After our attempt to attend an advanced screening of Watchmen last night was foiled by people without jobs but a copious amount of time on their hands to stand in line all day, Mark and I went to dinner…

“Booth or a table?” The hostess asked.

“Booth,” Mark answered.

“Can we get one of those booths with doors so we can close ’em and be all private?” I inquired.

Mark shook his head, “You always make it awkward.”

We didn’t get a private booth, but I did consider sliding on in next to Mark so that we could both be seated on one side of the booth. You know, like a couple of dudes bromancing one another?

But the crushing disappointment of not getting to see Watchmen sapped my energy for such harassment. Next time, Mark. Next time.