The Better Part of Valor

I like gossip. No apologies here. Some may find it lowbrow, sneaky and/or mean, petty, all of that and more, but I truly do like to exchange of scandalous information about famous people and the less-famous people who populate my world. Sorry, everyone.

It's a dirty secret, or not-so-secret, one of my many, made dirtier by the fact that gossip is considered twice as unseemly among guys. Straight guys, at least. Uptight.

This puts me at risk for many things. First, I am susceptible to embarassing situations in which I'm caught putting my otherworldly reading skills to use on something like "Hollywood Babylon" or the online version of Page Six. I have to admit, I don't feel like the most macho fellow in the room when it becomes obvious that I know more about Jennifer Garner's supposed new pregnancy than I do about power tools. Much more, by the way.

More gravely, I risk credibility. Yesterday, Tuesday, three people told me secrets. All of them were told in confidence, by people who know me well. I don't think they will be too difficult to keep, but they reminded me of how many times people have told me things, only to have me run off overwhelmed by the sheer value of the information I now possess, barely able to contain myself with the urge to tell someone. Think drunken sailor with a pocket full of cash.

To be fair, sometimes these secrets are told without the proper framing. Yesterday, two out of the three secrets told to me were told with clear-cut warnings: do not tell anyone. This morning I woke up and decided that a warning, for me, was a good thing. As long as I know I'm MOST DEFINITELY not supposed to tell anyone, I will not. I mean, the last thing anyone wants to do is hurt someone you know and care about.

We gossips, we mean well, for real. But it's very tough. It's compulsive, I tell you.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, please reset. I am male, I am straight, I am the committed father of a child who has thrown up three times today (bad day to be a Jawa, I've got to say, unless you consider the endless TV-watching element of childhood illness). I love sports and am participating in a March Madness pool. And I will keep these three secrets, plus any others explicitly laid out to me as secrets.

Have you ever wondered why so many serial killers seem to be from the greater Seattle area? Is this fact, or just a myth perpetuated by true-crime writer Ann Rule? Is Ann Rule to killers in Seattle as Herb Caen was to the romantic image of San Francisco?

So help me Ted Bundy, I wonder about this.

Speaking of Seattle, and the rainy weather so inextricably tied into the place, I'm as tired of our recent global warming-fueled bizarre weather as anyone, but I'm more sick of the "it's raining" excuse for general malaise. Me, I don't mind a little rain. Our recent weather is bothersome more because it's so strange and unpredictable.

Yesterday, the day in which people decided to bring me their secrets, included several long stretches of sun and relative warmth, broken up by fierce hailstorms. I swear, I thought the apocalypse was coming, for the second time in the past week. Stepping out of the Valley Tavern last Friday night to find snow on the roof of the Acura was equally jarring. I don't mind rain, but when the weather is strange enough for you to start looking for the eight-headed hydra in the sky, it can have an effect on your psyche.

El Nino? La Nina? La Cucaracha? No idea. I sure could use a good raincoat, though.