Sometimes I'm amazed by how much of a man I am. I'll be at the gym, 35-pound plates on both sides of the bar, just ill bench-pressing, and I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror -- muscles taut, beads of sweat cascading down my forehead, iPod blazing Eminem -- and suddenly be overcome by the sheer manliness I exude. Then I'll sprint over to the two jacked goons with the tattoos in the corner and start talking about sports and using words like "lats" and "date rape" and dishing out unsolicited chest bumps. And then it'll turn out that the tattooed goons are flamingly gay -- my gym is in Capitol Hill, after all -- and my sense of manliness is quickly replaced by a surprising yet remarkably... More >>>