events that occured on the eve of the marathon, because these proceedings will go down in history (I hope) as the stupidest thing I will ever do.

One thing that this evening proved to me, is that talking on the phone using a wireless headset is in no way less distracting than holding the phone in your goddamn hand. Because regardless of where my actual telephone was while I was gabbing to my NY running guru on the 5 freeway, I STILL took the 5 south from downtown, and STILL didn't notice until it was too late. Much too late.

That's right, people. I ended up in motherfuckingmexico. MEXICO. Accidentally. I ACCIDENTALLY DROVE TO MEXICO. What?!

The best part of this momentous occasion was the fact that when I phoned my friends, naturally, hysterical about the fact that I was LOST in motherfuckingmexico, without ANY GAS IN MY TANK, mind you, they most definitely did not believe me. How could you be in Mexico? 'Well guys, there's only Mexicans here and all the signs are in Spanish. Oh and there's lots of Raiders gear. So...boom.'

After asking a cab driver how to get back to 'Saaan Diiiiieeeegooooo,' turning the wrong way down a one-way pot-holed street, finally finding the endless line of wonder that is border control, and waiting 50 effing minutes to cross back into the land of fake-but-just-as-good-when-you're-scared-of-pumping-gas-in-real-Mexico Mexican food, I eventually arrived at the blessed window of freedom.

'I accidentally came here.'

'You "accidentally" came here?'

'Yes.'

'Didn't you see the HUGE sign?'

Blank pitiful stare.

Sweet lord almighty.

And somehow, I ran a marathon the next day. A motherfuckingmarathon, after being in motherfuckingmexico just 7 hours before. So no, I didn't run the whole thing. And yes, the last 6 miles felt like a slow and painful death in the Desert of Pain and Misfortune, but it was hands-down one of the coolest things I've done or will do in my life.

I may have walked like a Mexican over-laid hooker for the next three days in an attempt to avoid actually using my obliterated muscles, but it was all worth it.

Olé.