Awkward is as Awkward Does

I was trying to think of the most awkward moment in my life the other day, and struggling to find that one perfect instance of unbelievable discomfort. Few have had the "shit-pants-on-bridge-then-tell-future-wife-about-it" moment to reflect on, laugh about, and ultimately relish. So when a most unremarkable Sunday became, well... remarkable, it provoked some thought. Query: can someone else's most insufferable awkward moment become one's one awkward moment? Quite simply, yes. Yes it can.

Let me set the scene. Eldiablgogrande recently decided to move into a beautiful new home with his lovely wife and two dogs. To execute this task, he collected the finest and strongest, the most diligent and energetic, the best strategic thinkers LWFs can buy -- Mr. Fine Tone and Mr. Juice. And what does one do after they move? One holds a makeshift sidewalk sale to sell one's crap. Well "sell" would be a misnomer. Apparently there isn't a high demand on the streets of Northern Liberties for 5 inch bright colored pumps. Or any of Sayeh's shit.

But what is there a high demand for in what used to be the badlands of our fair city? Gays. Gays, trannies, well-groomed chest hair, super tight shorts (on dudes), and festive people feasting on water ice and enjoying a sunny, humid day in their finest overpriced shades. That's right, NoLibs was having a gay festival of sorts. And we have decided to sell things that don't appeal to anyone other than our favorite new homeowners, a shameful shortcoming to say the least. So there we sit, comfortably reclined in lawn chairs on a very small sidewalk, where winter coats are draped over doors, can openers are offered at discounted prices, pit-stained wifebeaters are practically giving themselves away.

Contemplating leaving because (a) sales are slower than a tased phillies fan, and (b) I don't want to get stuck packing this worthless crap up, I glance to my left and take inventory of the scene. Fast approaching are three gentleman, gliding through the air, chests thrust in the air, chins held high, hands interlocked (ok, maybe I made that up). One white, one black, one presumably latino, it's all a blur at this point. I look to Eldiablo, he glances back...is it? Could it be? No. Is this happening? I feel awkward, awkward for him, awkward for myself, awkward for Campy, wherever he is.

Like any mature soon-to-be thirty year old man, I hide behind a newspaper, blushing like a 7th grader walking back to the Wissahickon Skating Rink from the Chestnut Hill Academy fields, praying the discomfort passes like a fart in the wind. What does our fearless editor-in-chief do? He stares the feared enemy down, cracks a sly smile, and utters "Hey, howwwwwyaaaadoing"? To which he gets nothing. Perhaps some meat gazing, a rise out of the other man's loins, but nothing more. No hello, no "go phillies," no "i hate you, you ruined my life." Nothing.

And seeing as there are only a select few who frequent this here blogesphere, and one of them witnessed the crime itself, dare I challenge our readers: NAME THE CULPRIT IN QUESTION, he who momentarily redefined the term "awkward." Who floated by our stoop wearing a safari hat? Who you all know? The floor is yours...