Be Prepared

Too often I’m caught off guard in conversation; not anticipating what the other person will say. I fumble and stumble through my side of the dialogue, and instead of coming across articulate and witty (my hope), I come across bland and possibly sounding like a seven-year-old (I like popsicles!). To alleviate this problem, I like to rehearse potential friendly banter that might actually occur in my life. Today, I had an imaginary conversation with Dule Hill. It went like this:
Me: Whoa! You’re Dule Hill
Dule Hill: Um, yes. (Looking for the exit)
Me: Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a whole “celebrity stalker” vibe there. Just surprised to see you. I’m Zach.
Dule: (Shaking hands) Nice to meet you.
Me: I really like your work. Especially the dynamic between you and James Roday.
Dule: It’s pronounced Roday. And thanks.
Me: So what are you doing in the area?
Dule: I’m working on a period piece about the early years of the steel boom. We’re filming close to here.
Me: That sounds cool. How long are you shooting for?
Dule: The next month or so. Hey is there anything to do around here?
Me: Well…uh…Do you have kids with you?
Dule: No. Why?
Me: I was going to suggest you could go to the Crayola factory in Easton. Actually, it still might be cool to go by your…probably not though. You know what? You’re like an hour from Philly, you should just go down there.
Dule: How close is New York?
Me: New York? That place sucks. Don’t go there.
At which point Dule excuses himself to take a phone call and I have to use the bathroom. When I come back, he’s gone.
Now as long as neither of us veer off-script I’ll be fine. Otherwise I might end up telling him how much I like popsicles.

Home Bound #2: Relationship Deal Breakers

I have a number of things that, yeah, there’s just no way I’m going to date you. They include (but aren’t limited to):
1. I won’t date a woman who drives a Pontiac Grand Prix or Grand Am. This has since expanded to the entire line of Pontiac cars. On the plus side, with the announcement a few months back that Pontiac would be shutting down, in the near future I might be able to cross this off the list.
2. Studded belts. And on a related note, I own a t-shirt that states, “I see a white belt and I want to paint it black”.
3. Ugg boots. Really, I don’t like them at all, but have considered revising my stance on this. Can’t fight for everything, right?
4. Women who wear pajama bottoms outside the house. This is as bad as men wearing sweatshirts and mesh shorts. It’s two in the afternoon, why are you just getting out of bed?
5. Women who run funny. I had forgotten this was on my list, and found it while reading some of my older writings. Which means, yes, I’ve talked about this list before. Many times.
My friends might point out that as long as most of them have known me, I’ve never had a girlfriend, and perhaps it has something to do with this list. The truth is, I don’t actually believe in the list.
It was like my party trick: “Zach, tell everyone again about the things you’re not looking for in a relationship.” The list is just a stupid thing I did with too much time and not enough dates. And while a person who stands on principle is admirable, sometimes he also has to know when to fall on his own flawed sword. It’s impossible to predict what you'll like in another person. I told a girlfriend over and over how much I hated horses, and then the next girl I dated owned a horse. What does that say about me? It says that somehow I found one of the few girls in the area who had a horse.
It’s time to retire the list. I’ll keep in my back pocket; maybe recite it at a party once a year, but desperates can’t be choosy, right? Except for the pajamas thing. Honestly, go get dressed.

Home Bound #1: I Got Dressed All by Myself

I need to learn to shut up. It’s not because I’m a liar. I’m not good at lying, so I rarely do it. No, it’s that I don’t know when to stop talking.
When I first started my job a co-worker complimented me on my shirt and tie. And I responded, “Thanks…” and then caught myself because the next words that were coming out of my mouth were, “My mom bought it for me.” Now it’s not that my mom buys all my clothes. She doesn’t. It’s just that every year for Christmas I get at least one shirt/tie combo. And over the years my mom’s gotten better at picking them out. So instead of finishing my thought I again said, “…Yeah, thanks.” But it was one of those awkward pauses where she could tell I had meant to say something and didn’t.
In high school I would tell people that my mom bought all my clothes. It was funny to me, because at 15 whose mom isn’t buying their clothes for them. Sure, the kid might be picking out what he wants to wear, but he’s not paying for them. It’s not so funny in my late 20s.
Usually, I’m not fortunate enough to stop myself. I once told a woman that my mom buys all my underwear. This was our third date, and after that night, I never heard from her again. Wonder why? It’s just that every Christmas (it’s always Christmas) I wouldn’t ask for much and I would get underwear. Which is what I explained to her. Except instead of offering an explanation I should have just nodded in agreement when she said that women buy cute underwear because it’s cute and guys don’t really do that, do they?
So that I’m not put in that position again, I started buying my own underwear. Problem solved.
My mom has tried to say it’s ok if she buys some of my clothes; after all, she picks out all of my dad’s dress shirts and ties. Yeah, but that’s different. I think that most wives buy clothes for their husbands, figuring there’s no way he could dress himself. Sorry, Dad. I don’t think I should be embarrassed that I get clothes as presents. Heck, I bet that’s what most people get. Maybe I just need to think of better phrasing: “Well thank you. I got this sweater for my birthday. I’m capable of buying my own clothes if that’s what you were thinking.” It needs work, but it sounds better than what I was planning to say.

The Problem with Carrier Pigeons

Let me start off by saying that I’m quite ignorant on carrier pigeons. I can state with absolute certainty that I shouldn’t be commenting on the subject. With that said, I just don’t see what good a carrier pigeon can be. And I’m not talking just because we now have magical tubes that transport our thoughts to other people’s computers. I mean that a carrier pigeon seems like a really limited way to deliver messages. The pigeon has to know where it’s going, and it’s not like you can ask it to make a second stop. “On your way to deliver my bid to build Duke Ellsinghibbington’s moat, swing by Lord Chesterworths’ castle and drop of this Get Well Soon card.” Seriously, you trust a pigeon to remember which aristocrat gets what package?
Say I wanted to feel olde-timey and send a friend a message via carrier pigeon. That pigeon has no reference as to where my friend lives. To get that message, my friend would have to go to the only other place that carrier pigeon knows how to get to, and who knows where that might be. I’d be better off sending the message along with a peasant on the back of a burrow.
It just doesn’t seem worth it. And it doesn’t seem like it could have been worth it back when people actually did use carrier pigeons. “Uh, great, you can get a pigeon to fly from here to my cousin’s and back. But shouldn’t you be mid-wifing for all the pregnant women?”
Forget it. It’s not worth the effort. I’ll stick to smoke signals.

An Open Letter to the Car Driver in Front of Me

Hey guy,
Just sitting here behind you looking at your bumper sticker. “13.1”, huh? You should be proud you ran that half-marathon. I mean, not proud enough to think it worthy of everyone’s recognition. I think you’re a bit unclear on how bragging works, so turn on the BBQ, because I’m about to grill up some knowledge burgers: never brag about something that can be easily bested. For example, a kid on the basketball court doesn’t brag about being able to touch the rim when one of his friends can dunk. See what I’m saying? Yeah, it’s impressive that you ran a race of just barely over thirteen miles, but not when there’s so many people out there running 26.2 miles.
Have I ever done a half-marathon? Of course not. My Saturdays are better spent sitting on the couch eating a Costco-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.
But I’m still not impressed by you, particularly if the driver next to you has a “26.2” sticker. Speaking of: if you’re driving and you’re about to pass someone with that full-marathon sticker on their car, do you decide not to pass, knowing that if you were to pass, the other driver’d no doubt chuckle and shake his head the way a father does when watching his toddler try to figure out how a straw works? Or do you pass the other car and curse yourself for ever affixing that sticker in the first place?
Running a half-marathon is like dating the hottest women in her group of friends. But then one of her college friends moves to the area and is hotter. That guy who dates her is the full-marathon runner. And the ultra-marathoner is the guy who dates the woman’s unreal hot cousin who would have been a model but decided to get a medical degree instead, and is super nice to everyone, and even though the other women should all be jealous and catty around her they can’t because she’s just that great. And she cooks. So now you went from being on top to being middle of the pack. How’s that feel?
Sure, you should be proud of your accomplishment, but maybe it shouldn’t be your pickup line. I mean…shoot, I spilled some Doritos.

Sincerley,

It's All in My Head

I’m much funnier in my head. At least I like to think so. My brain works too fast for my mouth and has already moved on to something else by the time I get around to saying what I wanted to say and then words just spill out all over the place, never being what I originally intended to say, but now it’s out there and I can’t take it back. I’m unintentionally funny. When I speak, my brain’s running and trying to double-back hoping to catch any slips that I’m about to make. I usually fail to catch them, and I often dot my speech with phrases like, “I can’t believe I just said that,” or “That wasn’t what I meant to say.”
I often talk to myself in the car. Not on purpose. I don’t mean to say things out loud, again, it just sort of falls out. And then it’s there, waiting for company. And I’m worried that someone from the car in the other lane just saw me say to myself, “Yeah, but I would never eat oysters.” I wonder what it must be to watch me while I drive. I cringe, grimace, frown, and generally feel embarrassed for myself. Not from anything at that moment, but because I remember situations where I made a fool of myself when I was a kid. I can’t remember faces, or where I was yesterday, but I do remember the time in 5th grade when I slipped in the mud before school, getting my jeans soaked, and called my mother to bring me a change of pants, but instead she brought sweatpants and I changed in the boys’ bathroom by the third grade classrooms. I sometimes wonder if anyone else remembers those things about me. Like if at my ten-year reunion one of my former classmates will approach me to say they remember when I… But I bet most people can only recall their own embarrassing instances.
I’ve considered being mute for a stretch, but don’t want my brain to build up with too much to say that isn’t allowed to pour from my unfiltered mouth. I think I prefer writing to speaking. At least when I have a point I want to make. I have more time to compose; to formulate; and I can also revise. Because I know I can’t be relied on to clearly state my point when I’m talking. That’s asking too much of me.

What Did We Learn Today?

That it’s true: Men are dogs

I’d never understood why some women are fond of saying that men are dogs. Until today. Because in today’s local paper is an article about a guy who broke in to his ex-wife’s house and did everything but poop in the kitchen. It probably shouldn’t have made the top of the front page, but he’s a former state champion wrestler, and in my area the only people above successful high school wrestlers are successful high school wrestlers who go on to coach wrestling at their alma mater. And Larry Holmes.
The written description of this guy’s destruction is great: “[T]he well-known wrestling champion came to the new home [the ex-wife] was renting and emptied the refrigerator, throwing yogurt and butter all over the ceiling and walls.
“He emptied the juice, soda, and milk on the floor. He ripped up mail and cards, she said. He also threw garbage across the backyard, she said.”
You showed her, guy! I hope when the cops picked him up they hit him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, shouting, “No!”

In My Humble Opinion

I was browsing a bookstore tonight when I came across their selection of “school reading”, and among the books was J.D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye”. Which happens to be a book I hate. About a year back I read an essay about why “Catcher” shouldn’t be taught in high school anymore. The writer’s argument was that the curriculum should be updated, whereas my argument would have been that the book is awful. But I’m pretty sure I’m in the minority in that opinion.
I read “Catcher” when I was in college, because I wasn’t forced to read it in high school. And after being lent a copy by a friend and listening to people practically faint in ecstasy over how great the book is, I read it. Well, not in its entirety. I stopped three or four pages from the end. I was falling asleep and couldn’t finish it, and then never picked it up again. It wasn’t until almost a year later that my friend, Becca, told me what happened at the end of the book. And I didn’t care.
If I were asked, “What’s the worst book you ever read?” I’d most likely respond that it’s “Catcher”. But now that I think about it, the worst book I ever read was “Fight the Power”, by Chuck D. Honestly, I don’t know how anything that poorly written could ever be published. And what’s worse is that he wrote it with someone else. So way to go guy who was hired to help Chuck D. write a compelling story and failed miserably. I’m sure when that book came out your friends said to you, “Seriously, you put your name on this crap?”
I’ve read some pretty bad books in my time, and I’m sure many were worse than what many consider to be Salinger’s best work. It’s just that the other books don’t stick in my memory. Not when a book that I hate is considered by many to be such a seminal work of fiction. Becca tried to get me to read Salinger’s “Nine Stories”’; I got through three and then gave the book back to her. It was boring. If Salinger happens to read this, just know this: it’s not that I think “The Catcher in the Rye” is a horrible book, it’s that I think you’re a terrible writer. There. I said it.

Moving Right Along

When I leave here in a few days, I know I’ll inevitably be asked the wrong question about the two years I spent in the Twin Cities: “What did you do there?”
People always seem to ask this question. I was discussing this with a friend who hypothetically answered, “I worked about 40 hours per week…” It’s not very easy to sum up a couple years of life in one (interesting) five-minute story. Take last night: there was a surprise party for my cousin. I hung out with friends, played some lawn games, and we continued burning a tree stump in my backyard. Pretty boring story, right? Except that it was a great night.
The answer to “What did you do there?” is that I lived a pretty normal life: I worked a job, made some friends, saw a couple baseball games, drank a few drinks, and also spent a lot of time sitting around. Same as everyone else. My time is Minneapolis wasn’t defined by the morning of New Years Day spent at Lake Minnetonka waiting my turn to jump in to 20-degree water. But that’s the story that people want to hear. In fact it’s one of the few stories I can think of where I don’t have to add a “you kind of had to be there.” So many stories are specific to a time or a person. These stories don’t mean as much to someone else.
I have a great story about officiating a friend’s wedding in San Diego, but to understand it, I need to explain how I met Doug and Joyelle while living in Denver. Yet when people ask what I did in Denver, I don’t tell them about Doug and Joyelle, or Joey, or Kevin, or… I tell them about going to Aspen to see Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes get shot out of a cannon during his memorial service. Because it’s boring to try to explain how I made a friend while working in the stock room at the Pottery Barn, and then years later he asked me if I would preside over his wedding.
When someone asks “What did you do there?” I’m sure the question they’re really getting at is: “What was it like there?” That’s the right question. But that’s a complex answer; it’s not easy to explain what an individual or a group of friends mean to a person. As much as a place can set a tone, it’s the people and friends that shape the memories and dictate the stories. Except the real details and the real memories are boring to everyone but the storyteller. It’s a livelier telling to just provide the highlights. Because to get the full picture, well, you kind of had to be there.

Honestly, Who Does That?

I have this theory that the only people who marry their high school sweethearts are professional athletes. Whenever I mention this, someone always knows an exception to the rule. Of course there are exceptions; there’s always an exception. How else do you explain the duckbill platypus? A mammal that lay eggs? That’s straight up bonkers. But yes, there’s always a friend from high school who found that special someone in the beginning of freshman year and later the two were married. And it’s not always only because she had his baby the fall before graduation.
In general though, nobody marries the person they were dating at 16. Take me for example: I dated three girls in high school and didn’t marry any of them. I’m still single. Which could explain why every night I cry myself to sleep while in the fetal position. If I were married I’d be doing all my crying on the couch. Who wants to sleep in the same bed as a man who cries every night of his adult life? Just please don’t do it in front of the children.
I’m not the same person I was when I was in high school, and I doubt any of those women are either. If someone’s the same now as when they were 18, I feel sorry for their mother. Because I know back then I was a complete tool. People change, and generally for the better. There’s no way I could have predicted that in my early twenties I’d find a flatware set that I’m desperately fond of. I don’t think I even knew what flatware was. There are too many changes that can take place at such a young age for two people who started dating sophomore year to be together seven or eight years later. For it to work, both have to grow as people in the exact same way or they have to stay near each other for that entire time. Again, there are exceptions. Unless one of them (usually the guy) is going to become a pro athlete, then it’s pretty much a sure thing they’ll get married.
Whenever an athlete's wife is talked about during a sports broadcast, it’s a safe bet that she met her husband (now famous sports star) in high school. Why? Because generally she knows she won’t be doing any better. While that might be an outrageous statement to make, I don’t think it’s much of an exaggeration. Yes, most people marry for love, but most people don’t also make $100 million in their lifetime. Obviously not every woman (or man) in this situation marries only for money. But would it be a stretch to say that a spouse might be willing to overlook a few marital issues knowing that all their needs and wants (and those of their children) will forever be taken care of? Politicians’ wives do it all the time.
In general, it’s a great arrangement for both parties. The spouse has all the money ever dreamed about; never having to work or worry about expenses. And the athlete spends a lot of his time on the road and can cheat on his wife whenever he feels like it. And can afford to keep it all hush hush. Is this a crass way of putting it? Absolutely. But I have no doubt that it happens all the time. Look at the relationship of “Jon and Kate”. Their divorce papers stated that they’ve been separated for the past two years. Why didn’t that information come out? Because there was a lot of money at stake. (Supposedly Jon and Kate were paid $50,000 for each episode of their show). It’s easy to brush things off and play nice when the Cristal is flowing.
As I keep saying, there’s always an exception. Not every women who married a pro baseball player married him because of his money. I’m sure many of these women love their husbands. But if most people believe that there’s not “just one” person out there for everyone, it makes it a bit easier to choose when the difference is a two bedroom apartment or five bedrooms in a gated community. “Love” can be as simple that.

Sorry Nebraska, But You’re Boring

  I just got back from a trip to Denver, because what else do I have to do? Seriously, someone tell me what I should be doing instead. Denver was great. Lots of friends, time with my new niece, and I bought some New Mexico green chili sauce. But the trip was brutal. I don’t mind driving, and a fourteen-hour drive is something I’ve become okay with. Actually, it’s kind of nice. Once you get past the first few hours and into that zone where miles pass and you wonder how you already made to Des Moines (and you half think to yourself “was I asleep for the past three hours?”), the driving pretty much takes care of itself.
  I tried to find a bunch of local radio to listen to as I crossed through states, but really only found National Public Radio stations. I’d hoped to learn some bbq tips, the proper way to shuck corn, or irrigation techniques. Instead I heard about President Obama’s speech in Cairo. At least I stayed informed. Eventually though, I had to turn the radio off, because it just becomes noise and while I hear the words, I don’t process any of it and my ears start to tell me that they need some quiet. But then I go stir crazy because it’s just me. In a car. And miles to go before I sleep. I passed that time by making up songs about how much I hate Nebraska.
  Seriously. Nebraska sucks. Well, I can’t say that the whole state is awful, but driving on I-80 through Nebraska is 455 miles of purgatory. I think to myself, “Good God, if I could just get out this state I know everything will be ok.” At least in Iowa I get to look at windmills. And Colorado is hilly (more mountainy I guess) and has a bunch of farms along the highway. But Nebraska is the driving equivalent of a Midwestern girl’s haircut: flat and unimaginative.
  I’ve never driven through a more boring state. I’ve driven through Montana. I remember it took over eleven hours. Nothing compares to Nebraska. Though I’ve never driven through Kansas. People have told me that once they drove through Kansas they stopped complaining about Nebraska. Maybe that should be what’s on signs along the highway: “You’ll feel better about Nebraska once you drive through Kansas”. Instead of “Home of Arbor Day”. Really? Arbor day? That’s the best you can do? Don’t get me wrong, Arbor Day is absolutely important, but it doesn’t carry the same weight as, say, Flag Day (which in case you were wondering, is today-total coincidence).
  Ok, I shouldn’t say that Nebraska is entirely barren. There is (inexplicably) an archway over the highway about halfway through the state. It tells the history of transportation in (and across) America. And in case you were wondering how exciting the museum itself is, one of the exhibit facts from the website is that a “[t]otal of 89,000 blades of grass appear throughout the show.” Way to go Nebraska. You manage to get less and less interesting the more I learn. Maybe next time I drive to Denver I’ll take the long through South Dakota. At least then I’ll have to come up with some new songs.

Mea Culprit

  My parent’s anniversary was yesterday, and I forgot. I remembered today when my mother called and said their anniversary was yesterday. This led to me swearing to (not at) my mother and apologizing for forgetting. She said it was ok because no one else remembered either. It’s my brother’s fault that I forgot.
  Benny is good with dates. Let me rephrase. Benny is well organized concerning dates; meaning he writes them down. I prefer to rely solely on memory. Which is why, since I’ve known her, I’ve never been able to remember my friend’s birthday. I’m usually a day or two late, and every year I tell myself that I’m going to write it down and next year I’ll remember to call on her birthday. But I’m rarely right. The one year I did remember she was out of the country. Memorization wasted. What I do remember are: obscure movie quotes and situations in which I embarrassed myself when I was fourteen. And the time when I was in kindergarten and, during practice for a talent show, I sniffed loudly directly into the microphone and everyone laughed. When I told my kindergarten teacher about what happened she recommended that I carry tissues. Smart woman.
  Every time an important date came up, I could expect a phone call from Benny. Remember, today is Gabe’s birthday. Don’t forget to call Mom today, it’s her birthday. (It’s pretty much always birthdays). Except family birthdays are the days I don’t forget. Thanks for wishing me a happy birthday, Ben. Yes, I know it’s also Dad’s birthday. How can I forget that growing up I never got my own cake? Just last month I was joshing Ben about how he doesn’t actually remember dates so much as he’s prompted. But that’s how most people do it. Great salesmen don’t remember every detail about their clients. They write some key facts down and can bring them up casually in conversation.
  A few years back Benny stopped calling to remind me; most likely he assumed that I was an adult, capable (or at least able to look at a calendar) of remembering things like Mother’s Day. What do they say about making assumptions? I still rely on my father to email reminding me to turn my clock forward.
  I’ve tried. Really, I have tried to remember important dates. I even made an anagram of the most important days (no I didn’t). I keep telling myself that I need to use a day planner. I purchased multiple Palm Pilots in an effort to force myself in to organization. It’s just not in me. I used to have a working system, but he stopped calling to remind me.

Every Child Should Have One

  Now that I have a niece (look at that Abigail, you’re not even a week old and already somebody’s writing a blog about you!), I’m trying to decide what I want her to call me. Sure it seems like it should be easy, place uncle in front of the first name. The End. But I’m not really sure I want to be Uncle Zach; not when pretty much everyone calls me ‘the attach!’. It’s hard deciding among: Uncle Attach!, Uncle the Attach!, or (current top choice) the Attuncle! Currently in last place? Uncle Walrus, because: a) I look nothing like a walrus; and b) my diet in no way involves seal meat. Though this name could be re-evaluated later on in life when I’m more portly and mustachioed. I imagine Uncle Walrus dressed in a red sweater vest and tie. Sort of like a heavier, drunker Mr. Belvedere.
  I have made the decision that I’m going to be her crazy uncle. It’s something I feel I missed out on growing up. My uncles were great. They had wonderful stories, and I always liked having them around, but none of them really brought the crazy. Thankfully my mother’s cousin filled that void (in spades!), except that he didn’t show up until I was starting high school, and I feel like I was cheated not having someone like that around during the important developmental early-childhood and tween years. At high school age, the crazy relative is just remembered as the guy who shows up for holiday dinners and tells stories like how he got booted from a merchant marine ship off the Pacific coast of South America because (as the ship’s cook) he was tired of making bagels every morning. No, I want to be the guy who shows up on Abigail’s 8th birthday and asks her if she wants to go see the horsies run. That’s the type of crazy I plan to be.
  Of course this means I have to alter my life plans. As my roommate pointed out, it’d be for the best if I remained single. Having a crazy uncle is one thing, but having both a crazy uncle and aunt? That’s when invitations start getting “lost” in the mail. I was planning to have a normal life: a career, family, remembering birthdays, and not showing up in Hawaiian shirts for family funerals. All that’s been tossed out the window. It’s time to reprioritize. How soon do you think I can move to Fiji?
  I need stories to tell. About bar fights, and broken limbs. Stories involving rickety planes and motorcycle failure. The time I fought of a grizzly bear in the Yucatan. About forgetting anniversaries and random tattoos and ever more random women. Tales that are uncomfortable to tell at dinner, but inappropriate to tell while at the hospital.
  The one thing I would never do is put my niece in harms way. Like I’ll never have her help me smuggle drugs up from Guatemala. But I’ll totally tell her about the time I did (and subsequent jail time spent in a forced labor camp outside of Mexico City).
  I want Abigail to realize that her uncle loves her; and also realize that she never, ever wants to be anything like me.

Both Hands on the Wheel

  When you’re first learning to drive, you’re taught to hold your hands (as if the steering wheel were a clock) at 9 and 3, or 10 and 2. I’m sure there are people who argue the merits of one over the other, but those people are boring and need to date more. Nonetheless, it seems the prevailing mindset is to teach teenagers that having both hands gripped firmly on the wheel is best, preventing one from having a free hand for texting. No doubt it’s also because the “left hand only at 7” method of driving isn’t smart to teach to girls and boys who aren’t capable of making a right hand turn without crossing in to oncoming traffic. On the whole teenagers make horrible drivers. Then again most people aren’t good drivers until they’re 25 and forced to confront their own mortality for the first time.
  Like all things that high schoolers do, they believe they’re the best at it. Which is why they take stupid risks; driving with their knees or speeding 100 miles an hour on a four-lane divided highway. At some point you realize your mother is right and that it doesn’t matter how fast you get there if you get there in an ambulance. And it’s only 15 miles, so you’re shaving all of two minutes off your drive time. Better use that extra one-thirtieth of an hour wisely!
  Using both hands to drive seems so absurd. It’s not like your parents used both hands. More likely one hand rested on the ledge by the driver-side window, or held a cigarette as they blew second hand smoke into your face. I drove for three months while slightly leaning toward the driver-side door and woke every morning with hip pain for the next six months. It was at that point that I moved my seat a bit forward and started driving like I was eighty. I bet most people don’t drive with two hands because it just doesn’t look cool.
  Because isn’t that the point of driving? To look cool? That’s why we have sports cars, right? It’s the reason we love Steve McQueen. The chase scene in Bullitt is why he’s one of the coolest people of all time. When I took my driving test I had to parallel park keeping both hands on the wheel. Nobody does that! The proper way to parallel park is to put your right arm around the back of the passenger seat and palm the wheel as you back into the space. You’re not cool turning the wheel hand over hand.
  But really, who cares if you look cool while driving when nobody notices except you? That group of sexy sorority girls in the Ford Mustang convertible that you passed on the highway? You’re never going to see them again, so what does it matter what they think of you? Besides, you need to find action in spite of the fact that you drive a Honda Civic, not because of it. I'm comfortable driving two-handed. It feels right to me. After trying the 10 and 2, I recently switched to a 9 and 1. Well, more like a 9 and 12:50. Do I look cool driving with both hands on the wheel? I don’t think it matters.

The Best Man for the Job?

Now that Bristol Palin’s had the chance to lose all her baby weight (ah to be 18 and no longer pregnant), she’s heading out to tell young’ins that abstinence is the only sure-fire way to prevent pregnancy. Which of course is true. But try telling a bunch of teenagers that instead of intercourse they should just stick with sexting; let me know how that works out. And while we could debate the merits of abstinence only education vs. a more comprehensive approach (including contraceptives), it wouldn’t fit nicely into a pre-packaged piece between commercial breaks; and I’d bet that neither you nor I have the in-depth knowledge to make headway on this topic. Which is why I’m thankful for Levi Johnston.
In a, let’s say exclusive, interview with CBS news, Johnston gave his opinions on the abstinence issue. See, his opinion matters because he’s a former high school hockey star and recent high school drop out. Oh, sorry. His opinion matters because he (in hockey terminology) scored on an empty net. Granted, if Bristol Palin, in her “Keep it in Your Pants ’09 Abstinence Tour” (sponsored by irony) is going to tell her side of the relationship/RNC staged engagement that was her connection to Johnston, then he has every right to defend himself and tell his side of the story. Which is exactly what he did a few months ago on Tyra Banks’ show: because nothing screams credibility like Tyra.
I’d never realized that to become an expert on teen pregnancy all one needs to is accidentally knock up your high school sweetheart who happens to be the daughter of the governor when said governor is tapped to be a vice presidential nominee. I doubt Johnston would be the expert that CBS believes him to be if he’d been able to wrap it tight for just a few more months. Had he done so, we might be engaging in an actual dialogue on this important topic, rather than letting the debate play out between a pair of former high school flames, treating it almost like it’s another meaningless high school argument. But if we really did discuss this issue there’d no doubt be much less gossip. And if we’ve all learned one thing from high school it’s that gossip might be the one thing that always draws our attention.

Braggadocio

  I’m awesome. On a scale of zero to awesome I’m an 18.5, which is above Steven Seagal, but below a Steven Seagal impersonator playing in a Steven Seagal cover band. In the morning I collect the awesome hairs from my nightly shedding and sell them to a shaman who makes potions to cure blindness and impotence.
  I’m awesome when I make cinnamon buns and I’m doubly awesome when I make cupcakes. I look awesome walking down the street; I look awesome riding my bike. When I weed the garden I perform two important functions: getting rid of weeds; and letting the flowers soak up my inherent awesomeness. I’m like the sun x10 to flowers. I’m growing a sunflower inside my house that’s fourteen feet high. Because I’m awesome.
  They say the average male thinks about sex every 25 seconds. I’m so awesome I think about sex every 12.5 seconds. I think about being awesome every 8 seconds. Every three minutes and twenty seconds the two overlap and I think about awesome sex. That’s right, I just solved an algebra problem in my head by using my awesome math skills.
  In seventh grade I was reading at a tenth grade level, which is such an awesome reading level that I decided to stop there. No point in going further. I’d already achieved the level of awesome.
  I realize that others should know about just how awesome I am. So head to your fall out shelters, cause I’m about to drop a knowledge bomb on you: I’m awesome; but I’m not a jerk about it.

What Did We Learn Today?

  That I'm closer to relationship happiness.
  I can’t remember my parent’s ever saying it, but one thing I learned growing up is to never judge a book by its cover. I also learned that your parents aren’t always right. Which is why I have a bunch of relationship deal breakers that most think are just plain ridiculous. And number one on that list is this: I’ll never date a woman who drives a Pontiac Grand Prix or Grand Am. Period.
  So I was happy to hear today that in an effort to cut more costs GM is planning to shutter the Pontiac brand. Obviously, I’m not happy for the workers, and I hope they can all find jobs quickly. But, on a personal level, I’m glad. I’m one step closer to meeting the right woman. Just as long as she doesn’t drive a Mitsubishi Eclipse.

Spice Up My Life

  I don’t own a calendar or a day planner, so I’m never really sure what day it is. If you asked what numbered day two Tuesdays from now is, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, unless of course I have something going on around then. That’s how dates work for me. It’s probably why I sometimes forget about obligations I made. Thankfully, since I don’t do anything at all anymore, it’s been a bit easier to remember the few events that have crept on to my list of “must do”.
  At a party the other night, a friend and I were trying to figure out what days the Red Sox would be playing the Twins. Thinking out loud (as I regularly do) I said that they were playing on Tuesday and Wednesday, because I had to give blood on Thursday. See how that works? I knew I had something going on that week and was able to count back a few days. Yes, it would be a lot easier with a planner, but this way keeps my memory sharp (does it?).
  What I wasn’t anticipating was my friend’s approval to my comment about what I had going on that week. I mean, sure, I know I’m a good person for donating blood, but I don’t require other’s respect for my good deeds. In all honestly, I probably said it as more of a “see, I’m not such a lonely individual; I’ve got stuff going on” throwaway line. However, upon further consideration I decided maybe I could jazz up my personal life by making reference to these types of chivalrous acts.
  “Wednesday’s the 15, because I know Friday’s the 17 and I’m vaccinating orphans that day.”
  “I can’t do it at 2; I’ll be saving a baby from a burning building. Can we push the meeting back to 4?”
  The objective is to make bland enough statements that are a real possibility, and not just slip into absurdity. It would be easy for me to say, “We’ll have to get together another day, because on Saturday I’m meeting with my accountant to convert all my common stock into adorable puppies and kittens.” Sure, when you mention puppies and kittens, most people’s eyes sort of glaze over with cuteness, but if someone actually is paying attention to what I said, they’d realize I'm spouting gibberish. Unless I totally sell it.
  And I have to make sure to avoid the completely creepy, like “I know that it’s on Thursday because I’m making prom favors on Wednesday.” Yes, it sounds innocent enough, but I’m a grown man. Prom favors should no longer be in my vocabulary.
  As long as I can avoid the creepy, I think I could pull this off. And give myself a much more interesting life in the process.

A Formal Letter to Jason Segel

Dear Mr. Segel,
  Thank you taking to time to read my letter. This is a formal request to be your friend. I’ve followed your career for several years, and have enjoyed your performances as Marshall in “How I Met Your Mother” and as Nick Andopolis on “Freaks and Geeks”. However, my favorite was your role in “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”. I felt like I could relate to your character of Peter, because I too like to date short women. While I’m not as tall as you, so it’s not nearly as awkwardly hilarious, women around 5’ tall? I dig ‘em. Having watched you on both the small and big screen, I always thought to myself that you’d be a great person to be friends with. But it was during your recent interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air, that I thought I should do something about it.
  I understand that finding true friends can be tough. Having a successful Hollywood career, there must be many people who want to befriend you only so they can say that they know you. However, I assure you my intentions are true. Well, yeah, it’d be sweet to say that I know you, but it wouldn’t be like saying I know “Crossing Over” host John Edwards. That’d be more like, “Yeah, I know John Edwards, now where’s my free drink?” With you, it would totally be “Yeah, and he’s as cool as you thought he’d be.” I want to assure you, though, that it wouldn’t be a one-sided relationship.
  The benefits I’ll bring to the relationship are many: I’ll provide fresh baked cupcakes and homemade bread. In fact, around Christmas I go into cookie baking mode and bake almost every day. I have a great recipe for peanut blossoms, and I only make them around the winter holidays. I know you’re Jewish, but I don’t know how to make challa, sorry; I get bitingly sarcastic when I’m drunk, and much funnier as a result; and I randomly challenge people to dance-offs. But not in a Michael Jackson in “Bad” half dance-off/half knife fight kind of way. Just a regular dance-off where at the end, everyone is friendly and we all get ice cream cones. I’m currently learning the broom dance from the movie “Breakin’”. Once I do, I should be unstoppable.
  Plus, I’ll totally keep it real with you. You won’t have to worry about me sucking up to you because you’re famous. Like I thought your goatee in “Knocked Up” looked horrendous. I’m still trying to figure out if that was really your facial hair, or if it was fake. Please tell me it was fake, G-d it looked awful. Maybe that upsets you to hear, and if so, then we probably shouldn’t be friends. But you seem like a cool dude, and someone who can take a ribbing.
  I look forward to hearing from you, and towards a mutually beneficial relationship.

Thanks Mr. President, Thanks a Lot

  In case you forgot, Barack Obama picked North Carolina to win the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. And they did. He also picked the Steelers in the Super Bowl and the Phillies in the World Series. Granted, I picked both the Steelers and the Phils, but still, the President’s got a groove. At the same time that he’s attempting to reprioritize education, scale back one war, escalate troops in another, overhaul health care and energy policy, along with combat a recession that has no equal in several decades, he’s also probably winning every office pool he enters. It makes you wonder if all sports are rigged to fall in the president’s favor.
  But it’s not enough that he’s guessing right on sports teams, he also happens to be the coolest guy around. Just as I was perfecting my Brad Pitt mustache, Pitt shows up in Washington (sans mustache) as if to send a signal that, hey sorry, I got nothing on this new guy. I mean, he threw a party at the White House and had Stevie Wonder play. C’mon!
  President Obama’s set the bar ridiculously high for the rest of us. While we can’t all expect to be president, it’s no longer enough for the regular guys to skate by on our looks or our smarts. No, now we have to look good and have a nuanced opinion on Hezbollah. Oh, and that’s not enough either, because the president also balls. So we need to be athletic as well. Sure, every other president was charismatic, but not too many have had the total package like Obama. Watch him flirt with this reporter. Admit it: dude’s got game.
  What’s next, getting Kumar to come work for you at the White House? What?!
  Well thank you, Mr. President, for making me seem like the schlub that I actually am.

Sigh, I'm Normal

  I measured my wingspan today. Seventy-one inches. Or, just a bit longer than my height, which is what it should be. I was secretly hoping to find out my wingspan was like 6’ 6”, and I could lament the fact that if only I’d known sooner, I’d be in the NBA right now. As if a freakish wingspan is what’s been keeping me from pro basketball glory and not my height, lack of desire (or work ethic) and the fact that my shot is as flat as a midwestern girl’s hair. Before the measurement I wanted to learn that I had either an especially wide chest or comically long arms, praying for the latter. But neither is true.
  Having a massive wingspan is to your benefit when you get to the NBA. For example, Kevin Durant is 6’ 10”, but his wingspan is close to 7’ 5”. Every scouting report on Durant mentions his wingspan; it’s something that defines him as a player. I think this could explain why people say that someone “plays bigger” than they are. Like I’m 5’ 9”, but I play like I’m 5’ 11”. My length really frustrates 4th graders.
  I need to figure out what makes me unique. And I don’t want to hear, “your sparkling personality” or “you just ooze masculinity”, because we both know neither is true. Also, when looking for unique characteristics, they need to be quantifiable. Like you can point to Kevin Durant and say “the dude’s hands nearly scrape the floor when he walks”, or that Michael Phelps can touch his toes to the ground with his legs flat against the floor (truthfully).
  What have I got going for me besides the fact that I’ve lost all feeling in one of toes (which is not something people can easily recognize)? I need something like laser beam eyes; something people can acknowledge about me right away. Something I can bring up in job interviews: My strengths? The ability to shoot lasers from my ocular glands. Weakness? I’ve cried during the movie “Love Actually”.
  Maybe I’m not that normal.

What Did We Learn Today?

  I might be a bit overly cautious.

  It took 47 minutes, but I feel pretty confident that no one will be able to use my old credit card. But just to be on the safe side, I'm going to spread the clippings out over several weeks in various receptacles, in separate zip codes.

  And I'll probably flush a few pieces down the toilet. You never know who might be tailing me.

  True story: I had to put a glove on my cutting hand because the scissors were hurting my hand.

What Did We Learn Today?

  That I’m developing a man crush on Seymour Hersh.
  At work we’re allowed to listen to music. Well, most people listen to music, I listen to public radio. When a preview came on for Fresh Air saying that Seymour Hersh would be on the show, I literally did the fist pump that Tiger Woods does after he sinks a crucial putt. I was so excited that I rearranged my work so that I wouldn’t have to leave my desk and made sure to take a bathroom break before the show started.
  Unfortunately, Hersh threw a lot of cold water on the “executive assassination ring” remark he’d made during a debate at the University of Minnesota. But still, Seymour Hersh; that dude’s all right.

They're Just Like Us!

  On the cover of one of those gossip magazines (I can’t remember if it was Celebrity Stalker Quarterly or Shouldn’t You be Worrying About More Important Things?) is a big picture of Jennifer Aniston and some quote about how she’s going to raise her baby as a single mom. I can’t remember the exact quote, because I was at the grocery store and more concerned with whether the ice cream I bought was going to go straight to my hips or my butt. Forget that I didn’t know Jen Aniston was pregnant, nor do I particularly care.
  I’d like to see one of those “Stars are Just Like Us” segments that states: They raise their children as a single parent! And: Over half their marriages end in divorce too! In the article on Aniston, I doubt it says that she’ll be moving back in with her parents and working full time while going to school in order to create a better life for her child. So excuse me for not having any sympathy for a successful Hollywood actress who’s made the choice to raise her child without the father. As much as the magazines and the public try to pretend that celebrities are like normal people, it’s just not true.
  I bet the article also tries to paint Aniston as an empathetic figure. Here she is, trying to bring a child into the world and that dastardly John Mayer runs off. Is he afraid of commitment? Does he really love her? Shouldn’t we instead be worried about the recession? How ever will she survive on her own, raising her child in a Beverly Hills mansion with her millions of dollars and ability to afford round-the-clock personal child care? She’s so strong!

  It's amazing that for many the housing crisis didn't resonate until Ed McMahon appeared on Larry King and explained how his own home was foreclosed on. People were calling in asking what they could do to help Ed McMahon! The neighbor down the street whose wife and three children are being put out on the street? We can't be bothered by them. Not when the Publisher's Clearing House guy has is so much harder.

  So by all means, let's give our sympathy to all the celebrities who have similar problems to us regular folk, except that they have enough money to cure their ails. I'm sure they toss and turn at night in their thousand dollar sheets and wonder whether five million is enough to make it through the next few months or whether they should cancel their vacation to the south of France. 

  Just like the rest of us.

Cut Off the Toe Despite the Foot

  I’m convinced that I’m going to lose a toe. Probably soon. It’s not that big a deal, really; I’m already over it. Whenever my feet get cold (which is frequently) I lose feeling in the middle toe on my right foot. And feeling doesn’t return until long after the rest of my toes have warmed up. Once, taking my socks off, I noticed that just my toe had lost all color, while the rest of my toes and foot were a healthy, fleshy hue. But such is life, right?
  Since I’ve moved on, I’ve already begun to look at the positives of losing a toe. Sure, it’s easy to point out the negatives: It’d be weird to wear sandals (but I don’t anyway); playing “footsie” could be a bit awkward; and I can never be a feet model. I still have one handsome foot. Ok, that’s a lie. Our soccer goalie in high school referred to me and a teammate as Frodo and Bilbo. From the Lord of the Rings. We both had hairy feet. Anyway.
  One of the positives is that I always have a good conversation starter. I think everything sounds better with “since I lost my toe” included. For example: “Since I lost my toe, I’ve found that I’m limping a bit more on my right side.” Or: “I think the treasury’s plan to bail out the same bankers who got us in this mess is outrageous. And that’s not just since I lost my toe.” Of course, I’ll need to come up with a better story when people ask how I lost my toe. It can’t be as simple as losing all feeling in it. I think there should be a hawk involved. But how?
  Losing a toe seems like it’ll be a momentous time in my life, right up there with the day I get married and the day I lose my virginity (hopefully!). I’ve decided to think of things in terms of whether they happened “before toe” (BT) or “after digit loss” (ADL). So while my birth took place in BT, my own children’s birth will most assuredly take place in the ADL era.
  It’s not as if I’m losing an important digit. Missing a finger or a big toe would create much more of imposition in my life. But the middle toe is sort of like the appendix; you don’t really need it and when it’s gone you end up with a neat scar. I wonder if the rest of my toes will grow closer together, or if I’ll have a gap there forever. Think about how cool it’d be if I got good at dropping knives into the space in my foot. I bet my other toes would compensate and I’d end up with four really buff toes that mock those wimpy five digits on my left foot.
  There could be a lot of upside to me losing a toe. Maybe I should get a head start. And what if I was missing two toes?

Me: A Primer

  I change up my facial hair more times than the average person changes their underwear. To questions of why? I answer with another question: Why does the blue jay fly or the cheetah run fast?
  Because he can; and he looks awesome doing it!

Bringing Home the Groceries

  In today’s economic climate, budgeting your money is important. Setting firm limits on how much you can spend and on what will greatly help, because no one should be accruing debt with job loss a real possibility. I, for example, have a strict budget of how much can be spent on food. I may tend to go overboard, but for me, it’s been helpful to further break down my food allowance, setting amounts in categories like: fruits and vegetables; meats; cereal; beverages (non-alcoholic); and discretionary. It’s the discretionary category where I tend to get in trouble; this week, I’ve greatly exceeded my animal cracker budget.
  Perhaps I should rephrase that, since saying I have a set animal cracker budget kind of makes me sound like I’m eight years old. It’s not always animal crackers, that’s just what my spending was on this week. Sometimes it’s Goldfish crackers, other times it’s Teddy Grahams.
  The reason I overshoot my budget is that I can’t set boundaries. If I have a box of crackers sitting in front of me, I will eat most, if not all, of the box. (My dinner on Saturday was a bag of honey mustard and onion pretzel bits.) So if I gobble down all my discretionary funds two days after going to the store, I either can suck it up for the rest of the week, or give myself a budgetary exemption. Generally it’s the latter.
  To combat my habit of overeating, I’ve found it helpful to enforce the boundaries that ought to be in place. Using plastic sandwich bags, I divide the contents of each box by seven. Right now in my cupboard are seven bags evenly filled with Teddy Grahams. This way I know how much I am allowed to eat each day. I’ve also found this to be helpful with carrot sticks.
  With a continuing recession, it’s important to eat a nutritious and balanced diet, which might need to be done on an ever-shrinking budget. Now is not the time to waste food. And while having “treats” might seem frivolous, I prefer to think of my discretionaries as incentives. If I don’t finish my dinner, I don’t get any animal crackers. Or if I don’t eat all my vegetables, I won’t get to have Teddy Grahams. Self-imposing these rules allows me to stay healthy and make sure I’m not wasting my food money.
  And once I can put a stop to having my lunch money taken from me, I’ll be just a bit more financially secure.

What Did We Learn Today?

  That I need to grow my beard back.

  Recently I shaved my beard down to just a mustache, and after a month or so, shaved that down to a thinner mustache. A day later, I realized that wasn't working for me, and shaved my face naked. At work today, a woman in her mid-forties (who I've never spoken to before) said to me in passing, "You shaved your mustache." Caught off guard, I fumbled towards finally saying something like, "Yeah, I messed up on the mustache and had to shave it off." 

  I shouldn't have been surprised. If I learned one thing this past month, it's that older women love the mustache. I think it reminds them of a time when polyester shirts were hip, men had chest hair, and these women did close to their weight in jagermeister and poppers on a semi-regular basis. Those were the times...

  But tonight, meeting up with some friends, I almost wasn't let into a bar because my driver's license was thought to be fake. The guy looked at it, looked at me, held my license up, and finally said, "Uh, I'll accept it." Granted, I do look different in my license photo than I do now. I didn't think going from looking like a lumberjack in my photo to my current appearance of a cherub made me that unrecognizable. But I made my own bed when I had my photo taken looking like I did. So the only logical conclusion is to grow my beard back. Or get a second ID, in which I'm clean shaven, but I think that's illegal. Best to play it safe (and manly).

900 Calories a Day

  In case I’m ever kidnapped and dumped in the woods, it’s good to know that I’ll be able to survive for days, because I’m training myself to live on 900 calories a day. Now, I know what many people are thinking: “900 calories? That’s less than half the recommended daily caloric intake for a typical person. And it’s almost ten times less than the number of calories Michael Phelps ingests.” Well, true, but I’m not Michael Phelps, and neither are you. Nor should you be. That guy does drugs!
  Before I get in to the details of my diet, I should throw out a few disclaimers.
  First, this is not a good diet if you want to lose weight. This diet is solely to help you survive the apocalypse. If you’re looking for a weight loss plan, think about exercise. And lay off the Funyuns.
  Second, it’s easy to exceed the 900 calorie limit (all before 9 am), so pay strict attention to what you eat. You don’t want to survive a plane crash in the Andes Mountains only to develop hunger pangs two hours later because you splurged on a cinnamon roll the morning before.
  When approaching your diet, it’s a good idea to make a detailed record of everything you eat. Do this for a week to get an accurate reflection of your pre-rapture diet. You might be surprised just how many calories you take in each day. Your new diet is something you need to ease in to. It won’t do you any good to “shock” your system. I mean, what are the chances that tomorrow you’ll fall down the town well and no one will notice your disappearance for days? I’d say slim. But it might happen next week (and you’ll be ready for it!).
  The first thing you want to do is make small changes. How many Tic Tacs do you eat in a day? Maybe five? Well that’s seven-and-a-half calories right there. You didn’t think it would add up so quickly, did you? Once you’ve made all the minor changes you can without completely compromising your immune system, it’s time to consider your diet as a whole.
  Even though you’re eliminating so many calories from your diet, you still need to eat regular meals. If you don’t, your stomach acid will have nothing to break down and will eat away (and through) your stomach lining. And what good is that going to do you when the world’s oil supply runs out and we're living like people did before the Industrial Revolution and you can’t ride a bike (your only mode of transportation) because your abdomen hurts too much to pedal? So here’s what you need to do: eat breakfast, eat lunch, eat dinner. Do not snack in between meals.
  How you get your 900 calories is up to you. But I like to splurge for my lunch. Perhaps I’ll eat an apple or banana with my plain peanut butter on un-enriched white bread. What I add in a lunch, I have to take out at dinner. Remember, rice is a great friend to you.
  While the diet may be tough initially, you’ll be grateful the next time you pass out at a party in the slums of some South American country; because no one will want to harvest your organs when they realize that your kidneys are only functioning at half-capacity (if that) and it’s a small miracle you’re alive at all. What kind of money can someone get for half working kidneys? And you’ve just saved yourself a morning of an ice cube bath and fresh stitches. All thanks to your diet.

What Did We Learn Today?

  I’m too hairy to own white bed sheets.
  I was doing laundry today, and when I was ready to wash my sheets, I noticed just how much hair I shed in the course of a night. Holy crap!
  Eight times out of ten, being hairy is a good thing (the other time is when trying to get the “youth discount” at the public pool; trying telling people there you’re just an early bloomer). Perhaps I need to switch to darker sheets, ones where my nightly de-forestation won’t be as pronounced. Or I could take a lint roller to my bed every morning. I can’t decide which one is the easier solution?

Two Birds, One Fuel Efficient Stone

  What If I told you there was a simple way to put a dent in our greenhouse gas emissions and re-start the auto industry at the same time? You'd say, well, duh. We already know what we need to do: build more fuel efficient cars (hybrids, plug-ins, etc...). It's simple, and you're an idiot if you don't think anyone's thought of it yet. 

  Sure, but how do you sell those cars to people? When gas was approaching $4 a gallon, consumers were clamoring for fuel efficiency. But now that gas is hovering around $2, interest has waned. And other than telling people, "yes, this is what we need to do," no one's doing anything to excite the consumer. Until now. Pull your chairs up to the breakfast table, because I'm about to fry up some knowledge flapjacks for you to enjoy.

  Fact! 65% of American adults are overweight or obese. Seriously. This is a fat country. People do not like walking. It's a car culture, and we've got the bumper stickers to prove it.

  Fact! The average American has over $9,000 in credit card debt. We open credit cards to pay off other credit cards. How ridiculous is that? If it weren't for shopping, I think many of us wouldn't know how to spend our free time. Have an intelligent conversation with friends? Why do that when Old Navy's having a sale on cargo shorts?!

  Observation! While many economists feel this country is in the worst recession in seventy years, you wouldn't know it by being at the mall over the weekend. We still love our shopping.

  Opinion! Ever notice that in a large parking lot everyone tries to get a spot closest to the door? Drivers will pass up a spot ten feet back because there might be a spot just that much closer to the store. Even better is when a driver will wait for a person to get in their car and back out of the spot when there's a spot three spaces down wide open. Sure, I have to wait longer in my car, but I'd have to walk an extra twenty feet, so that extra distance equals out to the time I'm waiting for that woman to put her bags in the trunk, then load her daughter into her seat in the back, then for her to get in, start up her car, check her phone for messages, and let her car idle. It's absolutely worth the walking time I'll save when I leave the store.

  Solution! The first row of parking in front of every big box retailer will now be hybrid parking only. It's that simple. Keep the handicap parking spots where they are and make the rest of that row hybrid parking. Heck, you could even make some of the prime spots plug-in hybrid spaces with a charging station. You can "fill up" while you shop. In California, hybrids are allowed to drive in the High Occupancy Vehicle lanes. You don't think people would buy hybrids just so they'd have a guaranteed good parking spot the next time they go to the Pottery Barn? 

  No need to thank me. I'm here to satiate the masses.

We're Getting There. Not Really

  I had planned on writing about how much of a slob my roommate is. Not dirty, just messy. Like how he leaves all his shoes sitting by the front door, with a pair or two directly in the way so that if I don’t pay attention when I leave for work I trip over them. I thought the most ridiculously passive aggressive way to handle it would be to grab all my shoes in my arms, dump them in front of the door, and say to him, “Is there where the shoes go?” Of course, to over dramatize the situation fully I’d need to not look at him as I walked away; except I don’t have two video cameras that I’d set up to catch the expression on his face and watch it over and over and over again. I’d make that face my screen saver.
  Or maybe the fact that there were two full garbage bags sitting in our kitchen for almost a week. Just sitting there. More garbage would get placed in them and still they sat there. It became a war of desires. My desire not to take care of it and for him to do something. And his desire not to do anything. To really understand, you’d need to know that he parks right next to the garbage cans. So every time he goes out to his car he can easily throw them out. He wouldn’t even have to make a trip of the extra sixty feet to the garbage and back!
  But I came back tonight to find the garbage out of the kitchen and his shoes neatly lined up by the door. Of course, there’s now an empty orange juice container on the dining table, but baby steps. Baby steps.
  I feel like I need to start giving him a quarterly report card like they gave you in kindergarten where everything is a yes/no answer.
  Washes dishes in a timely manner? No. Cleans up after self? No. Hangs up clothes (not leaving them draped over chairs)? No. Can tie shoes? Yes.
  At least he’s got that going for him. We can work on the rest. I Hope.

My (Hopeful) Interview with Topher Grace

I’ve been reading about Damon Weaver’s attempts to get an inauguration day interview with President-Elect Barack Obama. If you don’t know who he is, Damon’s a 10-year-old student journalist from Florida who’s been seeking an interview with Obama since the summer. So far, no go. To this point, Obama’s team has repeatedly turned down requests, even after a national media blitz by Damon. Seriously, how do you turn down a 10 year old? He’s already interviewed Joe Biden, so now he’s after the top dog. Since I’m not nearly as ambitious as Damon, I’ve decided to set my sights a bit lower. Why shoot for the moon when the lamppost is so much easier to hit, right? So for my new year’s resolution I want to conduct an interview with Topher Grace. He played Eric on “That 70’s Show,” remember?
Anyway, it seems like he’s disappeared since leaving that show and I’m curious as to what he’s doing (and I’m too lazy to do a Google search). And unlike Damon, I’ll only throw softballs at Topher. Such as:
“Besides making out with Scarlett Johansson in the movie 'In Good Company', what are you most proud of in life?”
-And-
“What are currently doing for work? Selling real estate, life insurance, or certified pre-owned BMWs?”
But like Damon, I need your help. Please mention this to anyone and everyone. By the end of the year I want to have a face-to-face interview with Topher Grace. I will fly anywhere I need to for this, but would really appreciate it if he would come to Minneapolis so I don’t have to buy a plane ticket. I plan on challenging him to an arm-wrestling contest and besting him in a game of Nok Hockey.
Help me make my dream a reality.