Reflections of a shallow pond

America's top ten comfort foods (assuming I am America).

2012-01-26T13:40:00.000-08:00

Food. It's all about the food.

I can't speak for other households, but within the confines of my brick and mortar, it's a topic that trumps all others—how much we have, why don't we have a different kind, and most commonly, what form of it are we having for dinner?

As my children have grown, so have their opinions and tastes regarding meals. Even when we all agree to dine out together, we often can't achieve consensus on a suitable restaurant for all.

It's freaking ridiculous, it is.

To stem our profound chronic nightly meal deciding fatigue, my wife and I ultimately decided to hold family dinner planning meetings every Sunday prior to the weekly grocery shopping trip.

Similar to the Discover Card at many businesses, we no longer accept the term "something good" as a dinner idea from our ankle biters. Less guessing means less stressing.

And after a couple of years of employing this routine, I've discovered that my family's most popular meal ideas consist of what are commonly known as "comfort foods."

How do you feel about that term—comfort foods?

I bristle a little when I hear it, since it rings of a subtle snobbery. It implies that you're opting for commoners' fare, like you've forsaken the silk lingerie in favor of those jammies with the built-in feet. So be it.

Maybe it's a ninety-nine percenter's thing, but I was raised on comfort foods. Oh, sure, some of those cold and soulless fruits and vegetables appeared along the way, but I think my parents were just trying to be politically correct.

So screw the sushi, to hell with the hummus. Here are my top ten comfort foods:

10) Meatloaf and mashed potatoes—These must be served together to maintain their top ten position. Every time I watch "A Christmas Story," I wonder why Randy doesn't pay them the respect they deserve.

9) Sloppy Joes—You can go slightly uptown by using ground turkey, but I recommend 80/20 ground beef, topped with grated sharp cheddar. You need not be really broke or really stoned to declare your devotion to this saucy treasure.

8) Anything sold at the Costco food court—Nothing beats a cheesy ranch chicken bake prior to weaving through the throngs for a thirty pack of cheesy ranch chicken bakes.

7) Chili—Great on a really cold or rainy day, again topped with grated cheddar. Not so awesome in July or while riding in the back of a U-Haul with a bunch of fraternity brothers, but still worthy of the list.

6) Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup—We're actually having this tonight. And since we only have eight slices of bread left, I've offered to eat the sandwich made from the heals. Team player? Guilty.

5) Spaghetti—If spaghetti were served at communion, I'd be so ensconced in the Catholic Church that I'd be Cardinal Timothy by now. Jesus, I love spaghetti.

4) Cream of mushroom soup-based casseroles—I'm surprised that more condemned prisoners haven't requested green been casserole topped with Funyuns as a side dish to hamburger-tater tot casserole. Now that's what I call a last meal.

3) Chicken pot pie—My step mom's is so delicious that I offer to chew it for other family members as a courtesy.

2) Macaroni and cheese—Whether it's Kraft dinner or a sixteen-cheese baked masterpiece, I'll eat that shizz until my lower gastrointestinal tract is obstructed like a golfball-stuffed garden hose.

1) Pizza—You know when you've got a huge, gooey slice of pizza and you're forced to hold it over your face and lower it for that first bite? If I could string every first-bite-of-pizza moment from my life back-to-back-to-back and experience the entire event over one weekend...oops, suddenly I'm fourteen again.

There you have it. Feel no shame, for comfort foods are the people's ambrosia.

Promise You Won't Tell?

2012-01-24T12:05:00.000-08:00

Are you a snitch?

Are you now, or have you ever been, a rat, a stoolie, a fink, a squealer, a buttinsky or an intermeddler?

Has your treasonous tipsterism ever squawked up a Tsunami of Dopplering discontent?

I'm going to guess—uh, yeah, it probably has.

As my mentor and role model, Mike Brady, so eloquently offered to his lithping thtepdaughter Thindy:

Kids are notorious tattlers. They're highly motivated to tell on others because it quells the heat of their own misbehavior and exacts revenge on the offender.

The youngest of three children, I told on my sister for anything and everything. If she sang too loud or chewed with her mouth open, I filed an immediate grievance with management.

Sometimes she just looked at me weird.

My brother, six years my senior, rarely played with me, so when he did, I tightly monitored his behavior. One such occasion, while playing H-O-R-S-E in our backyard, he missed a shot.

"Dang it!" he bellowed.

Paydirt. I immediately jogged into the house where my parents sat reading the newspaper.

"Tom just said 'Dang it'." I stood proudly, waiting for the payoff, the moment my dad would fold the paper, rise from his chair, open the sliding glass door and cuss my brother out for swearing.

My mom spoke. "Saying 'Dang it' isn't swearing."

"Yeah it is. Mom, he said 'Dang it'."

"Right. That's not swearing."

I slinked back into the backyard to resume our game immediately after receiving my brother's punitive slap to the back of my head.

"You little nark. It's your shot."

Most of us outgrow our bent for routine tattling around junior high, when the snitch label assumes an ominous prison yard stigma. At that point, we could bear witness to hollowed out algebra books stuffed with weed and vodka, yet anything short of waterboarding won't get us to sing.

No one wants to get shanked by a dull number two pencil between the band room and woodshop.

Things tend to even out as we mature into adulthood. We're still not squealers, yet injustices no longer go unnoticed. The problem is, most of the stuff we'd love to report isn't reportable.

After all, to whom to we complain about the guy who pulls two newspapers out of the machine, or the kid who throws a Heath Bar wrapper on the sidewalk, or the car that barrels through a crosswalk, just missing an elderly woman?

So here's my question, and I'm really interested in your opinion: How do you feel about the ultimate nosey parker, Julian Assange, founder of WikiLeaks?

Mr. Assange is currently under investigation for espionage by several national governments, including Iceland, Kenya and yes, the United States. His accusers have labeled him a traitor for uncovering and publishing incriminating information, including a video showing the killing of several Iraqi civilians and journalists by a United States Army helicopter in 2010.

Convinced that the military industrial complex depends on an ignorant public to achieve its devious ends, Assange has launched an all-out assault on secrecy in the name of skulduggery.

In a recent Rolling Stone interview, he claims that the United States military possesses 4.3 million security clearances, a higher number than the entire population of New Zealand, yet a completely closed shadow society within a seemingly open American state.

Should the American people be allowed access, even partially, to such a stockpile of information? Assange believes that yes, we absolutely should, that such large scale withholding has resulted in government censorship run amok and a serious threat to a democratic society.

His revelations have proven not so much subversive as embarrassing to free and oppressive regimes alike, and many credit WikiLeaks' disclosures with sparking the recent Arab Spring and Occupy Wall Street demonstrations.

Do we, the people, have a right to know what kind of covert casserole is baking in our own kitchen, or is Julian Assange nothing more than an opportunistic, treasonous gossip?

What do you think? I promise I won't tell.

Breaking news: Newt's open marriage proposal uncovered.

2012-01-20T11:49:00.000-08:00

This really is amazing.

After quite a few phone calls and thanks to the unprecedented freedoms provided by the Patriot Act, I think I've uncovered the smoking gun.

Was this dangerous work? Potentially, but America's right to know trumps my own petty concerns for my family's personal safety.

Without further ado, I hereby submit a document which may very well sway the outcome of the 2012 Republican Presidential race: the original transcript of the letter written from former Speaker of the House New Gingrich to his then-wife, Marianne, proposing an "open marriage."

July 24, 2000

My Dearest Marianne,

Our marriage has always been one based upon love, trust and above all, reason. And that is precisely why I'm appealing to your sense of reason to hear me out, to understand that I am proposing this arrangement for the benefit of you, me and most of all, America.

No single argument is more or less important than another, so please read each with equal receptiveness. Let's begin.

You know how I'm really into history, and you know how I really like playing that game where I'm Abe Lincoln, the country lawyer, and one day while I'm shirtlessly building a log cabin, you walk up with a tin of water and tell me I look thirsty, and I say, "Then quench me, slave girl," even though Abe Lincoln never had slaves, although I would have had I actually been Abe Lincoln? Yeah, I won't make you do that anymore.

I can find someone else to mousse my furry chest.

I can get that whole "secretly attracted to Lewinsky" thing taken care of.

You're free to date and engage in physical relations with anyone of your choosing, even friends of mine...if I actually had any.

You can pursue someone whose required foreplay doesn't include a miniature jaws of life or other small hydraulic device to expose my Newt Flewt.

You will no longer wake up in the morning smelling of Old Spice and Domino's Cheesy Bread.

If I return home smelling of Love's Baby Soft and Grape Bubble Yum, I won't need to tell you she looked eighteen and claimed to be a lobbyist for the wine cooler industry.

I think you'll agree that this arrangement benefits all, especially you. Please respond soon, since I plan on being gone all weekend.

Your fuzzy love muffin,
Newton

I think the facts speak for themselves. You are a small man, Mr. Gingrich.

Awwwwkward!

2012-01-17T12:24:00.000-08:00

I'm always thankful I'm not tipped off to these situations in advance.

Yesterday, I arrived ten minutes early for doctor's appointment and took a seat in her waiting room. No big deal, right? Waiting in waiting rooms is part of the whole doctor appointment ritual usually they're running a bit behind, yes?

In a typical, spacious room, I'll scan the area and peel open an already well-perused periodical like TIME or Sports Illustrated or maybe even Highlights or Your Ballooning Prostate Monthly when the selection is sparse. Then I'll perch myself in the chair which affords the maximum buffer of personal space from the germy masses who occupy this communal zone.

But yesterday, the waiting room resembled the space of a large elevator. Harboring a lamp, a coat rack and a small table with a fake plant, precious little space remained for two chairs and the two humans who were forced together for seven minutes yesterday afternoon.

As I attempted not to brush against him, I gingerly placed myself in the chair next to the guy. He was apparently waiting for someone behind the doctor's closed door since I had the next appointment, and he didn't appear pleased to have me there.

I nodded as I sat, but he obviously desired no part of it. Even though we sat inches from each other in that cramped Barbie's Dream House of a space, he looked everywhere but at me, which was basically two other places—a faded painting of some birds and the floor.

It would have been the perfect beginning to a low budget gay porno—like really low budget—meaning no sound either.

The guy's wife ultimately emerged from behind the door as I was busy mentally communicating with a spot on the carpet and her husband studied his non-ring ring finger cuticle with a level of concentration normally reserved for eye tumor removal.

Seven minutes of my life has never felt so long nor seven inches in distance so short. I guess what I'm trying to say is that it was really uncomfortable.

Guys have a tendency of doing everything besides talking to each other when faced with close, awkward situations. We enjoy space, and lots of it.

As I've stated previously, two guys urinating next to each other is a commonly shared experience, yet urinal talk is verboten. Occasionally, guys will even enter the restroom engaged in conversation, yet when it's time to perform, their eyes glaze over and their heads bow in homage to their urinary sanctum.

Often, the floodgates are wedged shut and the best cure may be some distracting sports talk. But no, we must endure in thick silence while strenuously pondering waterfalls and fire hoses while passively competing for the first trickling wellspring of progress.

At my age it's difficult enough even when no one is standing next to me.

Besides default sports topics, I'm not really sure how to remedy salty silences between myself and other men, since I usually say something embarrassing and embarrassment is awkwardness's kissing cousin.

On a recent trip to Las Vegas, my family rode to the airport in a hybrid Toyota Prius taxi. If you've ever ridden in a half electric car, you're aware that when they stop, the gas engine shuts off.

With the rest of my family in the back seat and your humble blogger riding shotgun next to the driver, we had stopped at a light, which stayed red for two full cycles as an ambulance passed in front of us.

The prolonged silence deafened us all, and after we all heard the driver's stomach growling, I decided, Okay. That's it. I'm going to chat up the cab driver. I'm tired of listening to the faint whistles of people's noses in this tiny car.

"So." I turned to face the driver. "Are you familiar with the airport?"

I felt the burning energy my teenage daughter's mortified star and a dull kick to my lower back as I scanned the "Orange Airport Cab" logo on the driver's baseball cap.

We rode the remainder of the way in silence.

Listen up, candidates: How to turn this thing around.

2012-01-13T11:04:00.000-08:00

"Everyone has a plan 'til they get punched in the mouth."
-Mike Tyson

That's one of my favorite lines ever.

It's so accurate, whether, as with Mr. Tyson, it literally refers to one of his long history of fallen tomato can opponents, or more figuratively referencing the combatants in our modern political arena.

While none of the presidential contenders would even consider going a couple of rounds in the ring, how much fun would it be to watch Gingrich sweating and gasping for air as he simultaneously attempts to punch Santorum and hide his quivering moobs?

While the candidates surely consider themselves above any type of physical fray, wouldn't it be great to see Perry and Romney go after each other at Madison Square Garden during halftime of a Knicks game?

I could see Perry dominating at the outset, but then Romney getting really pissed about the condition of his hair and windmilling his open-gloved hands in a climactic, yet ineffective rage.

Alas, I can only fantasize about such entertaining political exploits.

But now that Mr. Romney has opened a fairly sizable lead over the others and gained nearly enough momentum to propel his robber baron arse to the nomination, the also-rans had better restock their verbal quivers or forever stand down.

So, in these desperate days, exceptional circumstances require exceptional assistance and I'm here to offer just that to messieurs Paul, Perry, Santorum and Gingrich.

Congressman Paul, you've got the reputation of a well-prepared, mature orator, as well as a highly respected physician. So, next time you hear Mittens proclaim that "corporations are people, my friend," ask him where General Motors' scrotum is.

It'll throw him off. A lot.

Governor Perry, Mr. Rommey likes to attempt to relate to average folks, which you do, as well. So, next time he claims that "there were a couple of times I wondered whether I was going to get a pink slip," tell him "That's ridiculous. Y'all could get as many pink slips and blue teddies as y'all want. In fact, you could buy the entire Fredericks of goddamn Hollywood."

Snap.

Senator Santorum, if Governor Romney makes the mistake of again saying, "I like being able to fire people who provide service to me," respond with "That's where we differ, sir. Since I'm a highly repressed right wing Christian, I conceal my perversions by keeping all those who service me financially secure."

Moral high ground is what it's all about, no?

And finally, Speaker Gingrich, you've proven yourself to be quite adept at firing sharp verbal salvos, so you don't really need my assistance. But just in case, if Mitt again affirms that "President Obama's stimulus plan is one of the biggest peacetime spending binges in American history," remind him that the United States is certainly not at peace, but it will seem like it once there's a President Gingrich.

He'll be godsmacked by your badassedness.

You guys are welcome.

Sex Advice for All...Except the Gays.

2012-01-10T11:54:00.000-08:00

A question for you: Is it acceptable to judge others' judgmental behavior?

Or am I asking you to judge my judgment of others' judgementalism?

I'm losing you, aren't I?

Anyway, a common subject of my writing is certain people's unflinching desires to hurl moral medicine balls into our lower abdomens when we're not looking.

Has this behavior always existed and I just didn't notice or has it gotten worse?

I think it's gotten worse.

Football players, prior to Tim Tebow, occasionally knelt or pointed to the sky, yet didn't make nearly the spectacle of themselves that this guy does. Feigning utter deference and humility and bowing in prayer at the goal line, Tebow advances his agenda while sixty thousand fans and millions at home capture his "private" moment between him, his eighteen inch biceps and, oh, yeah, God.

Presidential contenders hadn't formerly based their candidacies on divine ordinance. Okay, I know George Bush claimed that God told him to seek office, but that could have been a strong cup of coffee and a dip of Copenhagen talking.

In this race, three challengers have competed to plant the Christian stanchion in the name of the Grand Old Party, which seems like an all-time record.

It's become a matter of branding, of associating oneself with a look and feel in the quest for financial and personal gain. And it so very American.

To cap off my treatise on the American Christian branding machine, I'd like to share the story of Mark Driscoll, founder of Seattle's Mars Hill Church, one of the fastest growing congregations in the Pacific Northwest. Mars Hill currently boasts nine campuses, with future plans for sites in Oregon, New Mexico and southern California.

It's members are predominately the young and hip, people you might see at the trendy sushi bar or shopping for Danish bar stools.

Pastor Driscoll, similar to this humble blogger, is a chubby, forty-something white guy who favors jeans and hooded sweatshirts. Driscoll's disarming charm and charisma betray the subject matter of his teachings, a Biblical form of Sharia which abhors homosexuality and women in church leadership positions.

He also claims that Yoga is evil. I tend to agree, especially planks.

Mr. Marky Mark contends that the Bible proscribes specific duties for man and woman, which, while considered equal in God's eyes, require the man to head the household and call all the shots.

Hers is to obey him and stay foxy, lest he stray.

And now, in an all-American attempt at good old fashioned cross-channel marketing, Ayatollah Driscoll has "co-written" with Mrs. Driscoll a book entitled, "Real Marriage: The Truth About Sex, Friendship and Life Together."

I haven't read the book, but it sounds like he's taken most of the guesswork out of what is and isn't okay when it comes to all things carnal. Finally, I can rest easy and won't have to worry about some bearded, thirty-three year old son of God watching my every move and waiting to throw the flag for illegal use of glands.

Thank you Mark Driscoll. In your ever-expanding pursuit of power and money in the name of religion, you've clarified some important points for me, the master of my domain.

If we ever meet, feel free open up to me about your mother issues and need for a large truck.

You Ain't Nothing But a Major Tom.

2012-01-08T16:21:00.000-08:00

I've got a strange taste in my mouth today.

Each time I post a piece to this profound journal of the mundane, I'm left with a residual feeling, a taste, if you will.

After expounding about my children's exploits, the leftover flavor can be a bitter sweet bouquet of guilt, shame and liberation from allowing others to nestle in next to me on the parental roller coaster.

Occasionally I'll write about an event in which my own actions have led to personal embarrassment and humiliation. The taste opens with acridity, yet finishes with a velvety sweetness—that familiar peace one feels when confessing sins, but sans the presence of a clergyman, bartender or cross dressing prostitute.

But the most confusing sensation on my grizzled pallet surfaces after I've blurted out remarks judging moral behavior—especially vis a vis America's politicians. Oh, how easy it is for Mr. High and Mighty to spew his vitriol from behind his iMac while snacking on Sunshine Cheez-It®, proud sponsor of Reflections of a Shallow Pond.

Who am I to judge, yes?

And that's why I was so relieved to learn of two birthdays this morning, both of which were for gentlemen who stated loudly and proudly, "I'm freaky, I'm weird and I'm questioning you. If you don't agree, I've got two words for you: Look how many chicks I'm getting.

Elvis Aaron Presley was born in Tupelo, Mississippi on this day in 1935. Elvis embodied rock "n' roll, even for kids my age who were a generation removed and didn't really listen to his stuff because he'd become a bloated caricature of himself.

Before all the pills and the guns and the bacon and forgotten lyrics, this dude rocked. Forget his incredible singing ability and good looks, have you ever tried moving your hips like that?

I did, once. I was around thirteen, and jeans were super tight back then. Let's just say, after about seven gyrations I learned something new and wonderful about myself that afternoon in my room back in 1976.

Today's other rock 'n' roll birthday belongs to David Bowie, born David Robert Jones on January 8, 1947. Right around the time I was learning about the benefits of denim-inspired friction, David Bowie introduced me to the universe of androgynous glam rock.

Before the ever-morphing personas of Lady Gaga or Madonna or Prince, there was David Bowie.

When you're a kid whose only musical exposure has been to groups like Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Bee Gees, you get pretty inspired seeing this odd-looking and -sounding dude who sings some superior pop songs.

David Bowie was one of the first people who said to a young Tim, "Go ahead, say it. You'll be okay."

Happy birthday, Elvis and David. Thanks for absolving me of my sins.

Bachmann leaves nothing behind but Santorum.

2012-01-05T12:53:00.000-08:00

Up in the morning look in the mirror.
I'm worn as her tooth brush hanging in the stand.
My face ain't looking any younger
Now I can see love's taken her toll on me.

She's gone. Oh I, oh I'd
Better learn how to face it.
She's gone. Oh I, oh I'd
Pay the devil to replace her.
She's Gone— what went wrong?

"She's Gone."
Hall & Oates, 1976

I'm not going to lie...it hurts. Way down in my gut, it smarts, and I'm sort of hanging by a thread right now.

But it's over. Doggone it. Michele Bachmann, America's sweetheart, has decided to "stand aside," to withdraw from a pack of GOP candidates she had been spanking a year ago with the vigor of a yellow pant suited dominatrix.

Sure, she was flawed, but that's the thing about her that lit my Presto Log. Her gaffes gaffed my heart like the quiver tip of a bobbing pellet waggler. (fishing lingo courtesy of Wikipedia).

Congresswoman Bachmann had me at HPV vaccine, of which she had heard from her friend's father's husband causes mental retardation. An acquaintance of her cousin's barber's waxer told her that President Obama had incurred expenses totaling two hundred million dollars a day while visiting India.

Both statements totally false.

And totally hot.

And now she's gone.

So, Ms. Bachmann, as you retreat to lick your wounds and stock up on those comforting cans of Chung King Chow Mein for the coming apocalypse, I bid you goodbye, but certainly not farewell, my sultry psychopath.

Enter former Pennsylvania Senator Rick Santorum, who lost his latest re-election bid by seventeen percentage points in 2008. After falling only eight votes short of Mitt Romney's victory total in this week's Iowa caucuses, Santorum has now achieved "flavor of the month" status in the Baskin Robbins ice cream sweepstakes which has become this campaign season.

If I were to assign actual flavors to some of the past leaders, I'd probably dub Newt Gingrich "Newt York Super Pudge Punk."

Herman Cain might be "Meet Me In My Suite Candy Cain Crunch."

Rick Perry? How about "Scoops and Scoops of Oops?"

"Vanilla Nut" would succinctly describe Michele Bachmann's flavor, and now that Mr. Santorum has assumed the mantle, let's call his "I'm Secretly Attracted To and That's Why I Hate All Gay Boysenberry" ice cream.

It's going to be fun to finally see Dick encounter the same media scrutiny under which his predecessors have wilted. He feels that food stamps are unnecessary due to America's high obesity rate. He believes that abortion exceptions to protect women's health are "phony" and that healthcare is a luxury, an expense which most people could afford simply by lowering their cable and cell phone bills.

And Santorum stated that if he were President, even though he firmly believes in state's rights as proscribed by the Constitution, he would unilaterally annul all same-sex marriages.

The guy has six kids, so a likelihood exists that one may harbor attractions to those of a kindred gender. That's not okay, but it obviously is okay for insane people to wed.

Otherwise, all of Rick Santorum's children would have been born out of wedlock.

Welcome back, 2012.

2012-01-03T13:02:00.000-08:00

Hello, 2012. Or, should I say, "Welcome back."

For many of us, it's our first day back—to work, to school, to daycare, back to pants which fit better on the last day before the first day of the vacation which led up to the first day back.

Huh?

Naturally, the first day coming back to something isn't quite like a day where we begin something brand new.

That first September day of school can be nerve-wracking, yet exciting—new clothes, new classmates, occasionally new facial hair or other body parts which can lead to shock and dismay in the locker room.

At a new job, day one is also exhilarating, yet the information onslaught prohibits our ability to process much. We return home knowing how to look busy with nothing to do, where the bathrooms are and that we'll never again have lunch with that guy Bob who brings to the restaurant his own jar of chipotle mayonnaise.

I'm not sure what the initial day of prison is like, but it's got to be similar to a sorority rush, with diverse social groups vying for your affection, the relentless pressure to always look pretty and all that throwing up after meals.

So, as I mentioned, today is not a first day—it's a first day back—to work, to the gym, and to most of us, to a life of reacquainting ourselves with behaviors which don't encourage an early demise.

It's a return to earth from the festival of lard and sugar which commenced with Halloween, a two-month orgy which begins with seven or eight fun-sized Kit Kats and ends with one supersized...me.

Awakening this morning in the predawn darkness for the first time in ten days, I stumbled out of bed, threw on some shorts and dragged my rotting carcass to the gym.

I mounted the elliptical trainer with an enthusiasm equal to sliding into a dental recliner and tuned my portable radio to the sports talk station. By the time the morning host's voice grasped control of the airwaves, I had gained some valuable knowledge from the advertisers:

My excess belly fat places me at considerable risk of heart attack and stroke, so I should buy this supplement to halt this lurking danger.

My advancing age puts me in substantial peril of decreased libido, increased fatigue and magic eight ball-sized man melons, so I should buy these pills to differentiate my testosterone level from that of a female kitten.

My intelligence and affluent station in society position me in need of a luxury automobile, so I should buy this car and screw the first two products.

As I worked my aging body into an anaerobic lather, I resolved to do none of the above. I'm not going to start something new, I'm simply returning to something that's been there all along.

I'm pretty sure it's in there somewhere.

How Rock Stars' Bad Behavior Makes Us Into Rock Stars.

2011-12-30T14:02:00.000-08:00

We've been sitting at the railroad crossing for nearly a year now, fiddling with the car radio. Finally, the candy cane colored arms hoist themselves, and the caboose materializes out of the haze, signaling an end to the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Eleven.

I'm not going to sum up an entire year in one post. Two many tangents exist to avoid droning ad nauseum regarding all of the year's significant events, so I've decided to focus on the most important happenings—

Celebrity scandals.

I'm doing this for me, and I'm doing this for you, because I guarantee you'll feel better about yourself after reviewing some of the activities which made headlines during 2011, as tabulated by the most trusted name in journalism this side of NPR: starpulse.com.

10) Reality star Kim Kardashian announces the end of her seventy-two-day marriage to Kris "I make the scarecrow look like Steven Hawking" Humphries, after a star-studded multimillion-dollar television wedding.

Be happy for these kids, folks. And let them keep all the wedding gifts as tokens of our gratitude for not having children.

9) A highly motivated hacker releases nude photos obtained from Scarlett Johansson's cell phone.

Definitely an invasion of privacy, but a scandal? For Pete's sake, I'd trade in my forty-nine-year-old male body for her younger, female version tomorrow, accepting all ridicule and gender confusion for the opportunity to explore its wonders on evenings and weekends.

8) In another matrimonial shocker, Playboy Playmate Crystal Harris called off her nuptials to ancient mogul Hugh Hefner just five days prior to their planned event, but keeping her engagement ring and placing it up for auction.

If I were Hef, I'd turn right around and post to EBay that bedazzled hemorrhoid donut she knitted me for my one-hundred-and-eighth birthday.

7) Demi Moore splits with her husband of six years, Ashton Kutcher, after learning that he engaged in unprotected sex with another woman...on the couple's anniversary, to boot!

Of all the lowdown, scumbag moves. According to Moore, Kutcher could have saved the marriage simply by using the custom-printed condoms she bought him which magically transform upon arousal from "I'm a bass" to "I'm a cheating dumbass."

6) Maria Shriver dumps hubby Arnold Shwarzenegger after discovering that his un-American activities have resulted in a prolonged dalliance and subsequent son with their long-time housekeeper.

Come on, Mr. Olympia. I realize you've spent countless thousands of hours in the gym honing that physique, but you should have devoted a little more time to the clean and jerk, if you know what I mean.

5) Charlie Sheen flips out and slaughters his sitcom cash cow, "Two and a Half Men," inventing a few new terms along the way.

I've taken some time to translate. "Winning" means "smoking a fist-sized rock. "Warlock" is a guy who smokes fist-sized rocks. "Tiger blood" is blood containing the contents of a fist-sized rock.

4) Miley Cyrus is photographed sucking a large bong toke.

Miley, your father is Billy Ray Cyrus. Brain cells should be as precious to you as a quaff of Pellegrino in the freaking Sahara.

3) Teeny bop pop star Justin Bieber is accused of fathering a child with a twenty-year-old fan.

Isn't testing for Bieber's paternity ability sort of like asking for the tattoo department of a Mormon bookstore?

2) Chris Brown, hip hopper extraordinaire, goes ballistic in his "Good Morning America" dressing room after being questioned about punching out girlfriend Rihanna in 2009, breaking glass and generally trashing the premises.

Classy move, Chris. What better way to show that you've changed your violent ways.

1) Lindsay Lohan, in between jail and rehab stints, manages to find time to pose for "Playboy," not once, but twice, due to a reshoot.

You go, Lin Lin. Always ahead of the curve, I've heard that you've made pasty, toothless and strung out the new healthy, organic look for 2012.

I guess that's it. Feel better about yourself now? I know I do.

I wish I could have presented this list to my wife a while back after asking her co-worker when the baby was due.

She wasn't pregnant.

Purging yourself of those post-Christmas doldrums.

2011-12-28T19:11:00.000-08:00

Wow...okay...I'm back. Good to be back.

How would you describe what's been going on in your world for the past week? I've been rattling my oxidizing grey matter to describe the sequence of events which follows Christmas, and the best description is what I'll call the "Alfredo Analogy."

Have you ever dined on a nice seafood fettuccine smothered in a succulent cream sauce? As is common with most American restaurants, we're served enough to fill Kenny Chesney's hat, so naturally we box it up and take it home in anticipation of later microwavable awesomeness.

So, yeah, that's how I'd describe the lead-up to Christmas—piping hot Fettuccine Alfredo.

We crack the lid on our December 26 pasta to discover a petrified, softball-sized rubber band noodle ball. And regardless of what method we employ to heat it back to its original form, it's forever assumed the identity of its own weaker, less attractive twin.

Sure, all the ingredients are present; it's just that all molecular activity has halted and your fabulous dish from the previous evening has now permanently morphed into Fettuccine Afraido.

Christmas has ended.

The day after Christmas dawns like those countless mornings when we've awoken in a strange place without a toothbrush. Our head pounds as we stagger to button the now wrinkled shirt we wore to the club last night. At length, everything is finally accounted for except our dignity...and a sock. We flee into the chill of another shameful morning.

Actually, that's never happened to me. I've just dated women who've had lots of those experiences.

I'm obviously being too dramatic here, but let's face it—the first few days following Christmas are a bit of a letdown. The tree still stands, the cookies and candy and fudge still line our counters, but it all looks just a little warmed over.

Today, rather than wallowing in my sluggishness, I asked my eleven-year-old daughter if she'd like to go to the mall—just the two of us—to exchange and return some gifts she'd received.

"Dad, do you even have to ask?" Apparently I hadn't needed to ask.

"Why do you love the mall so much?" I felt pangs of regret as the words spewed out. "All it is is a whole bunch of overpriced crap."

"It is not crap. The mall is amazing. Are you saying my stuff is crap, Dad?"

"No. I just think there are a lot of punks who cruise around looking for trouble because they're bored." I knew this to be gospel as I was one of those punks thirty-five years ago. Take away those saggy pants and peel on some wedgie-inducing moose knuckle flair legs and we're one in the same teen tool.

Here's where things got sort of weird.

I've worked in the fashion industry for the past twenty years, and even though I haven't kept aggressively in touch with the latest clothing trends for young women, it's kind of soaked into my DNA, anyway.

Thirty minutes following our mall discussion, I found myself seated on a bench in a store called Delia's, consulting with my daughter about how best to assemble a sassy outfit with her seventy-five-dollar gift card. Parents lined the long seating area, assessing their daughters as they poked their heads out the dressing cubicle doors.

Actually, using the term "parents" implies that dads were in attendence. They were not. It was a bunch of moms and...me.

And I could tell they didn't know quite what to make of me, especially when my daughter opened the door, I looked at her in some jeans and a top, and proclaimed, "Oh, that is so cute."

Heads turned, but I'm not sure if they were looking at my daughter or the dude who had just channeled Tyra Banks.

I felt the hot pinkness of embarrassment seep into my cheeks and armpits. Oh, my God. Did I just say that? I've always tried to stick to androgynous words like "cool" and "nice." "Cute" had yet to breach the levee.

But it was too late.

I made sure every mom in that dressing area got a glimpse of my masculine three-day beard growth as I knocked over three camisoles on my way out.

Boom. Post Christmas doldrums—gone.

Time for the 2011 Pondie Awards.

2011-12-22T10:52:00.000-08:00

Hello, and welcome to the First Annual Pondie Awards.

Our staff has worked tirelessly in compiling this year's winners, and similarly to Pondie's wealthy yet emasculated second cousin Oscar, we believe that everyone deserves a trophy—you know, like T-ball.

Unfortunately, however, while many will stumble home from the after party, their pockets stuffed with mashed up pigs in a blanket, only one fortunate soul in each of our categories will claim this coveted award for his or her mantel or TV tray.

Without further ado, let's get to the victors, shall we?

In the category of "Politician Whose Pantsuit Makes Her Butt Look the Most Psychotic," the Pondie goes to Michele Bachmann, for asserting that the HPV vaccine causes mental retardation, global warming is fictitious and Jesus hates all gays except for her husband, Marcus. Congratulations, Michele.

Runners up in our next category include Scott Peterson, Charles Manson and Susan Smith, but this year's Pondie goes to O.J. Simpson in the category of "Oh, Cool. That's Right, You're Still in Prison."

The 2011 "Nastiest Way of Recycling a Nasty Thing to Try to Make it Less Nasty" Pondie is awarded to that thing McDonald's sells that has all the Big Mac ingredients inside a tortilla instead of a bun. Congrats on such forward thinking, McD's, and we can't wait for next year and the introduction of the Mango McRib Smoothie.

In the category of "Most Adept at Seizing a Moment of Silent Prayer in Front of 60,000 People to Thank Jesus For the Touchdown He Just Scored and Also His Awesomely Ripped Arms," the Pondie goes to Denver quarterback Tim Tebow. Kudos, Timbo. Thanks to your public displays of piety, those Muslims trying to tackle you don't stand a chance.

We actually have a three-way tie for our next prize. The Libyan, Egyptian and Tunisian people win the Pondie Award for "While the Rest of the World Watched Kim Kardashian's Ridiculous Nuptials, We Chose to Risk Our Lives So That Our Children Might Grow Up Free."

Justin Bieber wins in a close battle with the cast of Barnie and Rupert Murdoch to take home the trophy for "Least Likely to Be Able to Impregnate Someone." Who'd a thunk, Biebs!

Nominated for "Person Most of Us Would Like to Set on Fire, Starting at His Offending Area," the Pondie goes to Jerry Sandusky, who deserves to be free on bail about as much as a Strawberry Frosted Pop Tart deserves to be a fruit.

And finally, 2011 Pondie for "Stop Complaining About Your Stupid Problems—I Was Shot Through the Brain and Look at the Progress I'm Making" is awarded to Representative Gabrielle Giffords. Congresswoman, you inspire us all.

It looks like our show has run a bit long. We apologize and promise that next year, we'll nix FOX News on Ice.

Happy Holidays.

Merry Christmas. War is Over.

2011-12-20T11:24:00.000-08:00

It is, is it?

So let me get this straight. The Iraq war is officially over.

Just like that.

Did someone simply walk around one last time to make sure the oven was turned off and the iron was unplugged, tilted the blinds, turned on the porch light, slammed the door and cranked the dead bolt?

I guess so.

Apparently, it was that easy. At a cost of nine years, nearly 4,500 American and 100,000 Iraqi lives and a trillion dollars, the world's largest and most expensive fork exposed its tines and on Friday signaled that this thing is done, done and done.

Make no mistake, however—we're leaving a lot of parting gifts to this fragile mishmash of tribal alliances, including an embassy larger than anything this side of the Dugger's house.

Still unaccounted for are $6.6 billion earmarked for Iraqi reconstruction projects and one billion dollars in missing tractor trailers, machine guns and rocket propelled grenades provided to local security forces.

Such a comforting statistic.

For all of the soldiers and families who've finally gotten an opportunity to put this nightmare behind them, Friday was a landmark day, and wouldn't you have thought our print media would concur? I definitely believed as much.

But here's the front page of the Detroit Free Press (end of war article framed in green):

And one of my local papers, The Tacoma News Tribune:

When the Japanese surrendered, ending World War II, it received this treatment in the New York Times:

And another of my neighborhood publications, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer:

Judging from the prominence of first two headlines, the end of hostilities in Iraq barely justified the front page.

How do you feel about that?

Granted, Iraq wasn't a popular undertaking from the get-go. America was more polarized over the decision to engage in these actions than any era since Vietnam, and after having two anti-war signs stolen out of my front yard in liberal West Seattle, I experienced little difficulty in drawing such a conclusion.

Many of us believed that our President and his cronies were selling us a bill of goods, fabricating evidence to associate Saddam Hussein with the organization responsible for September 11. Heeding the warning of Republican President Dwight D. Eisenhower, a lot of us felt that America's current military industrial complex was fabricating evidence in order to profit from a nation's patriotism, paranoia...and ignorance.

So many American lives were wagered to safeguard and install Pizza Huts and Baskin Robbins, Subways and Burger Kings. KBR, a former Halliburton division, supplied $20 billion dollars in food, fuel and housing.

I wonder what KBR's gross margin was on a Double Whopper or foot long Meatball with pepper jack and no onions.

Here's what sticks in my craw, and I'll try to be concise, here:

Our troops, at minimum, deserved a headline with the day's largest typeface, preferably thirty-six point Futura Bold. Many participated in two, three or even four tours over there, and by God, they warrant a large freaking announcement in the freaking newspaper.

America needs to care, but it seems like nobody really does. This war has been predominantly fought on the backs of working class and poor kids who are looking for a way out of their situations. People took to the streets during Vietnam because they or their child risked being drafted into a hellish situation, and now it just doesn't hit home for a lot of us since we don't have many dogs in the this fight.

I know we're all busy right now with holiday preparations, but please, do me a favor.

Wherever you are, take five minutes. I'm not asking you to stand up or look around or do anything. Just take five minutes and think about what a lot of people have been doing for the past ten years, and what many are still doing in distant, hostile lands.

Then think about what we can do to bring more of them home.

Time to crank it to eleven.

2011-12-18T15:05:00.000-08:00

T minus one week to go—this is when things get serious.

Up until now, Christmas preparations have jogged along, with a three-quarter sprint a couple of weeks ago for tree procuring and hall decking. Since then, a few online presents ordered here, some gift cards purchased there, but no huge dealio.

As of today, however, the figurative holiday oven has heated up our entire household, and many of those miscellaneous tasks have embedded their tentacles into my consciousness with greater urgency than that constant beckoning by my leathery man bladder.

Christmas cards, still not completed, are always a multi-step process, one in which I never allow myself enough time to accomplish. Choosethefamilyphotoorderthecardsbuythestampsaddresstheenvelopesandmail. Each letter of the preceding word represents roughly one minute of the chore, and I always seem to break the delicate chain at "buythestamps," thereby adding "drivetothestoretobuymorestampsandahugekitkatbar" to the end of the original word.

Another obligation which has leaped forward on this Christmas Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve is my role as the official procurer of holiday baking raw materials. Thanks to my family's gluttonous needs, Safeway is now lighter two large packages of chocolate chips, four jars of marshmallow cream, ten bars of baking chocolate and two huge bags of peppermint candy.

While it may seem like an average Friday movie night for Rush Limbaugh, that's enough sugar to choke a woolly mammoth, and by the end of tonight, the kitchen counters will be lined with fudge, bon bons, sugar cookies and peppermint bark. Hot damn.

I've decided that my my wife and daughters should consider themselves quite fortunate to have someone—well, to have me—as their support staff, their shopping Sherpa. After reading this morning's paper, I've discovered that a lot of dudes were a little too predisposed this time of year to run down to Safeway and home, and back to Safeway, and home again, to contribute to their friends' and family's sugar comas.

For example, here's what happened on this day, December 18, in history:

1865—The Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution, abolishing slavery, was declared in effect by Secretary of State William H. Seward.

Wow. That's a big one. Free pass for Mr. Seward from doing holiday errands for his family. And if there were any way I could thank him today, I'd regale him with an entire nation's gratitude and some Crest Breath Strips.

1940—Adolph Hitler ordered secret preparations for Nazi Germany to invade the Soviet Union.

Yeah. How'd that work out for you, Dolph? You probably should have run to the store for some strudel mix and refilled your Thorazine prescription, like Eva asked you.

1972—The United States began heavy bombing of North Vietnamese targets during the Vietnam War.

Nixon should never be mentioned in the same sentence as Hitler, but each committed some serious military blunders on days where they would have been better off just stuffing their Haggar slacks with rocks and slowly shuffling into the Atlantic.

2010—The United States Senate approved repeal of the military's seventeen-year "don't ask, don't tell' ban on openly gay troops in a 65-31 vote.

Okay, so two useful moves and two bonehead ones on this day in history. The ironic aspect of the 2010 event is this: Can you think of anything positive our Congress has accomplished besides the don't ask, don't tell repeal? I can't.

They must've been pressured to adjourn and get some shredded coconut before the store ran out.

Confessions of a starstruck fan.

2011-12-14T10:42:00.000-08:00

"Oh, my God. There he is!" I elbowed Corey in the arm a little too hard. "It's him!"

By now, most of the fans in our immediate area had pivoted their gaze away from the field of play and onto the celebrity who stood mere feet away behind the concourse railing.

"Holy shit, it is him! And he's throwing t-shirts."

An erratic flock of lime green shirts saturated the chilly night air as the crowd surged and grabbed and caromed off one another. One garment seized on a gust and drifted just above Corey's reach.

Ever the athlete, Corey hastily ushered any fear of pain, humiliation or paralysis to the temporary mini-storage of his consciousness. He leaped high, his ASICS running shoes separating from their sticky, concrete moorings and clutched the floating green booty. Sweet, sweet victory.

Then he toppled over the seats in front of us and landed firmly on his back, wallowing in three periods worth of football stadium filth. He held his prize aloft to spare it the bacterial soup his entire body was occupying.

Thirty seconds later, as my stomach still heaved with spasmic laughter and my eyes still gushed the salty byproducts of hysteria, another t-shirt landed on my shoe. I slowly bent down and scooped it up.

I examined the shirt's graphics: swathes of blue and white slathered the day-glow green cotton fabric, and the only logo present...was that of sandwich juggernaut, Subway.

It was Monday Night Football in Seattle. And the sandwich king himself, Jared, had just thrown us t-shirts.

That's right—that Jared. The Jared who used to wear pants the size of Rush Limbaugh's Dockers until he dropped seven hundred pounds (or so) eating only six-inch whole grain subs with parsley and pepper, and became a massive celebrity.

Well, a celebrity anyway.

It's crazy how crazy we became upon seeing this man. After witnessing the manner in which people reacted to this manufactured icon, thank God most of us were too young to experience Beatlemania.

And to compound the frenzy, we were fed a cocktail more intoxicating than whiskey and Vicodin: famous people and free stuff.

Oh, how the starstruck human can behave.

Occasionally, my enthusiasm is well grounded. When Bill Clinton visited Seattle for one last campaign stop at Pike Place Market prior to the 1992 General Election, I deemed the opportunity too valuable to squander. In typical Clinton fashion, he arrived and hour-and-a-half late, gave a long, rousing oration, and by the time I had waved to his smiling likeness in the departing motorcade and arrived at work, I'd missed half a day.

Was I in trouble? You bet. Did I regret my actions? Not on your blue-dress-staining life.

But then there are instances like the Jared Affair, times when the celebrity tsunami washes away any semblance of rational thought.

Several years ago, while taking my usual lunchtime route to the gym, I passed downtown Seattle's Monaco Hotel. A moderately sized crowd of youngish women and teenagers blocked the sidewalk next to a luxury tour bus.

"What's going on?" I asked someone.

"We're waiting for 'N Sync to come out."

"Really?" I thought. "Hmm. I could hang out for a second to catch a glimpse of these guys up close. No big deal. They're huge right now, and even though I couldn't care less about their music, what harm could it do?"

After ten minutes had passed, I again assessed the situation. "Well, I'll wait a couple more minutes. I can still get in a short workout in and it would be a shame to miss these guys after waiting for this long."

Twenty minutes in, and again I regrouped. "Okay, so I won't be working out today. Whatever. Ten more minutes, though, and then I walk away. This is ridiculous."

After forty-five minutes, I was so hell bent on personally checking out Joey's well-manicured beard, Lance's blue eyes, Justin's curly locks and JC's...(I don't know, nose?) that they would have had to tase me with a Ted Bundy-sized dose of electricity to stop me from seeing 'N Freaking Sync.

Finally, almost an hour after I'd planted myself on that sidewalk among all those hardcore, overwhelmingly female enthusiasts, they emerged together.

I must admit, after waiting for so long, my heart did speed up, if only slightly.

And seriously, the only reason I screamed is because someone stepped on my toe.

How the Gingrich Stole Christmas.

2011-12-12T12:53:00.000-08:00

"Hey, Newt! Put on your helmet! You're going in for Cain!"

"Really? Really, Coach? Can I? Yes! Don't you remember, though? I'm not very athletic. I just help you think up plays. And I don't have a helmet because we couldn't find one big enough to fit my recess-ball-sized head."

"I don't care, Gingrich. We're out of subs, so get in there!"

Okay, enough with analogies originating from my football-soaked brain stem. Hard to believe, isn't it? It's finally Newt's turn as the leading Republican for the 2012 Presidential nomination. Wow.

First, Michele Bachmann tapped herself out of the running by confusing the potentially life-saving HPV vaccine as a sinister gateway drug to mental retardation. Hmmm...now that I've really pondered this fact, I'm surprised that bug-eyed Stepford Wife didn't wholeheartedly support the vaccine.

After all, it could increase her voting base.

I know, I know. Cheap and insensitive. Couldn't resist.

Shortly after Bachmann stumbled through the political sliding glass door, Rick Perry rose to the top, but quickly shat himself by proving incapable of naming the three cabinet-level departments he'd vowed to eliminate. Oops.

What's the deal, Texas? Out of all the available talent in your expansive state, why do you only elect governors who, while vehemently opposing reproductive rights, believe that back in 1973, Roe vs. Wade fought just before Ali and Frazier?

It's painful to watch Perry attempt to drum up facts and figures. It's like his thoughts are Pong balls knocking around in his cavernous head while his eyes follow behind. Nice hair, though.

And then it was time for the former Chief Executive Officer of Godfather's Pizza, a product which actually broke my mom's tooth back in 1978, to bear the standard for the Grand Old Party.

Unfortunately, Herman Cain also choked on his chances by denying, despite daunting evidence to the contrary, how much extra pepperoni he'd personally delivered over the past twenty years.

I wonder if Herman was a thirty minutes or less guy.

Enter Newton Leroy "Newt" Gingrich, that terrier-faced, twice-adulterous, Muppet who just doesn't know when to say when. After losing key staffers and nearly imploding back in May, Gingrich has wrestled front-runner status from Mitt Romney, whose hat has been in the ring so long it's covered with John McCain's dandruff.

Newt's a different animal, however. He's an idea guy and he's not into tempering his thoughts prior to verbalizing them in his gurgling, pre-pubescent tenor.

Since he's got so much experience working with poor, non-white children, he's proposed a plan which could compel even Geoffrey Chaucer's rotting corpse to stand and applaud:

Gingrich, who firmly believes, in all his Caucasian splendor, that we each possess an equal shot at economic success and wealth, has proposed allowing under-aged minors to work as school custodians.

Since these kids obviously suffer in poverty due to their single mothers' lazy work ethics, what better way to teach the value of a buck than to hire twelve-year-old black kids to replace union janitors and throw scented cat litter over vomit at a fraction of the cost?

Win. Win.

More recently, Newt branded the Palestinians an "invented people." Before you feel sliced by sharp pudding lids of outrage, remember that Gingrich knows the definition of an invented person, since he's one himself.

His philandering past has been dumped into the compost bin and he's re-invented himself as a humble, monogamous public servant. He has sought the Lord's forgiveness, the ultimate Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card for cheating on two wives, even discussing divorce with his first wife as she lay in a hospital bed recovering from cancer surgery.

Anyway, yeah, Newt Gingrich is your guy right now, Republicans. What do you think? Are you going to support this schmuck?

Or will you wait to hear if God's going to vote for Obama again?

My non-encounter with a total bastard.

2011-12-08T12:30:00.000-08:00

She shuffled into our small, galley kitchen as I concluded a ritual which has burned itself into my muscle memory after hundreds of times preparing her same on-the-go breakfast.

I noted that she had dressed herself for the day in her "baller" outfit: ponytail with a hair band to pull any strays back from the forehead, a sweatshirt, basketball shorts, black, midcalf-length socks and Adidas slides.

As I stuffed two pieces of bacon into a toasted English muffin and handed it over, she addressed me in her usual morning monotone. "Hey, Dad."

"Morning. Hey, I've been thinking about something lately. When are you and I going to play each other one-on-one again? Last time I beat you really easily."

"Dad, I was in fifth grade. That was six years ago. Just name the time and place and I'm so in."

"What's your point? I'm still taller than you."

"Umm, no. Actually you're not. Hey, Mom! Can you come here a second?"

My wife, having been dwarfed by our woman-child at least three years ago, entered the kitchen, thereby filling it to its maximum human capacity.

"Who's taller, me or Dad?"

"Stand back to back." Our heads butted and slid against one another as they competed for supremacy beneath my bride's steadying hand.

A brief moment of quiet and stillness. "She's got you by about a quarter of an inch," my wife chortled as she left the room.

"Ha! I knew it!" Her teenage smugness nearly fogged up the small window above the sink.

"No big deal," I lamely retorted. "I'm probably not done growing yet anyway, because my knees and ankles have been hurting lately. I think the growth plates are active and I could still top off at six-three or so."

Her familiar monotone returned. "Ha, ha, Dad. You're forty-nine."

Okay, so what if my sixteen-year-old daughter is taller than I am? I'm still her dad— probably. She's still my baby—just a really tall baby.

Those who've read even a few of my postings are aware that the my wife, younger daughter and I have spent countless hours in bleachers, folding camp chairs (with cup holders) and glitchy, sloppy mud, watching this kid play.

And I'm not complaining. It's a joy to witness this terrific young woman as she joyfully pursues her lifelong passion on a high school basketball court. Intellectually, I'm aware that these are fleeting moments, that they'll be no more than vapor in a few years.

But here's the thing: When that ball tips off, I become an unsheathed, inflamed nerve, a hypersensitive human father unit whose only function is preventing harm to my offspring or her teammates.

If my fervor somehow could embody a liquefied right-wing Christian theocratic tyrant, I would be stewing in Michele Bachmann juice.

The perfect storm of potential over-the-top fatherly fan behavior occurred last Wednesday, when my daughter's team traveled across town for a non-league contest against a storied opponent, one whose multiple championship banners hovered over the hardwood.

I arrived non-filtered—on my own—los lobos solo. Sitting halfway up in the middle of the stands, I maintained a decent decorum as the opponent surgically dismantled my daughter's squad. Hey, I surmised, it's not meant to be tonight. Such is life, so I'll sit back and enjoy watching my girl play, despite the bitter defeat at hand.

By halftime, the deficit was twenty-four points, and in my opinion, it was time for the opposing coach to call off the dogs.

Unfortunately, he believed otherwise, as the third quarter commenced with the same highly athletic line-up, the same full-court press, the same assault of three-point salvos.

The lead had ballooned to forty points by the end of the third, as had my spleen, slowly searing like a nice Ahi tuna. The opponents convened in a huddle, the coach joking and laughing with his dominators before sending, that's right, the same group out to continue the onslaught for the game's final quarter.

I was pissed. As my daughter's team struggled to push the ball even beyond the mid-court line, their slumped shoulders betrayed total defeat and complete humiliation. My eyes maintained a constant lock on the enemy coach.

And that's when he said it.

With a gluttonous grin still plastering his face, he barked to his players:

"Come on, you guys can play better than that. These guys are bums."

Huh? Seriously? Had he, a high school basketball coach, representing his school and its unparalleled record of academic and athletic esteem, actually just vocally branded his opponents as bums?

Red wasn't the color that filled my vision; it was more of a brownish maroon.

I wanted to hurt this man.

This bastard, in all his misplaced hubris, had just mortally disrespected my daughter's team and school. And I wanted to visit physical damage upon him.

My wife wasn't there. No one could stop me. Scenarios cascaded through my consciousness as my eyes maintained adhesion to the back of his head:

I could charge the court and get one good shot in before I'm pummeled by his assistants and arrested. Sure, my daughter would never speak to me again and I'd be banned from entering public schools for at least five years, but it may still be worth it.

I could confront him after the game, possibly leading to a physical altercation in which I would not be the beneficiary. Still possibly worthwhile to make my feelings known.

Finally, finally, the contest had mercifully ended, a forty-five point shellacking. Okay, I murmured. If you're going to do something awesome, you've got to do it now. Come on. Do it. Now!

Knock it off, I told myself. Pull yourself together. You're not going to perform either of those stunts. If this guy wants to be a punk, he's definitely been a punk before and he'll probably always be a punk regardless of any immature act you may try, so get over it and move on.

And I did get over it and move on...

...after returning home and emailing the school's athletic director and principal.

It's butt crack time.

2011-12-05T13:27:00.000-08:00

It wasn't just any weekend.

It was that weekend.

Tape, very small nails, electricity, butt cracks...you heard me, but I'll get to that later.

After flirting last year with the notion of a prosthetic tree, my family and I opted to go the unnatural natural route, because, even though we wouldn't be purchasing our green friend from inside the hardware store, we'd decided to buy one out in the parking lot.

We also made the collective decision to nix one of those tree farm scams thirty miles outside of town, where you're compelled to drop fifty bucks for the five-minute privilege of sawing your own pre-sheered tree, loading it in the car and choking down a complimentary, yet chunky, cup of Swiss Miss and a broken sugar cookie prior to heading back to the city in a cramped, overheated Ford Ranger.

Nope. Not this time. The kids and I were finally on the same page. We unanimously agreed that the tree farm route was synonymous to vetoing the frozen turkey from Safeway for the honor of driving to the sticks, paying three times as much and killing the poor beast ourselves.

In other words, why mess with the gobbler when you can go right for the breast.

This time around, for as long as it takes to sing "Oh, Tannenbaum" between six and seven times, Dougie Fur, in all his deadness, had traveled to his final resting place.

Anyone who tells you that wedging a tree into its little green stand is easy, is either lying or reasonably competent, because by the time that tree stood upright in a water-filled basin, the only man sweating around his wife more than I was on Saturday was Herman Cain.

My daughters like to enter the picture after most of the heavy lifting has been completed; sort of like the dentist who cruises in after the hygienist has ruptured her S5 disk trying to chip the filth off your teeth, and pokes around for thirty seconds before slapping off his rubber gloves and charging you a couple of Benjamins.

Sorting quickly through everything with which they hadn't either held a personal connection or made, the kids decorated feverishly, until no space existed to place another ornament or pillow, snow globe or angel.

Once fully decorated, the living room assumed a festive, yet slightly disturbing ambiance. A delicate nativity scene, one in which stepfather Joseph was conspicuously absent, was dwarfed by its bookend neighbors, a giant Christmas penguin and a chillingly lifelike Saint Nick doll in a baseball outfit.

A large Santa head fabricated from half a Clorox bottle stared out from the wall, giving the house the feel of a home which had bagged itself a Christmas elf and proudly displayed the trophy.

Finally, after having completed the day's garnishments, the family relaxed together in a room lit solely by little white, green, red and blue lights while Dean Martin crooned a slurry verse of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" on the old CD player.

"Hey, Dad, can you help me put up some lights in my room?" asked my sixteen year-old. I knew what she actually meant was, "Hey Dad, can you single-handedly put up lights in my room?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Daddy." She knows I melt when she calls me that.

We rose from our seats, trailed by my eleven-year-old, and entered the minefield, the floor strewn with shoes and hairbands and hooded sweatshirts. I proceeded immediately to the task, as this would be the day's last demand upon my talents. Standing on a stool, my teenager handed up pieces of strapping tape, which we soon surmised would not affix the light string to her plaster walls.

I exited and returned with a hammer and nails. Quickly stringing the lights along the ceiling line, I hit a snag at the corner, as the string continually slipped out of its anchorage.

With each failure, I struggled against the urge to mutter profanities. After all, come on, it's Christmas, damnit.

After the fifth attempt, the string again slipped. "Shit!" Oops.

"Hey, Dad, I can see your butt crack," offered the teenager.

"Okay, do you want me to put down this hammer and this really small nail and this huge string of lights which is teetering on collapse and get down from this stool and pull up my pants? Huh? Is that what you want?"

No answer.

"Just look the other way or something."

I pounded. I taped. I failed. I pounded some more. I swore some more. I pounded. Finally, success.

"Dad, guess what?" This time it was my younger kid who had been steadily giggling while sitting on the bed.

"What?"

The older one chimed in. "We filmed you on my phone."

"You filmed me? Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"You filmed the whole butt crack conversation, too?"

"Yeah."

They erupted into throes of purple-faced hysterics, high fiving and rolling on the bed.

"That's pretty funny," I deadpanned. "That's clever. Nice work. Well, I'll tell you what. You might want to leave these lights up after Christmas...because I'm never doing this again!"

I gathered up my stool and tools and stumbled out of the room.

"Don't you want to watch it?" The laughter hadn't ebbed.

"It's okay. I'll save it for when you guys are grown up and not around to decorate anymore. It'll keep me from missing you."

Actually, I'm not sure it will.

Saudi Arabia Allows Women to Compete? You Guys Are the Best!

2011-12-02T11:16:00.000-08:00

I'll just get to the point on this one, since it's so insulting on so many levels.

After never having allowed women membership on its country's Olympic team, the Saudi Arabian Olympic Committee has decided to finally allow females to compete.

Good news, no?

Well, not really. It's not like the Saudis woke up yesterday with a new found estrogen sensitivity. The kingdom was threatened with an International Olympic Committee ban if they proved unwilling to provide at least one woman athlete to this year's London summer games.

And that's precisely how many will be attending: one. Oh, and only if she trains outside the country's borders.

I'm telling you, if those guys weren't sitting on top of all that petroleum, they wouldn't be the cool kids and we wouldn't keep trying to sit at their lunch table.

It seems almost worse to allow a single woman to take part on the Saudi Olympic Team than none at all, simply because she then adopts the "token" label, which is rarely perceived favorably in our society.

Tokens are symbols of patronization; they're bones thrown to mollify the underthinking masses and offer up a least-common denominator.

Mitt Romney is the Republican Party's token handsome, commander-in-chief-looking candidate (who also just happens to believe that after Jesus died, he arose and road-tripped across North America. I'll believe that when someone digs up a black and red "JC '01 Fishers of Men Tour" t-shirt).

Besides Mitt, that GOP slate of candidates is stuffed with more tokens than a Donkey Kong machine at a Battlestar Gallactica convention, but let's not pry open that cat food can of crazy.

In some forums, tokens are necessary, and often welcome, like in sitcoms, cartoons and politics where characters like Gilligan, Shaggy and Rick Perry portray token idiots. They're predictably unpredictable; their characters contribute tension and drama to any storyline.

Who can forget Jeff Spicoli, Sean Penn's constantly high surfer dude in Fast Times at Ridgemont High? He's what made the film a classic, at least among my generation, through his stereotypical role as a token stoner (or, should we say "tokin'" stoner?) portrayal. Spicoli's relationship with Mr. Hand, the representative hard-ass teacher, drove the movie.

Other Hollywood small-screen tokens appear merely absurd when viewed through our contemporary prism of tolerance and social awareness. Otis, the town drunk on The Andy Griffith Show, made audiences howl as he voluntarily stumbled into the city jail and passed out in the cell as Andy and Barney shook their heads.

Come on, what's funnier than a ruddy-nosed, stumbling alcoholic? Hello, Emmy Awards.

Linc, the only black guy on the 1970s hip cop show, The Mod Squad, muttered maybe one or two lines per show, but for the most part, the talking was left to the white folks. His job was to kick ass.

Pat Boone and the Osmonds were white people's safe, far less talented token answers to Little Richard and The Jackson 5. Hey, Michael Bolton and Kenny G, Pat and Donny called and they want some credit next time you crank out another awesome album.

Make no mistake, however. Saudi Arabia's lame gesture doesn't stand alone in contemporary society's recent history, either.

John Kerry, during his failed 2004 Presidential run, committed a cardinal sin, which I'm sure contributed to his eventual demise among East Coast voters and sandwich lovers.

During a campaign stop in Philadelphia, Kerry was handed a famous Pat's cheesesteak. Rather than biting into it as I would, by making it disappear into my gullet with more gusto than a Linda Lovelace movie, Kerry took a small nibble, barely encroaching on the cheesesteak's magical ingredients.

John Kerry, while running for our land's highest political office, had taken a token bite of a Pat's Cheesesteak.

I was appalled.

McDonald's offers salads as a token attempt at healthy food alternatives. I read somewhere that they've sold six of them since 2007.

Budweiser advises us to drink responsibly. In my opinion, drinking Budweiser is irresponsible.

And my final example is probably the most ill-advised token of all. It's the perfect example of an afterthought, of a stupid, pointless gimmick meant to pander to an entire gender:

The Trojan Condom: Ribbed, for her pleasure.

Dads, let's face it—we're all over the map.

2011-11-30T14:59:00.000-08:00

Throughout human history, our natural world, in all its beauty and complexity, has revealed some formidable bonds—hot fudge to white Capri pants, Bubble Yum to freshly permed hair—and the fiercest adhesion of all...that of mother to her child.

The maternal instinct: Holy sweet mother. It’s universal, it’s absolute and it’s deadly.

Who doesn’t have a few inspiring tales of superhuman behaviors exhibited by his or her mom which defy explanation, logic and occasionally, gravity?

Most of us need search no further than our own moms’ exploits. As a child, were you ever subjected to having your chest sat upon by some cretin whose knees pinned chubby arms down, thereby rendering your entire face vulnerable to whatever torment the perpetrator considered amusing?

Usually, an older sibling supplied that torture, but such was not the case when my mother happened upon an older, bigger neighbor thug playing “dangle the loogie” over her youngest cub’s contorted, wind-bleached overbite. I think I was eight.

I’m still not sure how she heaved the hundred-twenty-pound chump off me, but in a matter of milliseconds my sternum had ceased masquerading as a shoe salesman stool.

I dragged my emancipated body up on one elbow in time to witness the back pockets of the bully’s Sears Tough Skins rapidly vaporizing on the horizon. A baritone bark broke the neighborhood silence, and what sounded like a cross between James Earl Jones and a dryer buzzer bellowing threats of calling the fleeing perp’s parents—was actually my mother’s protective instincts put to music.

Obviously prepared for any contingency, she had apparently stashed a testosterone inhaler in her purse
right next to the little Kleenex packets.

I would definitely mess with Texas before messing with someone’s mother.

But how about dads?

Do fathers possess that hard wired circuitry which requires no thought, just reflex? Are they motivated forces other than fear of harm to their offspring?

Does human paternal instinct really exist?

It’s difficult to draw any conclusions based upon fatherly behavior in the animal kingdom, since it’s all over the spectrum. Many rodents, such as rats, lemmings, gerbils and marmots, routinely practice infanticide for a variety of reasons. Male lions, while not accustomed to snuffing their own offspring, frequently kill a rival’s cubs to eliminate any future competition and to force the mother back into heat.

Although universally considered taboo among Homo Sapiens, this behavior seems to occur at Chuck E. Cheese on any given Saturday.

Other furry fathers, however, put classically flawless dads like Ward Cleaver and Mike Brady to shame, utilizing extreme measures to exhibit their mad daddy skills.

The male marmoset acts as both a midwife and maid when Mrs./Ms. Marmoset bears new life. Not only does he bite through the umbilical cord, he also cleans up the birth area afterward. The only time I’ve heard of this type of behavior in human circles was reading about an organic birthing group here in West Seattle, where the newly christened dad must obtain a special vegan dispensation prior to severing any flesh between his under utilized canines. I believe they refer to themselves as “Placentists.”

Another formidable male baby advocate is the Emperor Penguin. Those of us who’ve seen that heart-tugging film, March of the Penguins, will recall how he gingerly stands stationary for two frigid months, forgoing food and warmth to nestle his newly laid eggs in his “brooding pouch”, while the female returns to sea to replenish exhausted nutrients.

For God sakes. I have friends who whine like Kim Kardashian when their wives leave with the girls for a long scrap booking weekend.

On the surface, we human males appear so simple. As children, most boys engage in games of conquest and dominance over a weaker enemy; definitely lion-type behaviors. I can recall playing “Star Trek” on the playground as a corpulent third grader. After the alpha males had claimed the plum roles (Spock and Kirk), I felt fortunate to be awarded a part as Sulu or Chekov, and not one of the nameless, red-turtlenecked crewmen who are killed by huge-headed humanoids within the first seven minutes.

We weren’t nurturers, not by a long shot. We blew up stuff and scoffed at the ridiculous rituals in which our female counterparts partook across the playground. They reveled in their positions of privilege within traditional Cold War family units, staying at home and tending to two or three idyllic children each, sitting at chrome and Formica kitchen tables, smoking cigarettes and drinking Manhattans while waiting for their husbands to return home from high paying jobs at Boeing.

We guys didn’t transcend the lion phase for quite some time. Sure, we eventually evolved into slightly tamer cats who understood the necessity to nurture relationships in the event that we desired encounters which lasted longer than a half-hour futon dance followed by a dark, rainy walk of shame.

Once we’d refined our behaviors enough to secure a mate, we summoned, at minimum, the fortitude to hang the “Yes, We’re Open for Fatherly Feelings” sign on the outside of our emotional front doors.

Then came the “We’re not trying to get pregnant, but if it happens, it happens” phase. No big deal, we rationalized. This could take a really long time, and I am still king of my own jungle…who takes out garbage and other helpful stuff.

A month later, we saw the stick. It was blue. A few weeks after that, we checked out the ultrasound. After squinting and turning it slightly north northwest, we saw the first crude imagery of our babies.

The lion, as if gunned down by a dart from the Stork’s tranquillizer gun collapsed into a bottomless slumber as a gentle creature waddled around his massive form to assume the shift.

At least that’s how it went for me: Lion to penguin. Dude to dad.

After my bloodshot eyes focused on that beautiful little girl, the world shifted on its axis. I emerged from the hospital as Super Penguin, eventually becoming so hyper nurturing that the phrase “Choosy Mothers Choose Jif” mortally offended me because it didn’t address fathers. I resolved that, once our fifty-five gallon drum of Costco Jif ran out in six years, this choosy dad would choose Skippy.

I read a number of books on establishing bonds with your newborn, and again, took things to the extreme. After spending an entire day with my daughter nestled into a cheap, powder blue front pack, I finally extracted her to discover my baby with her usually wispy hair caked in sweat and pasted to her steamy cranium.

Is it cool for babies to sweat? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

My penguin behavior waned and mellowed slightly as I grew accustomed to my role as a father, and by the time my girl reached middle school, I felt prepared to face the challenges of parenting a tweener.

Then the paradigm shifted…again. I vividly recall the day, sometime during her first week of sixth grade, when she explained all the food choices in the expansive middle school cafeteria.

I won’t call this a flashback, but, okay, I had a total flashback. It was something I heard in the junior high lunch line which forever altered the lenses through which I viewed reality. Two male ninth graders stood in front of me as we queued up for a couple healthy scoops of soy burger gravy over mashed potato buds. My ears perked up upon hearing them mention the name of one of my classmates (I’ll call her Stacy.) Here’s the gist of it:

First ninth grader: Hey, man, do you know that Sevvy (seventh grader), Stacy Fergus?

Second ninth grader: No, but I’ve heard she has a nice ass.

I turned inward, processing that term: nice ass. How can he say something like that about someone’s butt? Hmm. Hey, hang on a second. Just one minute, now. ..they do. Girls’ butts do look nice. Oh. My. God. This is fantastic. This is super cool. Girls butts are nice. They look really, really good! Yes!

Snapping abruptly back from 1975, I realized that my daughter would now be encountering guys like I was then, guys who’s minds were setting course for a strange new land of female physical appreciation.

Adolescent lion cubs.

And just like that, just as I felt that powerful synergy, that oneness with my paternal instincts, my world listed on its side and dumped the contents of my contentment into the roiling seas of uncertainty—again.

Maybe it’s time to crossbreed a few of my internal animals. Perhaps if I can meld the nurturing vigilance of the Emperor Penguin with the fierce resolve of the lion and the tireless work ethic of the marmoset, I will never again need to switch things up midstream.

I’ve got to draw the line at the male sea horse, however, despite my wife’s hearty endorsement.

He gives birth to his young.

More wine? But of course.

2011-11-28T22:05:00.000-08:00

Ahhhh...the old weekend getaway.

Can't come soon enough, then it passes too quickly.

My wife and I (Shall I call her "Ms. Shallow Pond?" Nope.) get some time away about as often as Rick Perry says, "Gull durn it, maybe I am dumber than an Easter basket full of skin tags," so it was really nice to venture out to La Conner, Washington Saturday.

Nestled among the Skagit Valley's muddy, yet organically fragrant tulip fields, La Conner offers everything a stereotypical Northwest couple desires, regardless of sexual orientation. If you fancy high-waisted denim, antiquing (used as a verb) and enough Gortex to withstand temperatures between forty and forty-five degrees, this hamlet can be your adult bouncy house.

The trip was arranged by my wife as a gift for my birthday last August. She purchased a package through the patron saint of one-offs, Groupon, for one night's stay, a bucket o' champagne, a "couple's massage," a wine and cheese reception and continental breakfast in the morning.

Pretty decent, no?

We arrived with little time to spare prior to our scheduled couple's massage. I'm not going to lie; since it hadn't yet been explained to me, this term could have encompassed any number of activities:

1) Is the couple required to hold hands or maintain contact between any other body parts to stay true to the massage's definition?

2) Does one masseuse masterfully work on two people simultaneously, like a musculoskeletal Keith Moon?

3) Is the couple merely given a five-minute tutorial and left alone in a wicker hammock, holding half a tub of "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" and a remote? "You can start Blue Lagoon: The Director's Cut any time you folks are ready. Bye now," she says as her butt length braid disappears out the curtained French door.

I hadn't the answers. Soon enough, however, we each were comfortably embedded in separate massage tables, attended by our own masters of relaxation. Even as I type this, not until tomorrow afternoon will my gluteal muscles attain their original clinched state.

Afterward, we poured ourselves downstairs to the lobby for the wine and cheese reception. Free events such as these tend to assume an Eastern Block vibe with an air of desperation. Although no one spoke, I could read on each person's face his or her desire to consume as much free cheap-ish wine and stale-ish crackers before the 7 PM cut-off as their gullets could hold.

My bride and I fared well.

We ambled across the street to a brew pub to actually pay for some dinner, sat at the bar and met some interesting locals, one of whom played quarterback for the University of Mississippi during the 1970s. I'm afraid that's two less quality hours my wife and I will have spent together when it's all tallied up.

And I know this sounds weird, but I got his phone number.

We returned to our room, collapsed onto the king-sized bed and awoke the next morning to the sound of flushing toilets and wheeled suitcases overhead. Dread not, however. A continental breakfast awaited, and it, too...was absolutely free.

Again, we entered a room where people behaved as if the complimentary fare could be removed without notice, and the food, while quite decent, had similar Eastern Block-type attributes to the wine and cheese soiree.

The kiwi slices still contained skin and no one knew how to eat them. Some tried; all failed. Stacks of ham and cheese filled a plate. After taking a few slices, I realized the only bread with which to eat them was pumpkin spice.

As we drove back to Seattle through a driving rainstorm, we vowed to spend more time together—you know, more date nights. Sometimes, we forget what life was like before two powerful life forces entered our universe and dared us to make a go of it.

And although we do lose track frequently, it does appear that...we're making a good go of it.

Best friends forever.

2011-11-25T18:36:00.000-08:00

Okay, let's see...three things left...yogurt, light cream cheese and...damnit! Kidney beans! Shit.

Memphis prided himself on zero percent backtracking at the grocery store. He knew the establishment like the front of his hand; Whole Foods was indeed his bitch and he loathed swimming back upstream after knocking off the shopping list with maximum obtainable efficiency.

Twirling the cart in a one-eighty, Memphis opted to utilize the wasted time by fishing out his club card. His Fossil tri-fold wallet was immaculately organized, with one sector devoted only to memberships--ACLU, Whole Foods, blood center. The desired color peeked out for easy thumb-swipe access.

He'd picked a squeaky cart, but ignored the wheels' noise as he glazingly gazed ahead. Almost to the Latin food aisle.

"Memphis?"

Memphis' head jerked a bit too harshly toward the voice. He didn't often hear his Christian moniker voiced in the grocery store.

"Yes? Hello. Hi."

"It's me, Jordan. Remember? Your best friend until fifth grade? And then I moved to Montana?"

"Oh, Oh, my God. I'm so sorry. Of course I remember you, Jordy. How are you? You've...changed."

"Yes, I certainly have, but then, haven't we all?"

"This is true. How the heck to you end up back here?"

"Well, things didn't go so well after I moved out to Bozeman. I won't bore you with all the details. Let's just say I really wanted to come back to a place where the memories weren't of bullies and bad choices and...you know...just overall confusion. It didn't help matters that you and I had been as tight as two boys could have been, and then, instantly, I had no one.

"I have to tell you, though, Memphis. It's as if the Fates have brought us together here, because I've only been back for a couple of weeks and you were number one on my list of people to call."

"Really?"

"No bullshit, man. You taught me some really important lessons at an impressionable time. Memph, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have learned how to throw a tight Nerf spiral. Seriously, though, you probably won't believe this, but I might not be here talking to you or anybody else if it weren't for some discussions you and I had in our secret treehouse."

"It's just so shocking to see you...after so long." Memphis shifted slightly toward the bulk foods row.

"I know, and as you can see, I've had some work done."

"I never would have noticed."

"Bullshit, man. But that's cool. Hey listen, let's get together for a drink some night. I really don't know any people in this town and those who I do...I really have no interest in awkward small talk with them. How does your Friday look?"

"Umm...not...good. I know I've got something with the kids, but I can't remember exactly what."

"How about Saturday? I'm free all day."

Memphis' forehead crinkled. "Oh, uh, geez. I've got to install one of those doors for cats that swing and they're part of the door."

"A cat door?"

"Exactly."

"Okay, I'll tell you what." It appeared instantly in Jordan's hand. Here's my card. Call me when you're available and we'll catch up. So, can I at least have a hug?"

"Umm, oh, I can't. I've got that crud that's going around. You take care, though okay?"

"Okay, you, too." Jordan's face, betraying her new found wisdom, cast a waxy smile as she pivoted her black, A-line skirted hips and slowly retreated from Memphis' view.

Becoming your best you: another gym story

2011-11-23T11:09:00.000-08:00

It's not lost on me that that my cozy, little corner of the blogosphere regularly dishes out a heapin' helpin' of yarns about my experiences at the gym.

Most don't contain subject matter you'd want to peruse while prying off the plastic lid to enjoy the hell out of the magical combo of corn, gravy and bacon in your KFC Famous Bowl.

But I think I've finally discovered why I talk about the gym so much. That welcoming little sweat box, affectionately known as the Fauntleroy YMCA, provides the genesis of nearly every workday.

It's a springboard to the next sixteen hours, and it can either unfold painfully, like Greg Louganis in the 1988 Summer Olympics:

Or in triumph, with Rodney Dangerfield's seemingly impossible "Triple Lindy":

Regardless of the outcome, either is magnified when operating during the fragile morning hours of 5:30 to 6:30. For example, my workout yesterday proceeded uneventfully; I worked up a nice lather on the nice cardio machine, not the one that hasn't been cleaned for so long that the its structure is seasoned with the granular residue a thousand sweaters, and I don't mean the kind Bill Cosby wore.

The lady who sings while rowing was wonderfully absent, as well.

And most favorably, the soap dispensers in the shower area were loaded to the brim with blue, gooey goodness, thereby eliminating the need to traipse my dripping nakedness to the carpeted sink area. As great as I know I look, no one wants to see a nude, wet and irritated man in the mirror while loading his toothbrush with tartar whitening baking soda peroxide triple protection Aqua Fresh, now with tooth straightener.

So, yeah, none of that stuff happened.

However, after toweling off and commencing the process of transforming myself into a presentable human, I discovered that I had packed two pairs of underwear...and no socks.

On occasion, I've also done the opposite, with two sock rolls accompanied by no underwear. Both are embarrassing.

These oversights are not "I-just-locked-my-keys-in-my-car" embarrassing, or "I-just-slammed-my-shin-against-a-fire-hydrant" painful. In those instances you roll out your Howitzer gun of profanities and fire them off them without regard to whom they may strike:

"M*#%^r f%*&ing son of a b*tch! I am such an idiot. I deserve to be struck with surgical precision by a top secret bomb which kills only stupid people and leaves buildings and the intelligent intact."

No, forgetting socks or underwear merely requires a small firearm of vulgarity, like "Forgodsakes" or "Shit. Why are you such a stupid f*(k stick?" and they're often inaudibly muttered.

You just have to ensure that no one sees you pull on your pants commando style, since it makes you look like you're headed to film a porno scene at the West Seattle Motor Inn. And people will judge your hygienic practices from that moment forward, should they witness your shoes laced over bare feet.

After returning home and rectifying any wardrobe missteps, I try not to project such blundering behavior onto the day which lies ahead. A quick affirmation in the mirror, a la Stuart Smalley, and it's time to roll.

My sixteen-year-old daughter once volunteered some unsolicited, yet sage advice regarding dressing for success. She stated that she always tries to look the best on Mondays and Fridays.

She wants everyone to enter the weekend remembering how good she looked on Friday, then she has to look awesome on Monday in case they'd forgotten.

I'll settle for underwear and socks.

You people disgust me. Any good deals?

2011-11-21T12:36:00.000-08:00

My biggest fear in writing this post is apprehension toward being construed as a hypocrite.

Perish the thought of getting myself clumped in with other colossal two-faced charlatans, like the meth-snorting Pentecostal preacher who seemed to think he could exorcise the gay out of himself by confessing how Daddy didn't toss the Nerf football around enough during his formative years, and hence Satan and his alluring penis flytrap club swallowed him whole.

Of course, a solid six-week course later, he was cured. And just to prove it, he harbored no qualms about moving the Top Gun poster from the bedroom ceiling to the bathroom wall right in front of the toilet.

So, yeah, please keep in mind that I don't want to come across as a super-sized hypocrite when writing about today's subject: Christmas shopping. With Black Friday approaching, this whole conspicuous consumption fiasco just keeps worsening.

It's a beast which must continually be fed larger and larger animals to maintain its expanding girth. At first, rodents suffice, but before long, Mom and Dad must lie to little Johnny that his wonderful Golden Retriever, Mark, has been sent to a farm where he'll be much happier.

But we know where Mark really went.

It's also similar to when you arrive at the Mexican restaurant starving out of your gourd and immediately commence stuffing yourself with chips and salsa. After a three-second respite to catch your breath, you realize that the salsa is so spicy that you're drooling tonsil sweat, and must therefore maintain consuming the liquid inferno to avoid mortal agony.

You're then lucky to finish a third of your enchilada platter.

Enough with the similes. I think you'd agree that the Christmas advertising onslaught ensues earlier each fall. Wal-Mart, ever the trailblazer in ethical retail practices, actually published a listing of its "door buster" items barely a couple of days after the kids had separated their Halloween candy between the good stuff and what's probably still sitting in a plastic bowl in a corner of your kitchen (Smarties, trail mix, definitely raisins).

Wal-Mart, as inherently evil as it is, employs highly effective marketing strategies to maximize profits during the holiday season. Taking a page out of the Jerry Springer manual, where Donnie Ralph is already so fired up before he goes onstage, he's pissed even before he finds out his sister's baby isn't his, the Wal-Mart shoppers are equally as worked up before the sun has risen and their oyster stuffing has fully digested.

And this is where my hypocritical nature enters the scene.

I love getting ridiculous stuff for Christmas. I don't care if it's something I don't need or never wear, like a t-shirt that says "I'm With Stupid" and the finger points to my crotch. Hopefully, no one had to stomp on an elderly lady's one remaining kidney to acquire that last extra large, but boy, will I enjoy opening it and slipping it on before watching "A Christmas Story."

Do I need anything, anything that exists on God's brown earth, for Christmas? Heck, no. Not by a long shot.

Maybe if a home liposuction kit or DVD of my greatest high school sports moments suddenly populates the shelves, I'll mount Saint Nick's lap and beg like a yippy Pomeranian, but otherwise, I think I'm good.

Let's just have a good time, watch all the great old Christmas specials and dig in to those Triscuits, cheese logs and Frangos. That's what it's really all about, right?

Well, there are some funny doormats out there, too.

The other ninety-nine percent: Here's to the sexy un-sexy.

2011-11-18T12:43:00.000-08:00

It's quite a title, isn't it? The Sexiest Man Alive!

Wow, that’s a lot to live up to, especially if you’re Bradley Cooper, who’s been selected by People Weekly as the hunkiest hunk of hunkiness to hunker in the annals of hunkdomy, at least this year. Other winners have included Johnny Depp, Harrison Ford, George Clooney, Danny DeVito and Brad Pitt.

Just making sure you’re paying attention.

After seeing these actors’ flawless mugs grace the covers of People year after year after year, can’t People’s editors branch out just a little? Our planet harbors roughly three-and-a-half-billion males—that’s even more dudes than when there’s a sale on Skittles at Target—so can’t these deep-pocketed tunnel visionaries look outside the thespian world for once?

I’ll bet dollars to donuts that some carpenter exists in Bangladesh who can easily substitute his abs for a nail gun. Or maybe a bricklayer in Moldova whose nickname is “the bricklayer.”

Let’s face it—sexy men abound. Do we all need to resemble Leif Garrett in his pre-heroin days or James Dean in his pre-headless days to be considered sexy? I sure as Harry Hamlin hope not.

Look at Sully Sullivan, the captain who landed his jetliner on the Hudson River with the cool and calm of a thousand Arthur Fonzarellis, thereby saving hundreds of lives? Let me tell you, he’s no Redford, but I was ready to play stewardess, place his seat in its fully reclined position and hand him some salty nuts after hearing about his extreme act of heroism.

And how about the bus driver I witnessed, who resembled Fred Flintstone more than any actual human, all the way down to one finger missing from each hand, as he sprinted out of his coach to run down a passenger and hand her the purse she left on board?

I realize I’m only mentioning guys due to the ridiculous context of “Sexiest Man Alive,” but sexy women also line the planet like a gravel road to an Appalachian meth lab. To conclude my post, here’s my list of sexy women who may not be on most radar, yet still possess an “it” factor:

Tina Fey
Queen Latifah
Betty Rubble
A woman I saw at Safeway buying mushrooms
Janeane Garofalo
America Ferrera
Susan Sarandon

As I’ve stated in previous posts, I’ve got a thing for funny and smart women, so the list also includes my wife, who, if asked, wouldn’t consider herself a classic beauty, but actually is.

My co-workers and I joked about creating a calendar entitled, “The Men of ********* “(our company’s name). It’s not such a far fetched idea, especially since we elevate these celebrities to such iconic status, why shouldn’t we celebrate each other? I say yes to the everyday sexy beast who resides in all of us. I’ll volunteer for any month with thirty-one days.

But I’m not taking off my shirt.

Cain and Perry rise again.

2011-11-16T12:54:00.000-08:00

The following conversation, between Republican Presidential candidates Herman Cain and Rick Perry, was overheard and recorded in the elevator of the Omaha Four Seasons Marriott:

Perry: Herman, my man! How you doin', brother?

Cain: Well, hello, Rick. It's interesting that I'm the only guy you've ever called brother, including your brother, but anyway, Herman's been better, you know?

Perry: I hear you there, bro. We just can't seem to catch a break, can we? Things just seem to happen in threes, don't they? First it's all that hubbub about those ladies you felt up. Then I get lambasted for being ill-informed and forgetful. and then...that third thing...well, hell, something else happened.

Cain: You bet something else happened. I choked up a lung trying to fake my way through the Libyan situation. It didn't work, so Herman's going to have his campaign chairman, you know, the smoking guy, mail out coupons for five percent off a Godfather's dessert pizza. Each pie will have "Yes We Cain" spelled out in candy canes. Not a bad idea coming from a guy with twelve percent lung capacity, eh?

Perry: Yep, that's brilliant, brother. I love your pizza, and I've always wanted to try one with three toppings, but I've always forgotten the third one, panicked and ordered Copenhagen.

Cain: Rick, do you honestly think we've got a shot at this thing, after the mistakes we've made?

Perry: Hell, yes, brother. We're still ahead of Bachmann,. Good lord, she's such a freak, she thinks it's a sin to put her hand up her own skirt. We're kicking Santorum's ass, mostly because he can only afford to advertise in the Little Nickels, and Gingrich seems to know his stuff, but all it takes is for America to visualize him once with his shirt off and those white, wiry hairs orbiting that heretofore unknown third octagonal nipple, and it's all over.

Oh, yeah, there's also Ron Paul. We can't have someone named "President Paul"—it sounds too much like "Coach Jerry."

Cain: Good points, Rick. Herman really does feel better now. How can we beat Romney though?

Perry: That's not going to be easy, brother. He's polished, smart for a conservative and wears really warm underwear. I think our best strategy may be to ask him to name three lines from Spinal Tap. America loves that movie, and if he's not up to the task, he'll be pulling up the rear with Huntsman.

Cain: Great idea. But I can only think of one line from it.

Perry:: No problem. We'll put our heads together. As you know, brother, two is my limit.

Where's the party?

2011-11-13T20:46:00.000-08:00

I think I must be missing something.

Maybe it's my advancing age. Maybe I'm one of those outlying planets, like Uranus or Pluto, which orbits so far from the sun that it takes fifteen years to find out what happened last Thursday.

I suppose I'm a little sensitive because I work in fashion advertising, and in order to rake in the green, we must peddle the black, in the form of little black holiday dresses. Or medium black or plus size black. Whatever your size, you'll step out in style this season.

Okay, that was weird and annoying. Sorry.

My employer is also fervently pushing men's tuxedos because, apparently, we're now kicking off the biggest party season of the year, bigger than a slate of all-new Kardashian episodes. That's fantastic; I love parties. I'm a "my-red-plastic-cup-runneth-over," party aficionado.

The thing is, I currently don't, nor have I ever, worn a tux to anything but weddings and proms, and it's been so long that none were black. Where are all these black tie galas? Who are these people? Am I merely an insignificant, jean-and t-shirt clad island in a sea of dashing partygoers filled with Carringtons, Ewings and Bond, James Bond?

Actually, I couldn't care less about dressing up that fancily for an evening of patent leather follies. I'm a low maintenance reveler, whose party modus operandi has evolved slightly, yet not changed all that much.

Like most of us, the only parties I attended as a school-aged kid were birthday affairs where all activities were scheduled to culminate with the grand cake and present-opening ritual. After indulging in a few games or maybe eating some bad pizza, it was time for the birthday boy to get his.

I prided myself on consistently hugging the guest of honor to grow an inch. Pinches are mean and can bruise. Plus, I used to get spanked for pinching.

High school parties differed widely from the structured, adult-sanctioned kiddie bashes. No agenda was necessary when forty people gathered by a river, a keg of Rainier in the bed of some dude named Lonnie's Mazda pickup. The only certainty was a makeout session between two random folks who would deny the entire episode at school on Monday.

I prided myself on consistently hugging Lonnie, or whomever facilitated the event. Chipping in a couple of bucks for the keg seemed so shallow and impersonal.

I believe the word "college" is Latin for "It's noon somewhere." The party concept rose to art form status during those four (or five, in my case) years of higher achievement. We wore togas, asked girls their majors at least seven hundred times and learned to drink beer out of receptacles normally reserved for lifting and separating.

I prided myself on consistently hugging the person at the party who looked the saddest. Despite my good intentions, let's just say the emotion no longer betrayed sadness following my embrace.

As an adult finally free of academic constraints, the parties I attended still enjoyed a collegiate atmosphere, yet with an an added air of sophistication. After all, malt liquor had replaced beer as the beverage of choice. Frequently, the guests would stuff themselves into the kitchen to maintain close proximity to the liquid refreshments, leaving the main room virtually vacant, other than really tired people who lay face down on the living room futon.

At these homey events, I prided myself on consistently walking down the dark hallway, opening the door, turning on the light and hugging whichever couple had chosen the coat-piled bed as a good place to vigorously nap.

We don't even call them parties anymore. We're all pushing fifty and they're not referred to as "get-togethers" or "barbecues," certainly not formal soirees where cumberbuns and bow ties, silk pashminas and strappy heels spackle the room. It's usually a small group of friends, some wine and nice chairs with lumbar support.

I pride myself on hugging everyone in attendance. And most of these people finally know me so well that, by golly, they usually hug me back.

Some thoughts on the worst act imaginable.

2011-11-09T14:35:00.000-08:00

Most of my stories are attempts at pointing out the silliness, the absurdity, of the human condition; my usual goal is to amuse and hopefully make you chuckle a bit.

This is not one of those posts.

We've all witnessed events in which we are required to make moral decisions. I suppose that's why we're referred to as adults. And our actions in response to these decisions, when examined in the aggregate, plot a highly accurate map of our character.

These behaviors can be as seemingly inconsequential as yelling for the driver to stop the bus while an approaching commuter sprints up from the rear, or as serious as confronting a drunken fraternity brother before he can further force himself onto an unwilling and distressed girl.

Sometimes we do act. Others, we're left feeling the punctures of those emotional daggers, materializing themselves into phrases like, "I should have said something. I should have called someone. I should have done something."

By now, most of us have familiarized ourselves with the chilling events surrounding the Penn State football program. Long time assistant coach, Jerry Sandusky, has been charged with forty counts of child sexual abuse which allegedly occurred over a fifteen-year period.

His victims purportedly were young boys whom Sandusky had met in his capacity as founder of Second Mile, a charity dedicated to helping children with absent or dysfunctional families. Now sixty-seven, Sandusky has pleaded innocent to all charges, despite some damning eyewitness accounts of his crimes.

Most notable among the first-hand narratives was the testimony of a graduate assistant, Mike McQueary, who, during March of 2002, had stopped by the Penn State locker room during the later evening to drop off some gym shoes. Alerted by sounds emanating from the shower area at such an odd hour, McQueary discovered a naked Sandusky raping a boy who appeared to have been around ten years old.

What did the twenty-eight-year-old McQueary do upon uncovering such a horrific scene? Did the former record-setting Penn State quarterback physically intervene to remove the child from harm's way? Did he immediately notify campus police? Did he even ask Sandusky what the hell was going on?

No, no and no. He walked away.

Mike McQueary left the locker room and notified his father. Did the elder McQueary advise his son to promptly contact authorities or, at the very minimum, head football coach Joe Paterno?

Again, no. McQueary, the younger, informed his coach the following morning. Paterno, the revered eighty-four-year-old Nittany Lion King, passed along the information to his athletic director, Tim Curley, and proceeded to cleanse his arthritic hands of the unsavory information.

Oh, yes, and then Curley, with frenzied abandon...also did nothing.

According to my calculations, at this point in 2002, four employees who possess knowledge of the sexual abuse of a child, and who are lawfully mandated to report said knowledge, had done nothing to alert law enforcement. They likely discussed it among themselves and probably either railed to each other about Sandusky's abhorrent behavior or conveniently rationalized it to protect the program.

Yet zero times four continues to equal zero.

Nearly ten years and countless additional victims later, the ball has finally dropped...on a man staring at seventy years old, who may serve at best ten percent of his life in prison. Such cold comfort.

I'd like to relate an experience which occurred in February of 2009. Since I share a sizable chunk of my life in this forum, I've occasionally been tempted to discuss it, since it godsmacked my existence to the marrow, but the time never felt right...until now.

I served as Juror Number One in the trial of a man accused of one count of first degree rape of a five-year-old girl, in addition to three counts of child molestation and seven counts of possession of child pornography.

If I could describe this three-work ordeal in one word, it would be "damage"—profound damage to the sweetest little girl you can imagine (who was the same age as my younger daughter), damage to victim's family, the accused's family and damage to judge, jury and everyone in the courtroom.

"Trial" is another apt word. I can't and won't describe the levels of depravity to which that child was subjected or the images and testimony which caused illness for some and tears for many.

I'm sure the trial didn't end for most of us after the gavel slammed down a verdict of guilty on all counts. Nearly three years later, I still think about it every day. For the first year, I had dreams...lots of them. But I can't wrap my brain around the permanent emotional trauma suffered by the young victim, how she will search for the pieces of a lost innocence and attempt to place them where they once fit together perfectly.

They're our children. Nothing is more precious. Nothing.

These predators are not shadowy figures who lurk behind the laurel hedge. They are our friends and relatives, our teachers and clergy.

Do the right thing.

Delusions of fandeur

2011-11-06T20:35:00.000-08:00

The term "fan" is an abbreviation, one which derives from the polysyllabic word, "fanatic."

How accurate, indeed. Fans truly are fanatics. As such, I really don't consider those who share passing fancies for particular artists or teams fans. They're fanciers.

And to insert the crazy peg into a higher notch, sports fans are people who harbor irrational, emotional, indescribable loyalty and admiration for other people and groups they usually don't, and likely will never, know. Fans project a group's successes and failures as extensions of their own lives, even though the fan influences a contest's outcome equally to a three-year-old toddler in Uzbekistan.

Sound like the behavior of a delusional miscreant? Does to me. It sounds downright nuttier than a box of ice cream drumsticks with those delicious chocolate plugs as the sugar cone's crunchy swan song.

Sorry. Anyway, yes, these people are crazy...and I'm one of them.

It always begins with the color purple. Oh, no, not that movie featuring a young lazy-eyed Oprah in her acting debut, I'm talking about the actual color. Once my head pops through the neck hole of any apparel which happens to include the combination of purple and the single letter, "W," a slightly altered mindset occupies the wild-haired noggin which emerges.

At that point, I have become a University of Washington Husky fan. My team has become "we." Everyone else would be "they." If I'm walking through Target clad in the Husky splendor of a t-shirt or baseball cap, I can spot the wearer of a WSU hoodie from the far end of the lunch meat aisle. I'll assert my superiority over the Cougar merely by scooping up two packets of Buddig chipped beef to his one.

He is obviously humiliated. I then return home with two envelopes of meat and not the coconut shampoo I had been directed to purchase.

Saturday night, my fanaticism reached a fever apex when the University of Washington football squad hosted the sixth ranked Oregon Ducks, a team Washington has squared off against ninety-six times. The night's contest would be the last game held at ninety-one-year-old Husky Stadium prior to a two hundred fifty million dollar renovation which will render the site unusable until 2013.

My brother and I, Huskies both, delivered ourselves into the center of the tempest, an expansive tailgating area outside Husky Stadium, awash in a sea of purple with specks of diseased green and yellow. Of all available colors, Oregon had apparently long ago chosen hues to represent renal failure and profound sepsis.

The UW still maintains a sizable advantage in all-time wins, although they have not beaten the Ducks since 2003, an era when Nike founder and child labor superhero, Phil Knight, decided to inject Oregon's football program with so much cash, he's allowed to shower with the players.

With the Big Swoosh as the program's benefactor, the Ducks have branded themselves by never donning the same uniforms twice in a season. Their helmets alone have been painted black, yellow, grey and about seven different shades of green. And all are as attractive as what you might see produced by the morning's first nose blow.

Oh, and by the way, none of the U of O players attended high school in the state of Oregon. Hmmm.

After a highly enjoyable day of walking around campus, reminiscing and tailgating with old friends, we strolled the half mile for the main event at the stadium. The air was electric and the hot dogs were bad, and the only slight hiccup of a fantastic experience was Nike's 34-17 victory over the good guys.

That's how fans talk sometimes.

Gambling advice for the inexperienced.

2011-11-03T13:33:00.000-07:00

There's no debate; times are tough.

Unemployment is teetering on ten percent, income disparity has expanded to levels unseen since the nineteenth century's Gilded Age and the American economy is dipping her toes into a second, frigid recessional pool.

Oh, and one other thing: Vegas is suffering—big time.

I know, I know. And I'm sorry to add to your worries, but someone's got to stand up for that little wide spot in Nevada's Interstate 15 commonly known as "Sin City."

And it's not Vegas's fault, either. The lockout instituted by the National Basketball Association, which now has extended into the season's inaugural two weeks, is causing the MGM to feel less than grand.

According to USA Today, the city's sports books are due to experience a fifteen to eighteen percent reduction in betting action due to the labor impasse between the human redwoods and the human deadwoods. That’s a lot of cash.

So many parties are inflicting so much pain on each other here, it’s like Thanksgiving at the Lohans.' The millionaire players refuse to acquiesce on a fifty-fifty split of revenue and, before too long, will be scrambling to scrape together payments their for Maseratis, masseuses and mistresses. And XBox upgrades? Out of the question.

Stay strong, players. Although I’m not standing in your size seventeen shoes, I can only imagine your hardship.

The teams’ owners are also in a tough spot, and I wish them godspeed during this arduous journey. After securing sweetheart deals to build and maintain their teams’ arenas at public expense while reaping all proceeds, these benevolent patriarchs have discovered that they’re paying the players too highly. Profits aren’t at an acceptable level and expenses must be reined in.

Our local and state governments reached this epiphany about overpaid teachers long ago, and Lord knows their houses are in order.

But I digress. Let’s address those members of the suffering masses who are truly reeling from the NBA lockout— the casino sports gambling operations. Have you ever visited a sports book? I have, once.

Last winter, during my family’s wholesome Las Vegas vacation, my wife and daughters dropped me off at Mandalay Bay to place a couple of wagers while they visited some super duper outlet mall. Apparently, not a lot of sports betting happens on Thursday afternoons in late February. I nervously approached the long, narrow desk, fully lined with idle bet takers. They stood in an expansive row below a massive wall of digital match-ups, odds and live feeds of sporting events.

Since all were available and I wasn’t sure how to proceed, I chose the friendliest looking employee— a shorter, youngish woman in a white blouse and maroon vest.

“Hi.” I waited for a reply. Nothing. “I’d like to put five dollars on Duke to win the national championship of college basketball.”

What the hell? When had I started talking like this? I sounded like an eight-year-old who was too smart to communicate with people and insisted on wearing his favorite shirt every day.

She glared at me like she had a long hair stuck to the back of her tongue and was unable to snag it. “I’m sorry, sir. The minimum bet is ten dollars.”

“Oh, okay,” Thinkofsomethingfunny, thinkofsomethingfunny. That’s how my brain works when I’m uncomfortable.

“Okay, ten dollars, then. I hope the Blue Devils are worth that much green.”

My face immediately flushed as the public address announcer in my mind spoke. “You, sir, are a massive idiot. Stop talking forever. I mean it. Never talk again.”

I thanked her, collected my ticket and disappeared into the cavernous casino. Briefly glancing back from a safe distance, I absorbed the perfectly spaced line of gambling attendants, staring ahead as before...

...with the exception of one, who ever so subtly shook her head.

It's a cold morning in America.

2011-11-01T11:31:00.000-07:00

November 1—it's a cold morning for most of us.

And downright frosty for others.

It's a day of transition, a day burdened by the half-filled waterbed mattress of reality which some are compelled to bend over and hoist.

For a man named Herman Cain, an ill-advised, new campaign slogan has latched onto his Cinderella run at the Presidency: "It's November first...and the bubble has burst."

Following a Rocky-esque surge in the Republican polls, nutty America's love affair with the former Gandhi of Grease is regrettably waning. Allegations have surfaced that during the 1990s, Citizen Cain employed the old "9-9-9 technique" in attempt to seduce two employees while serving as president of the National Restaurant Association.

Apparently, he suggested that they meet on the ninth of every month at nine o'clock...and it would only take nine minutes.

They each responded that he should stuff his calzone and promptly reported his behavior to the association, subsequently reaching and undisclosed settlement.

When recently pressed on these allegations, Cain provided nothing but denials and non-answers. Each refusal to come clean has driven another nail into his pine pizza box, and Herman now appears to be foundering in the same rough political seas of which his rivals have long ago grown accustomed.

Another embattled icon arises this November morn, resolute to rub some dirt on her wounds and yank herself up by her nine-hundred and seventy dollar Prada stretch leather tall bootstraps.

Kim Kardashian awakens today to face life in the six foot, nine inch vacuum of her departed soul mate. Undoubtedly, she has by now exhausted every arrow in her shivering quiver to save a doomed love, lying panting in a pool of mascara after a seventy-two day ordeal. All that remains is a charred Tiffany box of a passion which burned white-hot like a...really hot sparkler, or something.

My thoughts extend to each of them; I know they're hurting.

As for the rest of us, we've been dealt a perennial challenge on this day. The two-month holiday season has officially commenced, and it kicks off with a massive supply of leftover Halloween candy, both at home and brought to the workplace. While the cache will rapidly ebb, we—okay, I—must summon the discipline to avoid grabbing, unwrapping and consuming everything in my path.

I cannot repeat last November's defining incident. I absentmindedly scooped up a Kit Kat on the way to the men's room and came to my senses too late: I was simultaneously chewing, swallowing and urinating.

Rock bottom.

With Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's looming ahead like a smoked gouda storm cloud, I am resolved to acknowledge everything that enters my pie hole; I don't care if it's a Dixie Cup of water. If I decide to slather half a cheese log on one Chicken in a Biskit, so be it, but I'm going to cognizantly process the entire sodium- and fat-laden event.

A famous Zen tenet is "when you are eating, you are eating."

Let's eat, then.

Confessions of a lame voter.

2011-10-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

Today, I'd like to ask your advice on something, because I'm feeling...a little inadequate.

I often utilize this forum to rail against America's political system and it's participants, usually as seen through my fogged up, lefty colored lenses.

Which is why I'm experiencing some pointy little needle jabs of hypocrisy.

You see, I am a partial voter. I'm a half-baked, half-cocked, lightly informed semi-participant in America's participatory democracy. I'm that god awful eighty calorie beer of voters.

With the fall elections still ten days distant, I rescued my voters' pamphlet this morning from its submersion in the quicksand of "I don't want to look at this right now" mail on our office desk.

Do you read your voters' pamphlet? Really? Good for you.

I actually do, too; just not all of it. Okay, maybe about ten percent. I like to read the stuff written by this man named "Goodspaceguy," who runs for office nearly every election. He's campaigned on the platform of colonizing space as our planet's only hope and has challenged incumbents in Washington State for the offices of United States Senator, Governor and King County Executive. You go, Goodspaceguy.

In addition, I frequently base my decision upon nothing more than by whom a candidate or ballot measure is endorsed. An anti-taxation mercenary named Tim Eyman has gutted Washington's tax base virtually single-handedly, and therefore I refuse to acknowledge any measure or candidate he lauds.

Plus, I can't stand to look at him and I fantasize about him forever disappearing from the Evergreen State and waking up in a war torn village somewhere in Sudan where government waste is non-existent...since government is non-existent.

Sometimes an organization underwrites a cause, so I read those carefully, since they may appear quite benign on the surface. If some guy is running for school board director, and he's been endorsed by the Organization for Knowledge in Schools Cooperative Heritage Order of Legions and Groups United in National Security, or O.K.S.C.H.O.O.L.G.U.N.S., I probably won't darken his circle with my Sharpie fine point.

You probably also won't see my vote cast for anyone heralded by the Bureau of Land and Management Enterprises Toward Health and Ecological Proliferation of Organizational Reliability, or B.L.A.M.E.T.H.E.P.O.O.R.

Back to my original solicitation. I need your advice about how you decide for whom you vote when you don't even know what it is their desired position does. I understand the duties of mayor, county assessor and city council; the big ones.

But how about "Wastewater Commissioner?" I'm sure it's a highly specialized and important position, and as long as little bits of mercury and Prozac-laden toilet paper aren't chunking up my Britta filter, then good job, Commish.

And based on some of the wastewater I've after having spent four years in a fraternity, maybe Goodspaceguy could figure out a way to rocket it completely out of the earth's atmosphere.

"Cemetery Commissioner" is on this fall's ballot, as well. Again, I must claim ignorance. It's got to be more than some dude with a walkie talkie who calls security when those kids are smoking a fat one at Jimi Hendrix's grave again.

Please, I need your help. I'm tired of being lame.

And it's really a shame the candidate above for Tukwila School Board chose not to provide a photo.

Your 2011 Halloween Costume Guide.

2011-10-25T11:58:00.000-07:00

You've probably already decided, now that the big event is single-digit days away, what you're going to be for Halloween. Oh, really? You haven't?

Well, certainly, if you've got kids, they probably nailed down back in August what or whom would possess their souls on the final day of October, but apparently, you're still weighing your options. Okay, no problem.

I'm not here to prescribe any rules; perish that thought. Life contains enough statutes and limitations as it is, and All Hallows Eve is all about breaking the rules and assuming an alter ego.

So that's why, if you're still experiencing ambivalence for all that is orange and black, I humbly offer this simple guide, kind of like how they show Lucky Charms with toast and orange juice as part of a balanced breakfast—it's nothing more than a serving suggestion. Hopefully you'll be able to root out a couple of truffles from my sloppy bog of ideas.

Let's get started, then, yes?

Recent pop culture and media figures are always fun. Even if a couple of other people at the party are dressed as your character, it's always a hoot to see alternative interpretations.

One person may show up as Qaddafi with three quarters of a head and someone else may sport half. Osama Bin Laden's left eye may dangle loosely and caress one party goer's neck, while another person may display nothing more than a gaping abyss where the SEAL's projectile saluted his cranium.

Naturally, you may opt to dress as a being who still occupies the world of the living. Consider dusting off that red Sarah Palin outfit from 2008, but gussy it up with a dab of powdered sugar under your nose to celebrate Ms. Palin's foray into the enticing charms of the coca plant back in college.

You may also choose to accessorize with a front pack for Baby Twig or Tarp or whatever his name is, but this time, rustle up a doll of caramel complexion to acknowledge that weekend Wasilla's crown princess of virtue spent at the Anchorage TraveLodge playing Around the World with African American basketball star, Glen Rice. Triple overtime is what I heard.

If time or money constrains you this Halloween, fear not. A few bucks and a trip to 7-11 on the way to the party are the only obstacles standing in your way of a great costume. For the price of a brown, plastic garbage bag and jar of Vaseline, nothing says "Awesome slug costume, dude," like petroleum-jelly-slathered handshakes for all.

Finally, think about investing in makeup to replace those asphyxiating plastic masks. Temperatures can exceed one hundred seventy five degrees and the rubber band can cause permanent scalp damage, so take heed when strapping on the fake real housewife head. Plus, let's face it men, we love an excuse to wear makeup. Right? Yeah, me neither.

And speaking of stifling temperatures, do not bundle your child too warmly beneath his or her costume. Those Rite Aid ninja suits hold in heat like a rock salted tri tip roast, and your child will sweat like Steve Balmer if forced to wear a fleece Northface underneath. Always remember—those little rugrats burn hot.

I really hope this primer will help direct you toward the most fun, most comfortable, most poignant Halloween costume to date. And if you still can't come up with something, just dress in normal clothes and walk around with an eleven-year-old who is going trick-or-treating for the last time...

...that is, if you feel like going as me.

The horror movie in my mind.

2011-10-23T16:30:00.000-07:00

"Hi, guys I'm home."

It was just after 1:00 AM. We always ask our teenager to duck her head into our bedroom door when she comes home, and it never ceases to put my mind at ease and facilitate a far more restful parental slumber.

"Can I go watch some TV for a while? That movie was so scary I don't think I'll be able to sleep."

"Oh, honey." I hadn't realized my wife was awake. "Just go to bed. Remember, it was just a movie and you're safe."

"Okay, Mommy. Goodnight."

I melt a little when she calls us "Mommy" or "Daddy."

She and three friends had just returned from subjecting themselves to "Paranormal Activity 3," a movie whose trailer claims, "The final fifteen minutes will change your life forever."

What's that supposed to mean? That during the last quarter of an hour, Joel Osteen comes out onto the stage and hands out free copies of his new bestseller, How to Become Filthy Rich, Really Good Looking With Awesomely Straight Teeth and Probably Still Go to Heaven?

Nope. And no one from Scientology or Amway was there, either. Believe it or not, that's actually a marketing tool meant to draw people into this scariest of scary films. From cinema's earliest days, even the silent era, audiences have thirsted for horror.

From 1922's "Nosferatu" on through "Psycho," "Rosemary's Baby," "The Exorcist" and "The Shining," our adolescents have yearned to experience handfuls of Junior Mints and Goobers jolted from their sweaty palms.

Back in 1978, a classic entitled "Halloween" hit the bloody screen. It starred nubile hermaphrodite, Jamie Lee Curtis, as a teenager who systematically witnessed each of her friends being slaughtered by a confused killer named Mike Myers. Did Ms/r Curtis's character, Laurie Strode, wise up and run screaming from the house? For whatever reason...no.

Hey, otherwise, there would have been no movie, and therefore no reason for that awesome looking girl next to you to dig her nails into your conveniently flexed bicep and nestle her head so close to yours that you could taste her "Love's Baby Soft" halfway down your esophagus.

Actually, that didn't happen. During "Halloween," I sat next to a thirty-year-old, overweight, bearded man.

After my daughter was safely tucked into bed, I drifted off into a peaceful slumber. For a while, anyway. A few hours later, I awoke, blanketed in a frozen film of sweat, after having dreamed of a crew of sadistic serial killers. The only way they could be vanquished was through the ingenuity of the dream's protagonist, who developed a fool-proof method for killing each of them.

The hero allowed each killer, one at a time, to get close enough that the psychopath's face was within biting distance. The protagonist then methodically ate the killer's face off.

Charming, eh?

I guess I saved the price of admission last night.

Moammar is No-a-more.

2011-10-20T14:01:00.000-07:00

He's dead.

Wow, finally. After forty-two years as supreme ruler of the nation of Libya, after scores of shady undertakings and downright murder, Colonel Moammar Gadhafi has succumbed to the same violence he nonchalantly doled out since clamping down on the dictatorial reins in 1969.

I realize that my information originates from the same sources as nearly every other citizen of the free world... so what qualifies yours truly, a middle-aged white man, someone who's never set foot on the African continent, let alone wandered into Libya, to discuss the implications and provide analysis of today's events?

Imagination, I suppose.

I can only imagine, after four decades, what sheer desperation and misery must have precipitated a nation's citizenry to rise up against a ruthless regime.

What emotional place need you occupy to affirm a desire to risk your family's lives, your freedom and your possessions, to assume arms against an overwhelming and highly trained incumbent power?

Perhaps the Libyan people procured slight comfort and confidence in their despot's glaring buffoonery, a trait demonstrated time and again among those who have fallen prior to Gadhafi.

Who can forget those images of Saddam Hussein parading around Baghdad, clutching that massively phallic cigar and firing his sidearm into the sky while being tailed by twenty or thirty mustachioed, yes-man look-alikes? It looked more like initiation night at the Baghdad Beta house than an impressive display by a defiant strongman.

Or how about North Korea's Kim Jung Il, who reportedly injects himself with the blood of virgins to remain youthful, and has actually attempted to rid North Korea's capital, Pyongyang, of short people (except for, you know, one small exception—him)? Those coveralls and platform heels he wears make him look like he fixes really tall boilers part time.

Mr. Gadhafi was certainly no newbie to the world of eccentric beliefs and outlandish behavior, either. He employed an all-female staff of body guards; lobbied to eliminate Switzerland—yes, the whole country, and let's face it—his wardrobe often resembled something Mrs. Roper from "Three's Company" might throw on for a quick trip to the Piggly Wiggly.

But can you actually fathom your city or town reaching the point of civil war? What about your neighborhood, the most welcoming area of them all?

In the bat of an eye, it's not so welcoming.

"Kids, I'm afraid you can't play with the Johnsons down the street anymore. I noticed a loyalist flag on their Prius's bumper, so you're going to have to stay away from them until this whole thing is resolved."

"How long will that be, Dad?"

"Shouldn't be too long. Probably just a week or two after total regime change, and you should be out riding bikes again with Justin and November.

"Now, if you wouldn't mind, son, if we hurry, we can stash most of these rocket propelled grenades in the back tool shed before Jersey Shore comes on. Thanks, buddy."

Let's hope that this transition in Libya, plus other Arab Spring blooms in Yemen, Morocco, Bahrain, Syria, Tunisia and Egypt manage to see themselves through with a minimum of violence and a maximum of constructive dialogue.

I'm not optimistic, but that's what imaginations are for.

An open letter to my daughters

2011-10-18T13:40:00.000-07:00

My Dear Daughters,

You're each growing up so very fast. I'd like to discuss a subject with you before my opportunity to address it has evaporated.

What I'm talking about isn't new; in fact, this conversation has undoubtedly been waged over thousands of years among millions of parents and children.

The subject to which I'm referring involves generational icons of rebellion, psychological chisels intended to pry apart and further expose our gaping chronological cultural divides.

We older folks stand prepared in our roles, ready to crank up our manually generated beacons of righteousness. A full verbal arsenal lies within arm's reach when called upon, so don't be at all surprised to hear:

"Oh, sure. It might look rad and colorful now, but just wait until you're my age and your skin starts sagging like linguine from a colander."

"Oh, sure, you might believe now that half the cast of South Park embodies your life's philosophy, but will that hold true in fifty years?"

"Oh, sure. Just wait until your skin sags like baggy Levi's on a soaked soccer pitch. Did I mention that? I did? Oh."

Okay, so maybe it's not a full verbal arsenal, but we will have made our point.

Look, pierce your ears, your nose, your Achilles tendons, whatever. Dye your hair. Rock a rat tail. Cultivate a mullet. I don't care, as long as what you do doesn't cause permanent mutation to your bodyscape.

No tattoos until you're eighteen, girls.

Although I celebrate your maverick desire to modify your body with skulls, crossbones and dubiously grammatical phrases like "Vengeance is Mine's," I prefer that you hold your adult self, rather than my adult self, accountable.

Believe it or not, I understand. Contrary to what you may think, that's not a varicose vein on the inside of my upper ankle. It's a full blown tatty. My friend and I, back in college, decided one Friday afternoon to down a few Guinesses, hit the latest Dirty Harry Movie and get some body art afterwards.

Okay, so it was just two Greek letters, and it required less ink than that wrist stamp I got at the Andrew Ridgley show (you know, the other guy in WHAM), but it still stung a little.

And now, twenty five years later, the thing has spread out so much that it looks like I'm on my way to the airport to smuggle a spoonful of plum jelly inside my calf.

Girls, it's one thing if you end up in prison. After watching a documentary on the Aryan Brotherhood, I'm fully aware that there's not a heck of a lot to do in there. After spending most of your time doing push ups or mastering the art of hands-free spleen removal, what's really left other than transforming your torso into Google Earth?

But if you still decide, upon achieving majority, that you nonetheless wish to subject your youthful flesh to that large, buzzing needle, take a deep breath, think long and hard...

And ask if you can do a quick spell check.

Herman Cain steps up to it...and into it.

2011-10-16T13:41:00.000-07:00

Prepare yourself. Here comes Captain Analogy again, swooping down to spin yet another unsolicited parable.

When you played soccer as a kid, do you remember a conditioning drill where everyone jogged around the field in a straight line? The player in the back of the line sprinted to the front, creating a new player in the back, who then darted to the front, and so on all the way around the outside of the field?

From my perspective as a spectator watching the trotting line of Republican Presidential candidates while perched on a splintered bleacher, clutching a Thermos of hot buttered Thunderbird, Herman Cain has loped to the front of the queue as Michele Bachmann and Rick Perry drop further and further toward the back of the line.

As hard as it must be for Perry to run in cowboy boots, imagine being Mrs. Bachmann and trying to keep up with that physical specimen New Gingrich while wearing four-inch Manolo Blahniks.

Anyway, back to Herman Cain. The man has not gone away; in fact, he's surging in nearly every poll.

And why shouldn't he be? This self-made former chairman and CEO of Godfather's Pizza has formulated an economic fix so brilliant, yet so simple, that maybe we should toss him the White House's garage door opener right now.

Mr. Cain is proposing a "999 Plan"—a nine percent business flat tax, a nine percent individual flat tax and a nine percent national sales tax—to heal America's flat lining economy. The number nine, when used in this context, seems so tame, so non-threatening. According to Cain, "if the public understands it, they will support it and demand it."

Seriously? What a ridiculous and patronizing statement. I "understand" spraying Chanel No. 5 onto the eyeballs of bunny rabbits in the name of beauty, but I don't support it and definitely don't demand it. Cain's 999 Plan would effectively raise taxes for America's poor and middle class.

Understandable? You bet it is.

I've grown so weary of slick, highly-marketed political schemes which assume that clever simplicity is all the public requires. Maybe Herman Cain was the genius behind the nine-topping pizza for $9.99, but he's going to have to try a bit harder with this one.

I can already envision what counteroffensives his fellow Republicans are mulling over to jump start our ailing economy:

Rick Santorum's "555 Initiative"—Homosexuals must work for five dollars per hour until age fifty-five or the moment they are cured, whichever comes first. American business will reap the rewards through lower gay labor costs and Senator Santorum has offered to personally explain the "trickle-down" concept to those who have yet to see the light.

Michele Bachmann's "Project 666: designed to turn the 999 Plan upside down"—Six percent tax cut to anyone who spray paints "John 3:16" on six Planned Parenthood clinics, or wears a size six like she does.

Rick Perry's "One" Plan—According to a Perry spokesman, we'll be the first to know as soon as he remembers what it is.

Other pithy campaigns have been attempted like Dick Cheney's "1-2-3" Iraq strategy—Kill one Iraqi dictator, two of his sons and three thousand Americans, or George Bush's "Strategy 888"—In eight years, make sense eight times and leave office with eight people still liking you.

Herman Cain recently stated, "Don't blame Wall Street. Don't blame the big banks. If you don't have a job and you're not rich, blame yourself." He also believed that the Occupy Wall Street protests were "planned and orchestrated to distract from the failed policies of the Obama administration."

Such enlightened statements. Mr. Cain, it appears that you finally made it to the front of the line.

And promptly stepped in something.

Dare you take the love quiz?

2011-10-13T09:33:00.000-07:00

I'm home sick today.

No, not homesick, like when your parents make you stay with Grandma and Grandpa while they go to Vegas for a week, and Grandma thinks, for whatever reason, that you love tomato juice and salted green pepper chunks with every meal, and you pray silently and tearfully every night for your parents to eschew any more 9 AM cocktails and liberate you from your well-intended, yet life-shortening geriatric confinement.

No, I'm at home, sick. I've got a cold—the kind where you can't breathe through your nose, so when you wake up in the morning, your mouth, having been the sole receptor of oxygen for the past eight hours, feels like a sheet of caribou jerky that's been flapping in a windy desert and ultimately coated with a sticky, salty, furry, gelatinous dew.

And that first cough of the day feels like it blew a couple of JFK-sized holes through your temples. That's the kind of sick I am today.

To distract myself from this self-pity, I came up with an idea while listening to my teenage daughter's radio playing this morning. A song by L'il Wayne was playing, entitled, "How to Love." Upon listening to its lyrics, I thought smugly, "Yeah, like you know how to love, Mr. Little Wayne. Don't think for a second that you can pound out nineteen recordings about all the money and chicks and drugs you enjoy, and then on the twentieth, teach me...me, how to love."

I know how to love, little shirtless, tattooed guy. I am a lover of love.

Then I wondered if. just maybe, today's kids hold an entirely different definition of what love is. Maybe it's evolved to where, what was once a feeling of giddiness, anxiety and wonder has morphed into conquest and short-term gratification. So I decided to put it to the test.

I looked up Billboard's top ten songs for this week, both currently and during my senior year of high school. I hypothesized that the lyrics may shed a bit of light upon the mindset of our youth through the artists to which they listen. And to make it more interesting, I'm going to structure it as a quiz for you, the unwitting reader.

Of the following songs, try to surmise which set of lyrics are from 2011 and which are from 1980.

Billboard Song Number Three—

Choice A:
Instinctively you give to me
The love that I need
I cherish the moments with you
Respectfully I say to thee
"I'm aware that you're cheating
When no one makes me feel like you do."

Choice B:

Shine a light through an open door

Love and life I will divide

Turn away cause I need you more

Feel the heartbeat in my mind

If you selected Choice B as lyrics from a gentler, more innocent time, you'd be wrong. It's "We Found Love," released in 2011 by Rihanna. Choice A is "Upside Down" by Dianna Ross from October, 1980.

Okay, my theory isn't off to a good start.

Billboard Song Number 2—

Choice A:

Maybe it's hard

When you feel like you're broken and scarred

Nothing feels right

But when you're with me

I make you believe

That I've got the key

Choice B
I am a woman in love
And I'd do anything
To get you into my world
And hold you within
It's a right I defend
Over and over again
What do I do?

I've got to call this one a tie. Each song basically says that it's up to the dude to make everything right. Choice A is 2011's "Moves Like Jagger" by Maroon 5, while Choice B is "Woman in Love" by Barbara Streisand in 1980. Okay, one more.

Billboard Song Number 1—

Choice A:

I heard that you're settled down

That you found a girl and you're married now

I heard that your dreams came true

Guess she gave you things I didn't give you

I hat to turn up out of the blue, uninvited

But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it

I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded

That for me, it isn't over

Choice B:
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone, and another one gone
Another one bites the dust
Hey, I'm gonna get you, too
Another one bites the dust

Unless you've just crawled out from under a rock or have been listening to continuous Christmas favorites for the past thirty-one years, you know that Choice B is Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" from 1980. Adele cranks up those smokey pipes for Choice A, "Someone Like You."

This hasn't gone well. Maybe young folks do understand love. After all, I nearly tear up just typing out the lyrics to "Someone Like You," while "Another One Bites the Dust" isn't exactly penned by Freddie Mercury to see us through a tough break-up.

I suppose I feel better about kids after performing this study. I'm apparently underestimating our youth, repeating the same mistake countless other older generations have. Well, it's never too late to change.

I wonder if the YMCA offers hot freak dancing.

Ninety-nine percent tea party.

2011-10-10T13:20:00.000-07:00

Interesting times, these are.

Every morning, I pass through Westlake Park in Seattle's downtown shopping district, and each day for the past two weeks, I've woven my way through soaked, discarded signs and soggy people. After having been told to remove their tents last week or face arrest, folks lie about on the wet cobblestones, their bodies shivering under rain-puddled tarpaulins as the sky slowly lightens.

The "Occupy Wall Street" movement, a grassroots rebellion against corporate greed and financial corruption, has spread to Seattle...with a vengeance. The people are mad. The people are disillusioned and frustrated. Oh, and based on some random whiffs of crisp morning air, some of the people are baked.

Now that the left has countered the conservative Tea Party's groundswell of followers, each side has provided the other with plenty of ammunition for critique.

The Tea Partiers claim that the Occupiers haven't a clue what they're even protesting, that they're merely an unruly mob of kids looking for something to do.

The OWS crowd asserts that the Tea Party comprises nothing more than a mass of ignorant lemmings, out to fulfill the wishes of the corporate elite through anti-government, anti-taxation rants.

Hurling accusations of socialism, fascism, communism and slackerism, the Tea Party beckons the "Ninety-nine Percent" movement to get haircuts, take showers, put down their hacky sacks and print out some résumés.

Lobbing racism- and homophobia-laden grenades, the Occupiers call upon the conservatives to emerge from behind their façade of patriotism and religion to lay bare their molten core of hypocrisy.

It's prayer circle versus drum circle, Marlboro Reds versus British Columbia Green.

And beneath it all, they share one glaring commonality...they're scared, and they're sick and tired of being helpless.

When I was a little kid during the late Sixties and early Seventies, the nightly news broadcasts were saturated with stories of the Vietnam War. Along with the footage of casualties and suffering in Southeast Asia were images of protests, mostly on America's college campuses.

Our citizens, heretofore accustomed to achieving consensus and fighting for a common cause, chose up sides and carved a jagged chasm right down the center of Main Street. The youth, fearing forced participation in a sketchy police action, faced off against an adult establishment who had already fought a "just war" twenty years earlier and feared the rapid spread of bolshevism.

And here we are again, forty years later. I'm not crazy— I've got no solution for halting America's vicious infighting; I just want to make a few points:

Barrack Obama is not Adolph Hitler. He is also not a Marxist, which would be the opposite of Hitler. He's not secretly Muslim and he's not the Anti-Christ.

Most corporations are not evil. A vast majority serve a legitimate function and many are quite beneficial to our society.

Government waste is indeed rampant. Even so, taxation is necessary to provide for our country's infrastructure and to curb widespread poverty.

Homosexuality is not a choice. Gay rights are not special rights; they are civil rights.

Even though we may disagree, we're all Americans and we want our country to prosper. Most of us, regardless of political ideology, love hash browns, the 1980 United States Olympic hockey team and Thanksgiving.

I'm sure there are at least five or six other things, too.

I'd like to thank a few people.

2011-10-05T14:02:00.000-07:00

Arch West died last week. He was ninety-seven.

If we were to play twenty questions, there's a decent chance you'd go oh for twenty in exhuming the treasure for which Mr. West is responsible.

A little back story: West and his family, on a trip to Mexico during the Sixties, became enamored with the snack shacks which populated towns and villages along their route. They returned time and again to sample the salty, fried tortilla chips which were offered at low cost and large quantity.

Arch, who worked for Frito Lay, ultimately yanked the chain to the highly awesome idea section of his frontal lobe...and the Dorito was born.

If I were to tally the amount of lifetime calories I've consumed of every food type, tortilla chips would fall somewhere between all the Baskin-Robbins I've ever eaten and that night at Winchell's Donuts after the Loverboy show.

I have indeed eaten me some chips. And Doritos were the first.

Before nachos occupied every menu from Red Robin to the Target Snack Bar, Nacho Cheese Doritos were serving a second term as Mayor of Snackland. That bright orange powder which coated every savory triangle would slowly accumulate on your fingertips, solidifying into a mealy paste which streaked the thighs of your Levi's.

You had to wipe them somewhere.

Doritos even forced an emergency trip to my dentist in 1976, when a sharp fragment wedged itself between my molar and gum, forming an abscess. The guy poked and prodded and plunged, finally prying loose the puss-engulfed shrapnel.

He proudly displayed his find, now impaled on the tip of his tool, prior to raking it off on my apron.

Twenty-three million chips later, I have fortunately not relived that incident, and I realize that popular snacks like Doritos...every one of them...are the result of somebody's passion and ingenuity.

Today, I want to thank a few people.

Thank you, H.B. Reese, former dairy farmer and shipping foreman for Milton S. Hershey (doesn't the name "Hershey" just make your mouth water? It's like having "Smothered-in-Cheese" for a last name). In 1928, Mr. Reese, using Hershey's chocolate, invented the peanut butter cup in his basement and unknowingly created a confection that usually doesn't last through the first movie trailer.

Thanks to the Curtiss Candy Company, inventor of the Butterfinger in 1923. My love for you knows no bounds, even the cost of industrial mining equipment to pry loose the peanut butter-flavored cement which has chemically bonded with the valleys of my bicuspids.

And thank you, National Biscuit Company, aka Nabisco, for brainstorming the Oreo way back in 1912. Oreos and milk are divinely inspired, falling just short of Dr. Phil and Robin in cosmic compatibility.

So many more folks to thank, but I'm sure they're not around anymore. There's Baby Ruth (1921), Milk Duds (1926), Kit Kat (1935) and Cheetos (1948). And I'd surely be remiss for not mentioning the Hostess dynasty.

Oh, and before I forget, here's to you Edward Knabusch and Edwin Shoemaker. Although you weren't food visionaries, if it weren't for what you two came up with back in 1927, none of these snacks would've been nearly as pleasurable.

Thank you, thank you, thank you...for the La-Z Boy recliner.

My teenager: a post-dance interview.

2011-10-02T17:43:00.000-07:00

This is the third one of these we've had, and I think I've written about the other two. Let's see, first there was this one in the fall of 2009, then this one last autumn, so, yeah, this one's definitely number three.

The ritual hasn't varied, other than the fact that each successive episode includes a few additional gussied up teenagers squeezing into our brick bungalow for a high school dance pre-function.

Last night, twenty-five sixteen- and seventeen-year-old children congregated for some Safeway Select frozen pizza, Caesar salad and root beer, electrifying our living room with more giddy energy than a twelve-ounce can of Welch's frozen Robin Williams Concentrate.

They were a fantastic group of kids, at least as far as I could tell, since I couldn't understand them. They spoke a dialect of inside joke humor and abbreviations; curling irons were referred to as "c.i.'s" and the term "for sure" was pronounced "fowsh." Frozen pizza? "Frope."

I realize now that my house is divided between those who speak English and one who claims "Eng" as her primary language.

At nine o'clock, our house instantaneously purged itself of the four inch heels, the short, shiny dresses and the basketball shoes worn with slacks. The time had arrived to hit the 2011 Chief Sealth International High School Homecoming Dance.

The kids retreated to their cars, and the newly silent house rang my ears with a piercing din, reminding me of searching for the Ford Grenada in the quiet night air after watching the Scorpions.

For the next few hours, to the best of my knowledge, the evening proceeded successfully. No police activity, anyway.

I asked my daughter this morning for permission to interview her about the dance while it was still fresh in her mind. She consented, provided I performed the interview while she showered. The following conversation took place as I sat on the toilet seat, talking to a shower curtain.

My words will be in italics; hers in normal case.

So, you've been to a few of these now. Are they still as fun?

Yeah, I guess. They always go the same way. No one dances and then, suddenly it's a huge mosh pit.

Do you ask each other to dance?

No. You just start dancing and usually, you just end up next to someone.

So two people don't walk out together?

No. Dad, no. What the heck? Why would they do that?

What if you end up dancing next to someone you don't want to be with?

If they're a jerk or a bad dancer, you just walk away and circle back. It's really easy.

Who was the best looking guy there?

No one stood out. Most of the guys wear ties whenever they have football or basketball games, so I'm used to seeing them look nice.

What about the other guys? The non-athletes? What about the bad boys?

No. They're not hot at all. Eww. They're gross. They do nothing with their time except pierce themselves and get tattoos.

Lots of tattoos at your school?

Oh, my god, Dad. Of course. Did lots of kids have tattoos when you were in high school?

No.

None?

None.

That's weird. At least one person in each of my classes has a tattoo. Is that right? Let's see. First period? Yes. Second period? Yes. Third period? Yes. Fourth period? Yes. Fifth period? Yes. Sixth period? Yes.

Was anyone at the dance highly obnoxious?

Well, one guy tried to do a back flip but couldn't, and he hit his head on the floor. I'm sure he got a concussion. And then, the DJ didn't get paid at the end of the night because he had signed an agreement to bleep out any swear words in the music and I must have heard the "F" word six or seven times. So he didn't get paid.

Anything else you want to add?

Well, it was really fun, but strange to dance in the lunchroom. The theme was "A Night in Gotham City," but it was really a night in the lunchroom with a sign that said "Gotham City."

I love this face wash. It makes my face feel really nice.

Would you be interested in having your mom and I chaperon the next one?

No.

Okay, how about just me? I can be cool.

Dad, who wants a fifty year old man standing in a dark corner by himself watching everyone? That's even creepier than both of you being there.

Good point.

Facing our problems head-on...or not.

2011-09-29T11:02:00.000-07:00

Of all the spineless, gutless, backboneless (Oh, hang on...please see "spineless").

Shortly after firing manager Ozzie Guillen with only two games remaining in the 2011 season, the Chicago White Sox appointed bench coach Joey Cora to act as manager for the team's lame duck two-game finale.

Tuesday morning, however, Cora received a text message from Ken Williams, the White Sox General Manager, requesting that he not show up at the ballpark to fulfill his brief managerial duties; the deal was off.

I suppose I can understand why an upper management figure may opt to digitally, rather than personally, dismiss an employee who had served his team for seven years. Nobody enjoys an uncomfortable confrontation, especially with Cora's well-documented history of accepting disappointment so...moistly?

That's a young Alex Rodriguez comforting little Joey after the Seattle Mariners' 1995 Cinderella season finally screeched to a halt at the hands of the Cleveland Indians. I'm sure A-Rod was whispering gems of encouragement, like "Don't take it so hard, Joe. I'm going to be richer than deep fried butter in a couple of years."

White Sox GM Williams certainly desired to avoid, at all costs, the crop dusting copter of tears which would have irrigated the moose and buffalo heads in his office had Cora heard of his firing face-to-face.

But sometimes, don't you agree that these folks need to bite the bullet and administer the medicine in person?

I was laid off from my final job as an accountant back in 1991. Apparently, the proprietor hadn't been drawing enough business to support a staff, which is quite understandable, given that I was his sole employee.

Rather than investing two minutes' time to explain the situation, the guy left a lengthy note on my desk, concluding with two weeks notice, which I discovered upon returning from lunch.

No words were exchanged, not even "I'll be your cashier whenever you're ready."

For the next two weeks, he avoided me like I was a Ukrainian loan shark trying to collect an overdue advance. He actually left the bathroom midstream as I nestled myself into the adjoining urinal.

How do I know it was midstream? Oh, I just do.

Around the same era, an acquaintance of mine who had been married for a couple of months, received a call from his wife as he settled in to watch Monday Night football at a friend's house.

"Hi, what's up?"

"I'm leaving you."

"What do you mean? Where are you going?"

"It's not important. I'm leaving you and I won't be there when you get back tonight."

How nice of her to let him know over the phone that she had been seeing another guy throughout their engagement and wedding, yet felt too "trapped" to face reality and do what was necessary.

The dude probably still gets a splotchy rash on his throat that looks like Italy whenever he hears the Monday Night Football theme song.

I can think of only two scenarios where digital communication may trump the presence of two people in the same room. I think you'll understand why when you read these examples:

"Hi, honey. Hey, listen—there's a chance that you may experience painful urination and discharge in the next few days. Heck, maybe you already are! LOL. How do I know this? Doesn't really matter. And don't worry, the good news is that I've been to the doctor and I know exactly what the problem is."

"Hey, babe. Remember that six-figure 401K dealio I had at work? Funny thing—I withdrew it and put it all down on the Red Sox on September 1 when they were nine games up in the wild card race. It was crazy, did you hear about it? They didn't make the playoffs! Hey, we've faced bigger obstacles, right? LOL."

If you ever, ever feel physically threatened due to self-incurred acts of gross stupidity, you may reason that a good beating at the hands of the offended will solve the problem. It won't.

Remember, texting is God's way of keeping stupid people safe.

A little too much time on my hands.

2011-09-26T21:10:00.000-07:00

What do you think?

Are those not two of the most pissed off cartoon birds you've ever seen? Chicken and stars, they look mad.

As irritated as he looks, a salty cardinal doesn't exactly get my knees a knockin' the way a bear or lion might. And what's up with green part of the seahawk's eye? Last I checked, that section of the eyeball should be white without exception; any other hue is highly distracting and signifies profound avian liver failure if I'm not mistaken.

At any rate, that's my souvenir from Sunday's National Football League clash between the hometown Seattle Seahawks and Arizona Cardinals in an NFC West battle of angry birds. My friend Corey and I rendezvoused three hours prior to kickoff at FX McCrory's, a Seattle institution located in the shadow of Seahawk Stadium (the facility's corporate moniker has been redacted due to the ridiculously high monthly cost of my telephone land line), on the south edge of the city's historic, and charmingly sketchy, Pioneer Square.

I pulled up a stool in the already packed bar and sipped an IPA while waiting for Corey to show. Pennants of every NFL franchise hung from the ceiling, displaying each teams' nicknames, colors and logos.

I studied each squad's branding. Most teams are represented by the city in which they reside, which makes perfect sense—the Pittsburgh Steelers, New York Jets, yada yada. Three teams, including the Seahawks' opponent, Arizona, have chosen entire states as their turf. Fine, but a little greedy.

And two teams have elected geographical regions: the Carolina Panthers and New England Patriots. Come on, though. There's no such thing as "Carolina." That's like saying that the combination of North America and South America is America. It isn't. If it were, we'd have a lot of confused Republicans trying to decide where to put that big fence.

I suppose I understand why the entirety of New England claimed the Patriots. You'd need a lot of defenders for this logo:

This dude looks like a cross between Halloween night at King County Jail and my grandpa trying to pick up his keys.

While we're on the subject of NFL mascots, this one is supposedly the most imposing of all:

The Oakland Raider helmet decal.

Sorry, but even the cardinal looks fiercer than this guy. When the helmet, which appears to protect a nasty closed head injury, combines with that missing eye, we're just hoping he's eventually able to recite the alphabet and feed himself a couple of Ritz Crackers.

Some themes are even more confusing:

This is the Cleveland Browns helmet. First of all, it's orange, and secondly, Cleveland, you are pretty much the oldest team in the league. You had your choice of all the names and colors. You decided to name your team after a color.

Nice work.

Finally, this is the what's going on in our nation's capital:

The team is known as "The Redskins."

Can you believe that in the year 2011 Anno Domini, a professional sports franchise is named the "Redskins?"

Why aren't more people upset about a team with a name equally as insulting as "Slanty Eyes" or "Black Skins?" Unbelievable.

I finally broke the trance and peeled my eyes away from the pennants when Corey arrived. As he settled onto a stool in the crowded bar, we talked about football and life, of work and family. I've known him for forty years, so we didn't have to worry about small talk.

Especially when two pissed off cartoon birds were waiting for us down the street.

Faux sure.

2011-09-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

It's happening all around us.

An entrenched attribute of our popular culture, it's enveloping our world with greater frequency every day.

The New York football Giants are the most recent purveyors of this behavior. Last Monday night, in an attempt to sidetrack the St. Louis Rams' no-huddle, "hurry up" offense, the Giants' Deon Grant feigned injury, lying prone on the field and thereby interrupting play to be attended by trainers and allowing his team to regroup.

St. Louis cried foul, claiming that New York's dishonest behavior circumvented the spirit and integrity of the game.

Professional soccer players have used the phantom flop for decades, enabling their non-writhing teammates to enjoy a cappuccino and smoke on the sideline while securing a post game dalliance among the babes in the lower bleachers.

Apparently, however, enough is enough when it comes to America's number one gladiator spectacle. We love our bloodsport.

But no one likes a fake.

Bernie Madoff, Milli Vanilli, John Boehner's tan—we're so repulsed, we feel so betrayed when these scandals finally expose themselves to the light of day. And here's the rub:

We're all fakes. Sometimes, anyway.

When I first began dating my future wife, I tried my darnedest to make her think I was the bee's knees. I was still me, I suppose, but more like "Tim with Techron." You know how, when you fill your car up, you choose octane level 87, 89 or 91? I was totally 91 for at least the first six months, then 89 for about a year.

I've been Unleaded 87 for the past twenty.

How about job interviews? Is that the real you? Do you naturally sit forward, back rigid, maintaining laser eye contact while mentally minimizing galvanic skin response to avoid sweating through your wool trousers and spotting the interview chair?

Once you're hired for that job, and you start asking people for stuff, do you end your request with "That would be great!"?

That's fake. An India Pale Ale which also burns fat would be great. Rick Perry losing bladder control on national television would be great. Emailing someone a jpeg of a logo? Nice, but not great.

Naturally, we can't say exactly what's an our minds when dealing with someone we don't like, especially on the job. Not saying something like, "I'd rather lick the beater batter while the Kitchen Aid is still running than talk to you right now," isn't necessarily disingenuous, it's merely prudent.

There are also instances when fake is fine. Even though many artificial substances are acceptable or even preferable, the word "fake" is never used as the preceding adjective. It's "field turf," not fake turf. "Faux fur" sounds so much more luxurious than "fake fur" and certainly, "toupee" holds greater appeal than "fake follicle fez."

If you're not one hundred percent yourself with one hundred percent of the people with whom you must deal, don't worry about it; it's a dauntingly tall order.

And if you hate this post, please—just be fake.

Having a Fair Time.

2011-09-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

"Mom, can we go on the rides now?"

"Umm...in a little while. We're going to the craft pavilion first. Your dad wants to see the model airplanes and bottle cap collections and I want to look at the quilts."

"Then can we go on the rides?"

"Well, then we're going to look at those precious baby farm animals."

"Geez, Mom. How about after that?"

"Well, hon, after that, we'll probably get a corn dog, wait in a long line for scones and then watch the demonstration of Ginsu knives that can slice through a condominium and those wonderful insoles which make you feel like you're walking on a cloud of silky tapioca."

"And then?"

"And then we'll get free hearing tests and shopping bags and then I suppose you can go on the rides...but only three...in Kiddie Land."

Was that a strangers' discussion I happened to overhear? Was it dialogue between my wife and one of our daughters?

Nope to each. It was a composite discussion between my mother and six-year-old self, featuring each obstacle which stood between walking though the turnstiles at the Western Washington State Fair and feeling the wind in my hair as an un-drug-tested ride operator controlled my destiny with his grimy lever hand.

Who doesn't love the fair? What's not to savor about finding yourself occupying that perfect spot where the combined essence of wood chips, onion burgers, animal poo and cotton candy assumes permanent residence in your olfactory archives?

When you're little, it's almost too much. You're assaulted from every angle. The food, the prizes, the games; every sense is beckoned for instant gratification and I think that's why so many kids actually hop, rather than walk. Check it out next time you go. They hop.

By the time I was old enough to walk around unsupervised with a couple of buddies, I couldn't contain myself. I was accompanied by some guys named Kevin, Jeff and Terry, but in reality, I was a lone wolf that day, especially after laying my eyes on that huge, stuffed Tony the Tiger.

Come on...how hard could it be to knock over three milk bottles? With every failed throw, I lusted after that fake feline with increasing zeal. I wanted to burrow my face into its unnaturally orange body and tuck it triumphantly under my arm while continuing on to sample the fair's remaining delights.

Alas, my quarry proved elusive due to the crooked nature of the milk bottle game, and to exacerbate matters, I had spent everything I had on this foolish endeavor. I would walk silently behind my cronies for the remainder of the afternoon, penniless, bored and shamed.

Another memorable moment occurred when I viewed the fair through the eyes of a young adult. When I've mentioned my ex-girlfriend in prior posts, I've used such adjectives as insane, crazy, clinically insane, batshit crazy, BundyGacyDahmer insane and I'll-bet-she-wouldn't-find-me-in-Belarus crazy.

Same girlfriend.

From the moment I parked my car in someone's front yard for seven dollars, she became fixated on purchasing a personalized memento of our fair experience, and finally settled upon a calendar featuring a large picture of the two of us. Here was her reasoning, and it's all going to be one word because she talked really fast:

"Youcanputitonthewallnexttoyourpillowsothattheminuteyouwakeupthefirstthingyouseewillbeus."

I did. And it was.

After standing in line for about an hour and finally nailing the perfect pose, we walked around for a while and left. Every day subsequent, after I sleepily gazed at that calendar and was instantly jolted awake, the only memory associated with that thing was going to the fair just to get it.

I really don't mean to be negative about the annual extravaganza in Puyallup. I've had some fabulous fun with great folks, and I''ve usually possessed the discipline to hold onto my money for more than the first twenty minutes.

And when I take my kids, we hit the rides first.

Ode to last weekend.

2011-09-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

All my teams lost big this weekend,
Every one was beaten.
The Seahawks made
My chest hair fade.
My Huskies took a cleatin'.

All my teams got drubbed this week,
Even the Seattle Storm.
Oh, well, fear not.
Sue Bird's still hot.
And her poster's in my dorm.

All my teams sure sucked this weekend,
I saw them from my couch.
I swore so hard,
My stomach lard
Flew from its protective pouch.

My teams all got just killed this week,
But still I had to see it.
That Mariners squad,
I swear to God,
Looks more like donkey shee-it.

My teams got beaten down this weekend,
UW got screwed bad.
That ref's my pick
For biggest dick
This side of Jalalabad.

All my teams got smoked this weekend,
My girl's team lost eight-nil.
So sad she was screamin',
I took her ice creamin',
And said, "Just wait until..."

All my teams lost all their games,
My wife said, "Get a grip."
Maybe I'll learn to cook
Or change my look
Like Napoleon's brother, Kip.

There's always next week.

It's not crap. It's stuff.

2011-09-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

Twenty-five years—that's how long I've worked in downtown Seattle. And although it's not the largest city in the world, it nevertheless provides a well-rounded smorgasbord of urban spectacle.

I've learned that, when spotting a crowd congregating on the shallow horizon, people have gathered for one of the following reasons:

1) Someone has put out a donation can and has set up shop juggling flaming honey baked hams.

2) The remaining two original members of Styx have been spotted and are signing autographs before boarding their tour bus after a pleasant lunch at Cheesecake Factory.

3) Somebody is handing out free stuff.

Yesterday, on the way to my bus stop, a sizable clump of humanity blocked my path homeward. Individuals randomly broke off from the gaggle, clutching large wads of plastic packets in each hand. I arduously sidestepped the crowd and finally surmised that small packages of dry cat food were being distributed out of the back of a colorful van.

I'm sure the stuff provided a highly tasty treat for that favorite fuzzy feline, and god forbid that people would resort to it for their personal nourishment, but most of those I witnessed were well dressed working whiteys who confiscated so much cat food that they had to form hammocks with their shirts and tie them up a la Daisy Duke.

Free goods make us different people. If we cruise by a table selling dehydrated sea bass and aspic bars for three cents each, we'd barely stifle a spontaneous gag and accelerate past the scene—I'm not paying three cents for that swill.

If they were free, however, we'd not hesitate to grab ten of them, plus the complimentary "Sea Basseroles for Dummies" booklet.

As always, I'm not above a robust lust for free swag. Every time I pass the supply closet at work, I scoop up a couple of Post-It pads, because, hey, when's the next time I'll be down on the third floor? Could be days. And since I use one Post-It note every twenty-seven days, my children and grandchildren will need not worry about their re-attachable sticky paper requirements. Ever.

I am a provider.

Pens are similar. When was the last time you completely spent the ink from a pen, tossed it away and proclaimed, "Time for a fresh pen. Goodbye, my friend." I think I've done this three times.

It's amazing that pens are still manufactured. You'd think that, by now, we've left them so in many different places that they could just be noticed, picked up and used like bicycles in Amsterdam.

So much other free stuff that we snag up seems so good at the time, yet ends up just occupying space: Plastic stadium cups (which need to be stored sideways since they're too tall to stand up in the cabinet), tote bags (which usually are stored inside a tote bag with other tote bags) and condiments (mustard and soy sauce) are the clutterers of our existence.

Those free t-shirts can feel like a total score in the heat of the moment, especially when a furry mascot shoots one from a cannon, it bounces off an elderly woman, lands in the lap of an armless veteran and we manage to wrestle it away for the privilege of unrolling an XXL garment which reads, "Compassion: Pass it on. And Drink Bud Light."

Okay, that's it. I'm not going to pursue free crap anymore.

Unless it's some type of chips.

This medication is fantastic. Except for one thing...

2011-09-13T13:34:00.000-07:00

Before I begin today's tale of personal awakening, a few caveats:

If you currently feel sated with my personal medical data, and I wouldn't blame you, go ahead and click back to the Walmart shoppers site.

You might consider putting down your pepperoni and Velveeta Hot Pocket, or anything else you may be eating.

If you happen to be married to me, take this opportunity to contemplate my plethora of other awesome physical monuments.

Okay, now that that bit of housekeeping is behind us, I'll get on with it.

I've been experiencing some skin issues lately; two warts, to be more specific. One lives on the top knuckle of my right index finger, and, after repeated skirmishes and all-out "wartfare," this alien has merely returned meatier and more robust. I'd even consider calling in a priest, but I'm not interested in listening to a wart shout profanities about what my mother does and where she does it.

The other offending body resides on my left little toe. After years occupying mere nuisance status, it's apparently experienced a puberty-ish growth spurt and has surpassed its neighbor to the north on the distraction meter. Walking has become painful, as the rubber toe of my Converse often sandwiches this fleshy growth like a cauliflower-stuffed panini.

I, like most people, have been putting off addressing these unwelcome house guests with my doctor, but, just as I awoke that fateful morning determined to sever a toxic journey with my girlfriend, yesterday morning greeted me with a similar resolve.

I scheduled an appointment for the afternoon. Quickly summoned to the exam area after walking the two blocks to the Medical Dental Building, I was pleased to be finally addressing these nagging blemishes.

Okay, just a side note, here...why the hell do they have to weigh a guy who's having a couple of warts looked at? It's cruel and unnecessary, and my clothes are extremely heavy. Also, I found it highly inappropriate to hear, "Damn, son," whispered by a medical professional.

I was led into an exam room and told to remove my shoe and sock, sit on the tissue covered table and wait for the doctor. They always know how to throw you off a little. You can never be at your witty best with your ass sticking out of a gown, nor can you when fully clothed except for one bare foot which is five degrees colder than the rest of your body.

These rooms are all the same, and they usually have a magazine rack. I always struggle to decide whether to grab some literature or just stare at the sharps container. Since the stack included Sports Illustrated, I hopped off the table, crinkling the paper beneath my butt and grabbed the magazine.

I'd only flipped open the cover when I heard a cheerful tappity tap on the door.

"Hello, again."

Again? I thought. I hadn't seen this guy in seven months, for a physical. We'd been intimate, yes, but come on, it's been seven full months, man.

The way he poked his head around the door gave me the feeling I'd been caught in the middle of something. I felt an eerie deja vu as I held the magazine with a tube of personal lubricant resting on the counter just inches to my left.

I quickly shed the 1976 flashback and we got down to business.

"Okay, here's the course of action I'm recommending." I liked his decisive attitude.

"We're going to freeze the warts, probably four to five treatments for each. I've also been prescribing a pill which has been very successful in ridding the body of all its warts, not just the ones treated topically."

Perfect, I thought. Finally, we're gonna make some headway.

"There is one side effect, however. It's very rare, but I'm obligated to tell you that this medication can cause breast pain..."

Okay, no big deal. I don't really like my breasts referred to as "breasts"; "pecs" or "chiseled chest chops" are better, but, whatever. I can handle a little discomfort.

He continued, "...and possible lactation."

Oh, my god. Have you ever been shocked and highly amused simultaneously?

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"I'm afraid I am."

Wow. If my wife had known about this medication eleven or sixteen years ago, I'd have been popping these things like Skittles and providing daddy smoothies while she went back to work. If people think they're repulsed by mothers who breastfeed in public, what would happen if they'd seen me at the mall food court, gently stroking the head of an afghan-covered infant as it burrowed into my nourishing torso?

Honey, come one. Let's eat our Cinnabons somewhere else.

Despite the total freakiness of this medication, I think I'm going to give this a shot. Warts are a drag, and if I can rid my body of them, I suppose I'm willing to assume the risks.

And besides, I've heard that terry cloth shirts are in this fall.

September 11, 2011: How do you feel now?

2011-09-11T19:28:00.000-07:00

Can you believe it's been ten years?

The sun has risen and set on three thousand six hundred and fifty days, yet my memory is as clear as the sparkling azure sky on that morning I dropped off my six-year-old for her fifth day of first grade. She slammed the door of the Ford Ranger, I waved goodbye and, as usual, flipped on the news radio station.

Five hundred and twenty weeks ago, I listened as anonymous reporters and eye witnesses recounted the young day's events as I drove. Before even speeding up enough to shift the stick into third, I had learned that three jet liners had been hijacked.

What? Planes aren't hijacked anymore. They haven't been hijacked for thirty years—not since the days of D.B. Cooper.

Two had been flown into the World Trade Center towers, one into the Pentagon.

Okay, that's impossible. No pilot would do that, even at gunpoint.

Both towers subsequently toppled, killing thousands, perhaps tens of thousands.

That's ridiculous. It's impossible for two passenger aircraft, no matter how large, to completely destroy a pair of hundred-story skyscrapers.

And that's when my brain ceased processing data, when the shock response in my amygdala engulfed all emotion in a scratchy, woolen blanket of disbelief.

Do you remember the little details which transpired in the following days and weeks? Were you harnessed with an invisible bungee cord, long enough to reach only the bathroom and kitchen before snapping you back to witness the macabre, commercial-free spectacle on television?

Do you recall the haunting quiet in the skies above? Did you attempt to shield your young children from the news? Did you lie down at night wondering, "First the planes hit, then the anthrax...what's next?"

Were you afraid?

I wasn't a child when those planes hit, but a massive bubble of naivete and innocence which had previously enveloped me like a womb, burst that sunny morning. It's cold out here, I thought.

So very cold.

I became suspicious, as the terror alert bounced from yellow to orange to red back to orange. I spotted an unattended lunch cooler in a work elevator which prompted a hasty call to building security. Any loud jet noises over the city elicited an involuntary neck jerk, forcing my focus skyward.

And now, we're one hundred and twenty months removed from the seismic paradigm shift that was September 11, 2001. How do you feel about things?

Do you feel safe? Has your life changed the way you'd anticipated it would?

Have you sacrificed? After America was thrust into World War II on December 7, 1941, "sacrifice" entered the household vernacular. Rosie the Riveter and victory gardens, rationing tickets and war bonds contributed to a united effort for a world on the brink.

I have not sacrificed. Unless you care to count arriving at the airport half an hour earlier than before and removing my shoes and putting my shoes back on before I boarded that plane to Vegas.

The one percent of our population which comprises our military has assumed one hundred percent of the risk. Our nation remains as politically divisive as ever; pettiness prevails on both sides of the aisle and "patriotism," in word, rather than meaning, has morphed into a polarizing weapon of the right.

The world needs healing, yet America has turned inward and lashed out at the same time. George W. Bush famously ended every speech during his presidency with the words, "May God bless you. And may God Bless the United States of America."

The problem was that he stopped there.

Really, it's not what you think.

2011-09-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, there's nothing you can do, nothing you can say...in fact, it's better if you don't even try.

Every once in a while, you're flat out, red-faced, hand-in-the-cookie-jar busted.

Such was the case Monday, when television meteorologist, Brett Cummins awoke in an empty hot tub, gingerly spooning with another guy. Hey, no big deal right?

Except the guy was naked and wearing a dog collar...oh, yes, and he was dead.

Allegedly, the weatherman and soon-to-be canine man cadaver had arrived the previous evening at the home of the hot tub's owner, a third gentleman who subsequently engaged in some heavy drinking and drug snorting with the pair.

The host apparently retired to his living room couch around eleven that night, leaving the other two in the bathroom hot tub to play "get the dog collar and we'll see who the weatherman's best friend is," or something like that.

Awakened the following morning by the weather dude's loud snoring, the homeowner arose to discover the two men lying in the now empty tub, one shivering and disoriented while the other appeared quite comfortable in his cold, stiff deadness.

I'm sorry to make light of a tragic situation, but it seems that any type of spin on this situation by the TV personality would have proved impossible. What could he have possibly said to the police?

"Officer, please let me clear this up right now. We were trying to sober up, so we simply thought of the most wholesome show ever made and reenacted Lassie rescuing Timmy out of the well."

"Sir, I can explain everything. But first, have you ever visited a television studio and enjoyed a complimentary lunch, including pudding, with Little Rock's favorite meteorological celebrity?"

Most high profile figures who attempt to talk their way out of hugely embarrassing situations only subject themselves to further public ridicule. Remember veteran Republican Senator Larry Craig, who was caught soliciting sex in an airport men's room? He claimed that his hand reached into an adjacent stall to retrieve a square of toilet paper, rather than as a "game on" signal to the stall's occupant?

Okay, has anyone in the seven thousand year history of our planet, while using a public restroom, reached down to grab anything off the floor, let alone a single square of toilet paper? Even if my infant daughter had fallen from one of those lavatory changing tables, I only would have hoisted her with my elbows and subsequently scrubbed each of us raw with twelve dollar SOS pads from the airport news stand.

I'll be the first to admit that things have gone south for me on occasion. Back in high school gym class, the coach was instructing us on various agility drills. During his lecture, I grabbed a couple of tennis balls and placed them strategically in my nylon shorts to display my testicular prowess to the encouraging cackles of my cronies.

At that moment, the coach asked for the tennis balls to demonstrate a drill. I sheepishly extracted each ball slowly from my shorts and handed them to him, their green fuzziness still radiating my groin's heat.

"Real classy, Tim." He was disgusted. My friends were delighted. I was emasculated.

Other situations could have deteriorated quickly. That morning I dropped my preschooler off and she handed me her naked Barbie doll at the last minute and I tucked it into my coat pocket and forgot about it, any type of police frisking wouldn't have ended well that day.

And that's why I'm really trying to hedge my bets in the future, to avoid potential well-intended catastrophes. If that shopping list on the fridge contains only three items, and they are zucchini, "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" and the new Shape magazine with a shirtless Ryan Reynolds on the cover...

that'll require three separate trips to Safeway.

Giving in to breaking out.

2011-09-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

A lot of stuff happens as we age.

I realize that's no breaking news flash, and most of it I can grudgingly accept, if I cling to a philosophical approach using geographical analogies.

Hair which once sprouted from the top of my head has apparently retired and relocated to warmer, more southerly regions. I've accepted this, and I'm not anticipating a return home, even to visit relatives for the holidays.

My lower back has experienced a series of civil wars, rendering the area virtually lawless, its day-to-day stability hinging on the teetering tribal alliances of corrupt warlords. Humanitarian deliveries of Vicodin, physical therapy and muscle relaxants have secured a tense détente, yet after decades of turmoil, scar tissue litters the horizon.

The luring brothel that is my gastrointestinal tract beckons the unwitting tourist. Bacon cheeseburgers, pepperoni pizzas and deep fried butter slabs line the seedy bars and dark alleyways. Once the transaction is consummated and morning's light illuminates the filthy truth, not even a Pepcid/TUMS power cocktail can stave off the inevitable.

Okay, enough with the talk of Arizona, Sudan and Bangkok. Here's an annoyance I can't abide:

Acne. I still get it.

What the hell? I still wake up, stumble into the bathroom, gaze into the mirror and spot Mount St. Helens, lava dome and all, growing on the side of my nose.

At least when I was a kid, I had a full head of hair, a strong back and a thin body to distract myself from the festering pustules littering my teenscape. Plus, the acne followed certain covenants—face and back only, with occasional rogue tenancy within a nostril or under an eyebrow. I actually had to sit out a band practice once due to a lip zit which rendered trumpet playing highly painful and futile.

I was pretty embarrassed. The band director looked puzzled when I told him, yet didn't question my injury, which was kind of nice of him.

Now, I don't get wicked clusters of them like I used to, but I'll find one on my forearm or between a couple of fingers...even inside my ear. Seriously? I had no idea the insides of our ears had pores. Inside-the-ear skin always seemed more like a tarp over some cardboard, where substances just glance off.

I'm forty-nine years old, and people my age with pimples are as out of place as a dog in a halter top. Wait, I saw one of those at the beach yesterday. You know what I mean.

The human body needs some tighter rules regarding phasing out one class of blemish prior to introducing a new unsightly attribute. On second thought, maybe I'm just being unreasonable; maybe I should embrace these tiny imperfections, possibly even name them.

I think I'll call this one on the tip of my nose "Rush."

Saying goodbye to "The Kids."

2011-09-02T12:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, an event will take you by surprise. You'll feel a little too emotional about something—something which you definitely hadn't anticipated.

When McDonald's discontinued the "McDLT" back in 1991, I was floored, yet understood America's demand for a vegetable-free burger. Hey, if we want lettuce and tomato, we'll go to the freakin' Sizzler salad bar.

After leadfooted executives screeched the brakes on clear "Crystal Pepsi" in 1993, I reeled in anger and confusion. Finally, I could see exactly what I was drinking...which was absolutely nothing.

I've already discussed my aversion to change, so after ABC announced the cancellation of All My Children after its forty-one-year run, it struck me particularly hard.

The last episode is scheduled to air September 23.

I haven't even watched the show for ten years, but this king-sized kibosh, for whatever reason, hit me at the source of my life-sustaining Chi energy spring.

I kindled my romance with AMC during the summer of 1972. Erica Kane, Phoebe Tyler and Palmer Courtlandt were the prehistoric predecessors to Atari and Nintendo for a certain pre-adolescent boy. I was compelled to watch the program since it wedged itself between Joker's Wild and Let's Make a Deal, comprising the day's sole game-show free hour of television.

My burgeoning fascination with physical adult relationships was fed on a daily basis. From twelve to one, the camera panned in as closely as humanly possible on two finely coiffed heads as they savaged one another's uvulas into scar tissue.

So that was pretty cool.

A soap opera is an interesting beast; after watching for about a week, you've got most of the characters and story lines established and you can walk a away for another six months, only to re-establish your long distance relationship anew.

Such was the case with "The Kids," as the show came to be identified during my college years. What began as a closet group, much like a quilting bee or Scientology auditing session, eventually evolved into a substantial gathering huddled around a small black and white TV in my fraternity room, to catch up with Greg and Jenny, Jessie and Angie, and Tad and...whomever.

Why do I love this show so very much? Is it because it mirrors real life? Perhaps.

How often does someone just show up at my front door to confront me about my secret twin who's been robbing armored cars?

Boy, if I had a nickel.

Did my own children age twenty years in six months, like many soap opera children have been known to do?

No, but I certainly have.

Forty-one years—that's a year for every freakishly long eyebrow hair on my face. On September 23, I'll be tuning in for that final episode of All My Children.

Or else my twin will.

Please...fill me in.

2011-08-30T16:48:00.000-07:00

It's equal parts flattering and encouraging to know that some smart folks read my ramblings from time to time.

And those are the peeps I'd like to address with this post, because I've been experiencing a dull discomfort, right up around my throbbing frontal lobe, in trying to make sense of the current campaign for the 2012 Republican Presidential nomination.

As Jerry Seinfeld once asked, "Can someone please explain this to me, because I'd really like to know" the answers to the following questions:

Why do so many of these candidates use the term, "the American people," as in the sentence, "the American people are just plain fed up with wasteful government spending on entitlement programs" as if everyone is of one mindset?

After reviewing the American Person Qualification Checklist, I've determined that I am one of those American people, since I've eaten Cap'n Crunch at least eight hundred times, know that "pickup" can be a noun as well as a verb, and purchase toilet paper in forty-eight-roll pallets.

And actually, I only needed two of those to qualify.

These people claim to know what I, an American person, demand, yet none of them have come within three states to double-check. I'm not aware of any Presidential hopeful even flying over, let alone landing in, Washington state, unless you count Dennis Kucinich's appearance at Seattle's Hempfest last week. Had Mitt, Michele, Herman, Rick and Rick cruised Seattle's cannabis tents, they may have gained a deeper understanding of the mindset here on the Left Coast. Then it would've been burrito time.

Why do these people look like they do?

Seriously, do they resemble normal people? I can't think of anyone who likely spends as much time in front of a mirror as Romney, except maybe my teenage daughter, whom I've heard proclaiming, "I earned this body."

Then there's Bachmann. Does anyone you know, other than joggers and road crew stop sign holders, wear yellow as frequently as she does? Maybe she justifies it because those blinding half jackets make her teeth appear whiter, and the plaque would really jump out at you if she wore crimson or something.

Or her next job will be working for Century 21.

Why do they feel that their credentials are positive, let alone impressive?

Herman Cain was the CEO of Godfather's Pizza. Good on you, Herm, for working your way up the ladder to become purveyor of the world's worst pizza. Don't get me wrong; I love pizza so much that four out of five days, I may choose it over my family, but I'd rather eat an aspic-coated slab of plywood than anything that has emerged from an oven at Godfather's.

Mitt Romney has enriched himself by purchasing companies through leveraged buyouts, laying off hundreds of workers and socking away profits into offshore tax havens. He believes corporations are actually people and should be afforded the same rights as humans. Straight humans, that is.

Why do these people consider it chic to deny science?

Texas Governor Rick Perry, when asked by a young boy whether or not the governor believed in evolution, replied, "It's a theory that's out there."

Rick, Rick, Rick. Gray matter between your ears is a "theory that's out there." Evolution has been empirically proven. You need look no further than your homeboy, George W. Bush, to ascertain that he's somewhere on the evolutionary scale between single-celled protoplasm and a chimp who knows twenty-three words and seven numbers in American Sign Language.

And it's really easy to deny global warming if you're Michele Bachmann. All you have to do is attribute the hurricanes and flooding to God's retribution for our sinful ways, his wake up call to repent before the end of days and certain eternal damnation.

Even though, as George Carlin once said, he loves us.

So, please, if anyone out there can shed some light on these queries, these seemingly rhetorical questions, please respond, preferably before the locusts show up.

Forty-nine years old? What the...

2011-08-28T12:26:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm a forty-nine year old. What the hell?

That's twenty-three years older than LeBron James. All I can say is, just wait until your prostate is bigger than your ego, LeBron. Okay, that's not gonna happen.

That's twenty-four years older than Lady Gaga. And to think that I had such a huge head start and still failed to predict America's voracious demand for crotchless pantaloons made of calf tripe.

That's thirty-two years older than Justin Bieber, and I've only recently discovered the foxily imperative comb-forward.

I know it's really not that old, right? That's what everyone says, anyway. All I can tell you is that when I turned one, I was three percent of my dad's age, and now I'm sixty-three percent of his age. It won't be long before we share a two-for-one shower escalator Groupon.

Okay, enough of the self-pity. I'm breathing, my heart's beating and, doggonnit, my wrists are as good as ever (That's a typing reference).

A few Negative Nellys have commented on their hatred for lists, especially of the top ten variety. Well, it's my birthday, so what's a nice way to put this? How about this—screw you, haters.

I've had so many great birthday happenings over the years, I'm going to head in the other direction this time. Here's a list of my top five worst birthday experiences over nearly half a century of polluting Mother Earth's lower lumbar with my Converse Chuck Taylor carbon footprint:

5) August 28, 1971—I was already crabby because we were camping on my birthday and therefore couldn't go to Shakey's, but decided all would be well if I could crack open some brand new Puma soccer shoes on birthday morn. But they weren't Pumas; they were called "Mr. Pro" and I was pissed. Sorry, Dad.

4) August 28, 1978—During high school, we always had two football practices per day, which really sucked. This was back when coaches wouldn't allow water because they thought it contained estrogen or something, so by the end of practice, we looked like fruit leather. And on this particular day, I broke my finger and witnessed a motorcycle wreck, to boot.

3) August 28, 1965—For my third birthday, I had requested olives on the cake, thinking they would taste like cherries. My mom acquiesced, I ate an olive and have loathed them ever since.

2) August 28, 2002—Another camping birthday, but this time it was my fortieth, and it was in a yurt. The camping part was okay, but when we decided to have dinner at the local golf course, the waitress volunteered a free golf cart to tour the greens for my birthday.

Our family, plus one other kid, packed into a single cart and tentatively navigated the course, trying not to interrupt anyone's golf swing. We looked like a made-for-TV movie, "The Beverly Hillbillies Go a' Golfin'." After receiving scores of nasty glares, we ditched the cart at the earliest opportunity; the Clampetts headed back to their yurt, and Jed, the birthday boy, had aged at least another year.

1) August 28, 1985—My clinically crazed girlfriend, after repeated warnings that I really, really didn't want a surprise party, threw me a surprise party. On the way up my apartment stairs to said event, she informed me of it, so I had to act simultaneously surprised and not highly annoyed with her within fifteen seconds.

You may think, "What a jerk. She was just trying to be nice," and that's fine. It also means that you don't understand the mind of a sociopath.

Enough with the negative shtick. I've had so many fabulous birthday presents and happenings—the green stingray on my sixth birthday, the trip to Tahoe on my twenty-fifth (good surprise), the bungee jumping on my thirtieth.

And, of course, all of those trips to Shakey's. Good thing I didn't ask for pizza on my cake for that third birthday.

Please try not to rock my world, mmmkay?

2011-08-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I admire the way my eleven-year-old daughter goes about it:

(Cell phone rings) Me: "Hello?"

Daughter: "Dad, do you know where my Selena Gomez refrigerator magnet is?"

Me: "Umm, no. Should I?"

Daughter: "No, Dad. Well, yes. I mean, no. Thanks. Bye."

And that's it. The phone call has ended.

With adults, saying goodbye on the telephone is more like making Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. You have to do certain things or it just doesn't turn out well. For example:

Me, trying to wrap up a phone conversation with another adult guy: "Okay, man, great catching up with you. We seriously have to have beers, and soon."

Guy: "Absolutely. You've got my number right?"

Me: "Yep. Right here in my phone. Let's not be strangers. And say hi to Josephinia and those rug rats of yours."

Guy: "Will do. Say hi to your wife, whose name she doesn't want mentioned in your blog, and of course your kids, whose fictional names are Chloe and Mauryn."

Me: "You got it. Take care. We'll see ya. Take it easy. Bye bye, now, then."

Okay, maybe I exaggerated slightly, but I do usually rattle off three quick phone-isms prior to actually ending a call. Here's my theory:

We Americans don't like change, and if we must endure change, it must transpire as slowly and gently as possible.

Our blockbuster movies build to chaotic apexes, containing highly traumatic events for the protagonists, but end with the same sense of normalcy found at the film's beginning.

Our restaurant meals call for a series of foods which build to a hearty main course and cycle down to a cup of coffee and at the very least, an Andes Mint on the check tray.

Our football contests require an extra point attempt following every climactic touchdown score. No one wants the other team to repossess the pigskin just yet; a bit more closure, a smidge of decompression, is necessary in order to move on.

Let's be clear—I'm not above any of this stuff. The routine in which I participated to put my kids to bed would've made a twelve-step program feel like speed dating. By the time the story reading, water refills, special handshakes, monster exorcisms and origami-like blanket formations were completed, it was time to run the following night's bath water.

I think the bedtime go-round was nearly as important for me as the children.

When Safeway changed the name of their pop from "Select" to "Refreshe," I dreamed of discovering a secret forest warehouse, where a twenty-five year old Farrah Fawcett stood at the door and offered me a Safeway Select Black Cherry or maybe a Shasta Grape soda. I think she was wearing tube socks.

I even feel a little uneasy when a new bus driver flips those double doors open.

As I said, America loathes change, so that must make me one hundred percent yankee doodle.

Now, please, hand me the remote.

Slutty in Seattle.

2011-08-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

Wow, who would've thought?

I've lived here for thirty years, and apparently, I've allowed myself to be lulled by the gray skies and melancholy masses as they shuffle along the sidewalks in sensible walking shoes and utilitarian hair styles.

We are super mac daddy freakazoids!

Seattle is, according to our own Post Intelligencer and this internet dating site, the second most promiscuous city in our fair land. Again, wow.

Maybe all of that polar fleece is attached with an accessible Velcro strip in the back. Could ordering a "double tall with room" mean something a little different than what I'd always believed? Does REI actually stand for "Really Easy Intercourse?"

I've been married for a while, now, so, while I haven't been able to play my card of sluttiness, good luck to the rest of you, my neighbors. Whether you hook up in the Whole Foods organic Pop Tart section or the "How to teach your dog to compost" class, I tip my hat to you.

Here's the remainder of the list. I think you'll be a little surprised at how it shakes out:

1) Portland—Our fair hamlet to the south rules the promiscuity universe. I never had considered Portland a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah, but five words come to mind—"Baby, leave your Birkenstocks on."

2) Seattle—I've already touched on my hometown. So to speak.

3) Pittsburgh—Another surprise, Pittsburgh never struck me as a free love type of place, residing in America's Rust Belt. I'd always considered foreplay in Pittsburgh to be similar to Dorothy lubing up the Tin Man.

4) Miami—So many having unsafe sex down there in Florida—no socks.

5) San Francisco—Okay, what's going on here with the west coast? It's like a constellation of naughty. I suppose if Seattle is the head, then Portland is the chest, San Francisco is the bathing suit area...and L.A. is some moppable substance left on the floor.

6) Dallas—Obviously, Debbie still lives there.

7) San Bernardino—Comforting to know, considering my sixteen-year-old daughter just returned from a week at basketball camp down there.

8) Denver—Hello! Dreamy man fox, John Elway, lives in Denver. Not a shock, by any means.

9) San Diego—I'd always thought "Chargers" signified horses, but actually it's a term for people who pair up in thirty minutes or less at the Coronado TGIFridays.

10) Houston—Houston is also the sixth fattest city. Maybe I should scrap this diet I've been on.

So next time you plan a vacation, instead of New York, Chicago, Boston or Philadelphia, rather than Minneapolis or Atlanta, consider Seattle.

Someone's waiting for you, and they can't wait to get you into their futon.

Time to lose some weight...again.

2011-08-17T20:44:00.000-07:00

Seriously? Again?

I'm really going to subject myself to this godforsaken exercise...again?

Here's how I see this process: Every five years or so, I vacation on an island—a really large, nice, tropical island. The package I purchased includes one full orbit around the isle, with stops at decadent resorts along the way. I travel slowly, watching dolphins, buying cheap t-shirts and even splurging on some brand new nail clippers.

Upon reaching my original starting point, I am contractually obligated to return my yellow, convertible Mustang and return home.

After a long and increasingly uncomfortable stay on this tropical island, I maneuver the Mustang around a sharp corner and the road straightens to reveal the Avis rental office in the near distance. Okay, cool. I guess it's time to go home.

Thank you for suffering through my cyclical weight gain analogy.

I took the first step toward the 1972, 1993, 2004 and 2009 "me" yesterday morning, when I weighed myself. Oh Hostess, sweet mother of Ding Dongs, Ho Hos, Twinkies, Fruit Pies and Snowballs, I weighed myself.

I squinted down at a three-digit number which was higher than any I'd seen before. I'm quite familiar with this scale, so I'm able to position and shift my girth enough to take two or three pounds off the actual total, but I nonetheless remained in uncharted territory.

I'm sure that some have felt this rush of emotion as well, but please allow me to describe the feeling.

It's like slicing the soft skin under your middle fingernail because you'd forgotten that you'd stuffed three jagged metal Hunts Snack Pack chocolate pudding lids into your basketball shorts pocket right before bed last night.

It's that feeling when you believe you've finally kicked those hiccups, and...shit.

It's like that morning in a Portland hotel when I rose from bed, walked into the bathroom, peed and summarily knocked my open shaving kit into the toilet's pre-flushed yellow goodness.

Shall I continue? Nah.

I lifted my head and stared forward, feet still straddling the scale's wavering needle. My sole utterances were biblical in nature...probably because I now weigh the combined equivalent of (baby) Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Who doesn't hate being overweight?

The thing is, it's not like I transformed into the blowfish who swallowed Hootie overnight. I'm just quite skilled at the art of excuse and denial:

"My wedding ring seems to be losing its elasticity."

"I keep drying these pants for too long."

"There's no way this t-shirt is a large. Typical Old Navy...cutting corners again."

So, here we go...again. Time to pick myself up off the ground and do this thing...again.

Actually, I could use a little help getting up. Thanks.

Happy Birthday, Steve Martin.

2011-08-14T19:28:00.000-07:00

"Some people have a way with words, and some people...not...have...way."

"I like a woman with a head on her shoulders. I hate necks."

"Hosting the Oscars is much like making love to a woman. It's something I only get to do when Billy Crystal is out of town."

"The operation was a success, but I'm afraid the doctor is dead."

"I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy."

"Talking about music is like dancing about architecture."

That poster above hung in my bedroom.

Steve Martin turned sixty-six on Sunday.

I've often considered, but never written, a post about the people whose senses of humor have impacted my life the most. My parents are most assuredly the gold medal winners, since their input was daily, and occasionally involved electric shock reinforcement.

But a silver-haired man is gazing up at them from the silver medal podium, and he's wearing a white suit and black tie, with an arrow prop mockingly impaling his head. A banjo rests at his side.

Steve Martin opened my eyes to comedy. As a thirteen-year-old who'd only recently been allowed to stay up late enough for a show called Saturday Night Live, I'd never tested the waters beyond the safer comic shtick of Bob Hope or Johnny Carson or Bill Cosby. When Martin guest hosted that first episode of SNL back in 1975, my parents had no idea what lay ahead.

I opted to suspend my true personality for about two years in order to channel this man. I memorized everything, and I mean everything, that he did:

The "wild and crazy" swinging Czechoslovakian dude: I'm a little embarrassed to admit that my mom was forced to hear "Wuh would lok to see yor big Amurican breasts her and now," at least fifty times while I honed the accent.

That dancing routine with Gilda Radner: Practiced only in the confines of my bedroom with anything that resembled a dance partner, such as a stuffed happy face pillow or long section of Hot Wheels track.

Three record albums: A couple of friends and I would compete with each other to recite entire album sides. We would argue such important minutiae as, "No, idiot. He said 'Reality is just an escape for people who can't cope with drugs,' not 'those who can't cope with drugs.' Come on. Shit, man."

In 1979, Martin melded some of his best material to date, this time in cinematic form, with the release of The Jerk. The lead-up to its debut was tortuous, and I'll never forget, at long last, traveling up to the Renton Cinema in my parents' green Ford Fairmont (with partial sunroof) to watch my idol's inaugural film, accompanied by the "Shit, man" friend mentioned above, whose name was actually Kevin.

I won't be so audacious as to liken it to a pilgrimage, but...it was.

Steve Martin, along with so many others of his genre, like Radner, George Carlin, Bill Murray, Chevy Chase and Dan Aykroyd, had driven moving trucks containing irreverence, irony, satire, and plain old slapstick into a new housing development in my adolescent brain, where they've been residing ever since.

Here's to you, Steve Martin. Happy birthday, and remember: Always, no wait, never, no, always carry a litter bag in your car. When it gets full, you just toss it out the window.

Confidence is sexy. But please keep your shirt on.

2011-08-11T16:26:00.000-07:00

A couple of evenings ago, my nuclear family and I settled in over a table of Greek salads and bread, complimented by some powder blue Safeway napkins with pleasantly quilted patterns.

As has been a more frequent topic of late, the upcoming school year reared its head again. My wife asked my sixteen-year-old daughter if she would be agreeable to dropping off our younger girl for her first day of middle school, since parental drop-offs are so "elementary school."

"That would be cute of me," replied the elder sibling.

Cute of me? I hadn't recalled those words having ever been used together before.

"Did you say, 'That would be cute of me?'" I had to confirm.

"Yeah. I'm sure everyone would think it's cute for the big high school sister to drop off the little sister for her first day of middle school," she replied, narrowly avoiding dipping her hair tips into her vinegary salad bowl...again.

Commonly, when my teenager utters such arrogant statements, I'm rendered speechless as I was on this occasion. She's often so oblivious to her utterances that I really don't think she realizes how it sounds to those within earshot.

As she slowly pivoted her head back toward her food, my teenager's eyes screeched to a halt.

My wife observed the process. "You're looking at your arm, aren't you?"

"Yes. Wow, I'm really getting toned this summer."

Such confidence. It is obnoxious for sure, but nonetheless is a trait I've always admired. We live in a culture where we either muster up our self worth from within, or ride the bucking bronco of public opinion. Should we make the error in validating ourselves through others' opinions, we run the risk of feeling like something that that bronco squeezed out its backside.

When Barack Obama was elected, it seemed as if the entire planet Earth believed he could walk across Lake Michigan without getting his wingtips wet. But ultimately, Mr. Obama has proven himself unable to work miracles, such as healing both an already broken economy and an entire class of lepers known as the Tea Party.

Unwavering confidence is a must for any President. After all, can you imagine a moment when you're actually telling yourself, "You know what? I think I should be the ruler of the free world. Yeah, definitely. Either that or work at Costco."

But what about other lines of work where unbridled confidence is a prerequisite?

Professional boxer: Imagine stepping onto a roped off canvas in front of thousands of people, and you're not wearing a shirt? Okay, that's a dream I've had quite a bit, but in addition, you're supposed to pummel another shirtless guy into unconsciousness or just make him bleed so much he can no longer see. This would require confidence and probably not a lot of other job opportunities.

Navy SEAL: Someone calls you and some buddies into a room, where you sit in one of those school desk/chair things, and says, "We're gonna need you guys to get into a helicopter, fly secretly into Pakistan, kill Osama and pack up a bunch of his stuff, including his porn stash and Whitney Houston cassettes. Then bring the body back in the helicopter, mmmkay? Oh, and don't forget to use the Swiffer before you leave. Clean floors show that America has paid a visit."

Graphic designer: When a hundred-year-old company's future depends on one pixel moved to the left or right, I'm up to the task. And, I can perform while listening to Night Ranger. I'll stop there, since I'm sure you're already doubting yourself.

So before you ask your wife how you look in those short slacks and striped green tie, before you run the brown clogs and denim jumper by your husband, take a good look in the mirror. You don't need outsiders' validation.

You look good, and you know it.

Seafair: a slowly mellowing rite of summer.

2011-08-08T20:46:00.000-07:00

As we stood sipping our beers, looking upon a sun splashed Lake Washington, Mount Rainier looming in the murky distance, my friend Corey casually placed his hand on one of the metal barriers which cordoned off the beer garden.

A middle-aged, balding security guard swiftly approached from our left, his wispy comb-over fluttering in a mild gust.

"Sir, you're going to have to remove your hand from that railing while holding that beer. Those bars are considered outside the drinking area, so you can either put down your beer and grab the railing, like this, or let go of the railing and hold your beer, like so. Just not both. You can even do this..."

We watched as the pudgy man bent his upper torso over the bar, his head reddening and upside down on the non-beer garden side of the barrier.

"See what I'm saying? You can do gymnastics on this thing as long as you are not in possession of beer or wine. Have a good day, now."

As he retreated into the sparse crowd, the three of us stood silently. How times have changed.

Since 1982, Corey my brother and I have upheld a tradition, a rite of summer in the Puget Sound area since the early 1950s—we've been attending the Seafair unlimited hydroplane races on Lake Washington.

The event, held the first Sunday of August, isn't really much of a race at all. An overwhelming majority of the day's heats are noncompetitive and comprise a minuscule portion of the entire day. It's kind of like a house-sized hum bow, where the bread part tastes pretty good, but there's only about a thimble full of gooey pork filling.

Seafair Sunday has seasoned itself and evolved at a similar rate to my companions and me. What began as a free-to-the-public, alcohol soaked orgy of homemade keg barges and overflowing Honey Pots, has grown into a choreographed, rule-laden corporate juggernaut.

What started as every twenty-year-old's dream day of swimming, subtle nudity and complimentary Eve cigarettes, has morphed into three guys in their forties and fifties looking for a shady spot to have some Pad Thai and a Jamba Juice.

But with all the flux in Seafair tradition, the day's marquee event hasn't changed since I've been attending. At least half of those in attendance park their lawn chairs solely to gaze up at the Blue Angels, the United States Navy's precision fighter air show.

I slightly enjoyed those blue and yellow jets my first ten viewings, and I still admire the pilots' skill and athleticism. But then the novelty dissipated, and the Blue Angels started looking like a really nice dining room set, where the seats are electric chairs made of the finest mahogany. They may look cool, but their true function cannot be questioned.

I understand that many don't share my left coast viewpoint on the BAs, so call me a bleeding heart socialist, call me a commie ass clown, or just call me a guy who's tired of the same two-hour routine every year, but that's a pretty expensive demonstration of government testosterone.

But hey, time to take the high road and ignore the politics of the day.

Every year, after I return home from twelve hours in the sun and I'm scolded by my wife for not using sunscreen, I flop down on the couch and ponder the boats and the food, the planes and the babes, the friends and the laughs.

The boats of the past will never return, the Pride of Pay 'n' Pak, the Miss Budweiser, Atlas Van Lines, Miller American, Winston Eagle, Squire Shop or Circus Circus.

Will I keep coming back? Yes, I will...even if Corey, Tom and I have to form a Little Rascal caravan.

A worrier's perspective: How to cope with an unraveling economy.

2011-08-05T20:38:00.000-07:00

It's decreased eleven percent in two weeks.

To what, you may ask, could I be referring?

The ozone layer over Bill O'Reilly's house since he began mouth-breathing on a full-time basis? Nope, that's twenty-six percent.

That problem I had that ended up lasting way more than four hours and forced me to live the past fortnight in sweat pants? Negative. And please, next time you see me, eye contact would be appreciated.

Michele Bachmann's chances of being elected President? No, because eleven percent of zero is still zero.

I'm talking about the American stock market, which has plunged nearly eleven percent in the past fourteen days.

It's been the lead story lately in every form of media, so yes, we could have avoided the news, but it would've been pretty difficult. Fears have surfaced of a "double dip recession," another round of economic upheaval, a further spike in the national unemployment rate.

It's scary, it's frustrating, it's maddening...and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.

I hate to say this, but these billions and trillions of speculative dollars ebb and flow outside our human condition and operate completely independently of most of us; we have no control.

We suffer the consequences of these market fluctuations, yet we're no different than a blue-and-red-chested Buffalo Bills fan who cheers his team from the nosebleed section—we're spectators, and no amount of lucky-pantyhose-wearing is going to change the outcome of the game.

One of my kids is a worrier. I won't say which, but boy, can she ever bake up a good cream of worry casserole. My constant mantra to her is "Look, only spend time mulling over things you can control or change. Everything else you worry about is just a waste of time."

I'm a huge believer in the axiom, at least intellectually, but it's time for me to take my own advice, because I'm fairly convinced that she's inherited my worry gene. For example here are a few things I can't control, yet still fret about:

Aging—It would probably help if I saw fewer movies with Eric Dane, Ryan Gosling and Matthew McConaughey, but come on, the only alternative is an eternal nap in a pine futon with a dirt comforter.

What people think—I say I don't care, but I do, I do, I do. And if you like what I've said here, please copy and paste it into your status.

Throwing up—Seriously, none of us can stop this train once it starts rolling. We might as well just get it over with so we can order Domino's before they close.

Traffic—This is probably the most difficult problem to overcome. The only way I would be able to achieve nirvana on a congested freeway would be to personally witness the driver of the Trans-Am who just cut me off lose total control of his bladder and bowels.

Losing total control of my bladder and bowels—Please see "aging."

I know the economy sucks, the unemployment rate is high and now, the stock market has tanked. So I'm going to do the one thing I can control, the single act I'm capable of to demonstrate my frustration.

I'm going to violently hurl this newspaper into the recycle pile.

I cry at weddings...so sue me!

2011-08-02T10:33:00.000-07:00

Are you a crier?

Not a crybaby or a whiner, but someone who can’t slap those sandbags down fast enough to stave off a flash flood of salty, frothy rapids?

As kids, most of us cried frequently. Tears were our brains’ natural reaction to pain, both emotional and physical. As six-year-olds, when we fell off our sting rays and asphalt-raked our hip and knee after attempting to ride cross-armed, we sat awkwardly beneath our bikes, our heads slowly pointed to the skies, mouths gaping into a yawning grin of agony. Eye contact with Mom meant unbridled throes of anguish, while exposure only to peers resulted in a quiet and private pain management.

And naturally, as grown-ups, we also shed a tear from time to time. Ninety-nine percent of us cry when something is triggered within us which we really can’t control. It just happens.

But that one percent, that superminority of our adult citizenry, seems to tap their emotions to manipulate like a master baker utilizes fondant.

Before every Friday night game, my high school football coach’s lip would begin quivering, his baritone cracking, by the time he’d uttered that fourth cliché comparing a bunch of sixteen-year-olds to American World War II paratroopers. After he’d likened our undersized defensive tackle to some guy who’d swum the English Channel with no arms or legs, Coach had rendered himself incapable of communicating through his spastic, mucus gurgling sobs. Some of my teammates hopped right onto his express bus to Inspirationville, while others felt he probably should have practiced his talk in the bathroom mirror one last time.

And then, there’s Speaker John Boehner of the United States House of Representatives. This guy…wow.

Boehner claims he can’t even speak to a group of school kids without losing it. Whenever he describes his humble beginnings as one of twelve offspring of a bar owner in Ohio, he barely makes it to the third line of the speech before his face twitches, his orange skin reddens and he saltily barks his desire to duck behind the stage to smoke a Pall Mall and gather himself.

What an endearing man he is, no? He’s not afraid to put himself out there, to display his vulnerable side. Oh, except when he’s discussing denying healthcare to women, kids and old people. His face stays a healthy burnt ember for that topic.

But really, the reason I brought up the subject of crying is to talk about…well...me...again.

I consider myself a member of that other ninety-nine percent…the Criers of Noble Repute.

Oh, boy, did I cry this past weekend. It was at a wedding for someone whom I’d never met, among people I didn’t know.

Even before my daughters came along, my emotions had always bubbled quickly to the surface upon watching a bride dancing with her father. Then, after my girls were born, I could barely cope when witnessing this amazing transitional moment in the lives of those two people on the dance floor.

On Saturday night, the bride’s dad wasn’t around.

He lost a battle with pancreatic cancer two years ago, but the bride made sure that his contributions to her life and her affinity for him were incorporated throughout a beautiful ceremony.

As I gazed upon the newlyweds sharing the evening’s first dance, a small lump in my throat developed, and slowly creeped in size from a Russian tea cake to an avocado pit to a tennis ball. Uh oh. Here we go again.

I was ill-prepared for what came next, as the massive obstruction in my windpipe gave way to a gusher of tears.

The groom beckoned his mother onto the floor for the second dance, as did the bride…

with her mom, as well.

Word.

2011-07-27T13:22:00.000-07:00

What's the good word?

Today marks the second installment of an exploration into the power of words, for better or worse.

And as of today, unfortunately, there will be a few less good words to go around. Rick Kaminski, also known to generations of Seattle Mariner fans as "Rick, the Peanut Man," has died. Mr. Kaminski, after debuting during the Mariners' inaugural 1977 baseball season, quickly achieved legendary status. His laser guided peanut bag throws from several rows away formed a deadly combination with his comedy one-liners to distract even the most stalwart of baseball fans from the field's happenings.

After firing a behind-the-back peanut missile to a supposedly ready fan, Rick would traverse the steps to collect his money and offer a good-natured ribbing to the fan who had just watched a bag of hot nuts ricochet off his or her sternum.

"Now I see why you're watching the game and not playing it."

"Was someone just up here selling Butterfingers?"

He had million of them...and they were all good.

I've been thinking about how often we just toss words out there, how we're trained from toddlerhood to control our bladders and bowels, and although I can't remember having a diaper pinned over my mouth, I've certainly had times when a compulsive outburst could have been well served by the muffled silence of an oral nappy.

It's understandable that people, especially when nervous, will say just about anything to avoid silence; they use more fillers than the folks at Veggie Burger. But let's face it, even though no one really cares what you're doing this weekend, or what you did last weekend, what else is there to say to someone you barely know while waiting for the elevator?

How about nothing?

"Any big plans for the weekend?"

I love the term "big plans." From now on, I'll just volunteer the information prior to being asked. My dentist loves to ask this question, so I think next time, I'll just break the ice by saying, "Guess what? I've got big plans this weekend. But they're secret. Do you mind if I quickly use your cool sucking tube? My cat sat on this sweater earlier and all the fur is a little, you know, embarrassing. Ha."

Have you ever arrived a couple of minutes early for a meeting and there's one person, with whom you're vaguely familiar, sitting alone at a conference table? I have.

In the future, I'm going to spare that person the discomfort of sparking a mundane discussion. I will begin with, "Wow, I left fifteen minutes early just to use the restroom. Sure, I was bankin' on a rough go, but fifteen minutes worth? How are you?"

Or maybe, "Looks like we're both early. Hope it's not affecting your marriage the way it is mine. How's it going?"

Parties, picnics and barbecues are also breeding grounds for melancholy discussion, as we often discover ourselves penned into a corner with a heretofore utter stranger. I've occasionally excused myself from these situations by refreshing my drink or finding my children, but next time I might try, "What do you say we get out of here and grab some Cambodian takeout? Where are you going? I thought you didn't have children."

Words are so powerful, yet so cheap, so I'm challenging you...and me...to avoid the small talk. It won't be easy, but let's either serve up a hearty platter of substance or nothing at all.

And rest in peace, Rick Kaminski.

That time the Governor met me.

2011-07-24T23:25:00.000-07:00

I've got to tell you about my infatuation.

Are my waking thoughts monopolized by a particular movie star, majestic farm animal or yoga temperature?

Negative to all three. I'm obsessed with words.

I love words. I love twisting and crunching and abbreviating them; I love making new words up. I love working with words and plays on words, I love spotting the perfect word as it cautiously peeks from behind a mental tree trunk after an hour's worth of staring a blank screen.

And that's why, while I find moments of speechlessness to be disquieting, blurting out nonsensical, insensitive or complete gibberish strikes an even greater blow to my Old-Navy-t-shirt-fabric-thin psyche.

Like most of us, I have good days and bad, periods where I wake up, gently yet intensely spooning with my wordsmith muse, and other days where I can't seem to get out of the way of my own uvula.

On Monday, I may think of something inspirational and nudge my co-worker while saying, "Wow, I just had and epiphany which could very well prove serendipitous."

Tuesday, the same thought could trigger, "Dude, I just...um...whoa."

Natural biorhythms aren't alone in determining my verbal literacy when responding to a situation. I maintain a firm belief that emotions, especially anger and intimidation, drive the elocution train and frequently, after it speeds by, I'm lucky to grab a couple words off the caboose.

My daughters have often rendered me incapacitated. I've experienced levels of anger and frustration with each of them which can only be measured using a huge space telescope. Conversely, my wife's pulse slows to that of a yogi contortionist about to stuff her entire body into a refrigerator crisper.

When addressing a highly offensive minor, my spouse's words materialize slowly, in perfectly enunciated syllables: "You need to turn off your phone. Now listen. You are being extremely rude. If you don't stop, you will be taking the bus to the mall rather than driving. Is that clear?"

Here's how I would have worded this teaching moment: "If you don't...stop...that...thing you're doing...I'm gonna...do something...or take something...or something."

Anger reduces my vocabulary to that of a really smart camel.

Intimidation is even worse, because, unlike the speechlessness caused by anger, I can readily summon the words—just the wrong ones.

Not long ago, I visited my doctor for a physical. I've always felt intimidated by doctors. Whether it's due to their vast knowledge of the human body, their hallowed position as healers, or their heroics in E.R. and St. Elsewhere, I'm not sure, but on this occasion, I came prepared.

"Do you ever use duct tape in a medical setting?" I asked, planning on at least a courtesy chuckle.

No response, other than, "Nope."

Feeling the need to rally, I opted to dazzle my doctor with my knowledge of medieval surgical techniques. Centuries ago, physicians believed that heated glass cups, when placed onto the skin, could create vacuums to isolate infections, which would then be lanced and bled to suck out the body's toxins.

"I suppose you'll need to cup me now," I proclaimed. Well put, Hemingway.

Another case of gross intimidation drew similar results. Back in college, I'm not really sure why, but our state's Governor visited my fraternity. Maybe he was lobbying the young Republican vote or he wanted to finally learn to use a beer bong, but he came up from Olympia and hung out with us for a couple hours one Monday night.

I'm not sure how this happened, but a crowd of people which had stood between him and me spontaneously cleared away, and there we were, the Governor and I, looking into each other's eyes. I knew I had to say something, but what? Should I go with straight small talk or be a bit more clever? I opted for the latter.

"Hello, Mr. Spellman. Nice to meet you. I'm just curious, do you prefer crunchy peanut butter or creamy?" Oh, my god. Did I really just say that? I just gave the governor a line I wouldn't even use on a freshman sorority pledge.

My disembodied soul looked down upon my sad, quivering body mass.

"You know, I'm a crunchy guy," he replied. "I still enjoy a good peanut butter and jelly sandwich, especially with raspberry Smuckers. How about you?"

"Crunchy all the way!" Oh, shit. It just continues. I just said, "Crunchy all the way" to the Governor."

Seconds later, other fraternity brothers had converged upon our conversation, and the subject of peanut butter quickly dissolved into other mundane topics as everyone competed for some face time with the Governor. I backed slowly out of the group, vowing that if I were ever again thrust into a similar position, jogging away would prove far less embarrassing in the long run.

I obviously haven't kept that promise. The words keep flowing.

Maybe you're not gay on paper, but...

2011-07-20T16:39:00.000-07:00

Hmm...I guess next time I donate blood, I should give myself one last once-over in the mirror.

Got to make sure there's no gay on me before I leave the house.

According to a piece which ran in Monday's Seattle Post-Intelligencer, a Chicago-area man was rejected from volunteering a pint because "he looked gay."

Homosexual men have been banned from giving blood since 1983, an era when reliable HIV testing procedures had not yet been developed. Although this policy still applies, it's believed by many to be outdated due to the significant screening advancements over the past thirty years.

So, what exactly does "gay" look like, and why should it matter when you're given such a lengthy questionnaire prior to donating blood?

Last time I offered up a vein, I was asked every query imaginable to ascertain that I wasn't concealing my gayness. Have I had sex with a man since 1977? No, I'm pretty sure I had outgrown that around '75.

And by the way, I've got some straight friends who have been such freak daddies over the course of their existences, their bloodstreams could host an MTV spring break special for single, eligible pathogens.

I may sound preachy, here, but I'm one of the worst offenders, and it's time for all of us to stop making snap judgments based on appearances. I can think of so many examples, but here are just a few:

When I initially laid my eyes upon that enchantress from the Northland, Sarah Palin, I thought, "Wow, she's a relatively young, intelligent, attractive choice. She's got executive experience and she's not a Washington insider. Well played, Mr. McCain."

Forty-five seconds later, she opened her mouth and her conjunction-slathered crow squawks quickly communicated that I had indeed misjudged her.

When I first screened Top Gun, I exited the theater, pleased with having seen a tale of male camaraderie, bravery and redemption.

After watching it again twenty-five years later, my only takeaways were that Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer are the biggest douche bags ever, and I doubt they'd be allowed to donate blood due to what probably happened in the shower after that volleyball scene.

How about those CD-of-the month clubs that, at the time, seemed like such a good idea?

I finally stopped getting them in the mail a couple of years ago after embarking on a Harry Potterish quest for a secret cancellation website and painstakingly altering my DNA with a turkey baster and a Magic Bullet.

Initial impressions can also be distorted through the prism of sloth or desperation. How often I've foolishly estimated that the seven remaining squares of toilet paper would suffice for the job at hand, only to ultimately be faced with two options, each equally undesirable, after the final glued-on strand had ripped away from the cardboard tubing.

Let's just take a little extra time, shall we? Let's evaluate the information we have, ask a few questions, maybe even wait a day or two before assessing a situation or casting judgment. To those of you who work in the blood collection field, I know many of you volunteer your time, and I appreciate that.

But even if someone looks gay, just play along and let them fill out the questionnaire.

After all, you don't look ignorant.

Reunited, and it feels so good...until the next day.

2011-07-17T21:29:00.000-07:00

It was a good time, a really good time.

I knew it would be, mostly because we've had three of them now, but the excitement still couldn't mask those groundless pangs of anxiety and apprehension.

My thirty-year reunion.

I tried to hedge as many uncertainties as possible:

The hair was cut three weeks ago. Any sooner and it wouldn't have grown out enough to ensure strategic comb-overs. Any earlier than three weeks prior would have assured a halo of platinum neck fuzz poking its eaglet talons from below the back collar into the sensitive skin below the back neckline, forming a distracting silver and red constellation of dermal abrasion.

I bought a new shirt. It matched my sideburns, which wasn't planned, it just worked out that way. The black shirt with thin silver stripes was embarking on its maiden voyage, which, in retrospect, wasn't a good idea. I felt like the kid who shows up back from spring break in white Chuck Taylors right out of the box. Opting to wear a t-shirt underneath to avoid looking like Phyllis Diller's head was bursting out of my chest Alien-style was a solid choice.

New earrings. Good idea, but again, too sparkly. Unfortunately, I had to choose between some brand new bling and some blackened old hoops with more embedded dead skin tissue than Ted Bundy's Volkswagen.

Enough is enough, I thought. These are people with whom I share angst- and humor-filled memories of growing up together during the Sixties and Seventies, and accordingly that puts them at roughly my age. Wow, go figure. Stop stressing about a little less hair and considerably more belly fat and prostate tissue and enjoy yourself.

During the months leading to this soiree, the location had endured endless, light-hearted ribbings. It wouldn't be held at a Casino, a racetrack or a hotel banquet facility—it took place at the Auburn Senior Center.

Electric scooter and nap jokes abounded, but I didn't hear many complaints about saving enough money by staging the event at the former Auburn Public Library to sap the local Costco of its entire supply butterscotch pudding and Ensure.

It was a little strange sipping an ESB in the former children's book section, but, whatever.

Upon arriving, any nervousness evaporated as soon as I hugged someone, and then someone else, and then someone else. The evening's essence quickly materialized in the form of warm, lasting squeezes as opposed to the more accepted and distancing "pat-pat" hugs.

I was further comforted that some things haven't changed at all between once-a-decade encounters. Here's an example of a guy with whom I've spoken at each reunion:

1991—Male classmate, extracting his wallet from his back pocket and flipping it open to reveal a photograph of his son—"Yeah, that's him. He's a year old and he's totally kicking my ass."

2001—Male classmate, extracting his cell phone from his back pocket and flipping it open to reveal a photograph of his son—"Yeah, that's him. He's eleven and he's totally kicking my ass."

2011—Male classmate, extracting his iPhone from his back pocket and displaying a photograph of his son—"Yeah, that's him. He's twenty-one and he's totally kicking my ass."

Early in the evening, I had volunteered to share my hotel room with a good friend so he wouldn't have to drive back to Seattle. Much later in the evening, I caught myself saying to him, "So, when do you think would be a good time to head back to our room?"

"Our room?" he asked.

Yeah, that was a weird way of putting it. We laughed pretty hard at that one, and the next time I just said, "Ready to head back?"

Events like this tend to move at warp speed. They're so fun that they commence in inverse proportion to happenings like accounting classes and root canals. Before I knew it, the sky was lightening and I had been hanging with my classmates for eleven hours.

I realize a lot of people would actually rather go to the dentist than attend a reunion. But give it a shot, and here's why:

A small group of folks exists which saw you leave for the summer sounding like Bobby Brady only to return two months later, an inch taller and sounding like Greg.

This tiny assembly of people contains human beings who were the first to make your heart bounce out of its ribcage. You couldn't yet label these feelings; you could merely chase that person to the swing set and after catching her, stand dumbfounded and glazy-eyed.

Most of us live our lives immersed in other generations' cultures—our children's, our co-workers, sometimes even our grandchildren's.

Well, this was our night. This pod of individuals who originally met as boys and girls and graduated as teenagers assembled as middle-aged men and women on Friday night.

And quite a bit of Saturday morning.

How to fend off blogger's block.

2011-07-13T15:56:00.000-07:00

Like most human beings, my life is overwhelmingly segmented into a matrix of predictable behaviors and routines. Does spinning this silken web of familiarity around ourselves make unforeseen events easier to withstand?

Probably.

I won't further muddy the already murky shallows of my mundane daily schedule by expounding on each act, but for the purposes of this entry, please humor me while I lay out my blogging cycle. I knew you'd be excited.

Spinning tales of profound insignificance every two or three days typically begins with an appetizer of warm desperation served on an empty platter of insecurity. After I've posted a piece, I usually allow about a twelve-hour grace period before conjuring up and silently chanting this well-worn mantra:

"There's nothing left to discuss. You've covered every topic, sometimes even twice, and it's time to give it up and get back to building a scale model of downtown Pittsburgh out of oxidized tricycle spokes. And enough with skewering Michele Bachmann. She's hot, evil, divinely chosen and crazy. Deal with it."

Inevitably, a little dashboard light in my frontal lobe flickers with the spark of an idea, and inspiration can invade my soul like a subterranean ear zit, or lurk in the shadows a la Dick Cheney behind a White House hibiscus tree.

And while I try to maintain a strategic idea reserve for the leaner days, it's usually a paycheck to paycheck existence.

This morning was such a case of creative bankruptcy. As I peeled on my disgusting bike shorts, mounted my two-wheeler and set out, I ruminated and drifted and wondered, what inspires others? Whose work do I admire and what motivated them to create? Where did they discover their muses?

What drove the ancient tribes of the British Isles to construct Stonehenge? Was it a majestic alter for worshipping their dieties, was it a primitive calendar system or was it an eerie foretelling of the average Londoner's dental structure?

Who could ever dispute that the Holy Bible isn't an inspired document? And what bigger muse than the big guy(s) himself? It just seems like God or J.C., or both, could have edited it down to something you could read cover to cover, like Harry Potter, and maybe Jesus could have written a little epilogue saying that everyone was really tired and they were up against a deadline when they got to Revelation, so they pounded out a cool ending over mozzarella sticks and a half rack of Icehouse.

I've always heard that Led Zeppelin's epic sonata, "Stairway to Heaven" was penned by none other than Beelzebub himself, as Jimmy Paige simply held a pen to paper and allowed his hand to be guided by an invisible force. As an impartial listener, I'm afraid I've got to give the nod to the devil-inspired music, especially after hearing what Pat Boone and Stryper had to offer.

And last but not least, how about the condom? I understand that necessity certainly inspired this invention, but what kind of trial-and-error process could this have entailed?

"Okay, we've ruled out tin foil and baby socks. All we have left is that sheep bladder drying out on the fence. Who wants to try that? Yes, I can see you're still bleeding, but we have to figure this out before our funding gets cut."

Don't worry. I'll eventually figure out something to write about.

Pain goes with the territory: A life lived on the edge.

2011-07-11T20:54:00.000-07:00

It's getting ridiculous.

And although I'm not quite knocking on the door to the Half-Century Club, I'm definitely perched on the step where the yellow pages are dropped off, and the way things have been going, I hope the door is automatic.

You see, I've been getting injured.

But this isn't stuff like suffering a high ankle sprain trying to box out a man half my age for a rebound. It's not even like tweaking an Achilles while performing the sprinkler dance in celebration of a new hard lemonade flavor.

Nope. In the past two weeks, I've sustained bodily trauma playing ping pong—and bowling.

Though I'm not proud of these occurrences, I'm also a pragmatist; I'm getting old and I'm certainly not an ageless beef man like Hasselhoff or Seacrest. Shit happens.

The table tennis mishap hurt like a Satanic paper cut and proved to be quite entertaining for those present. I suppose I'd have laughed, too, if I'd watched someone sell out for some John McEnroe backspin and get nothing in return but a thumbnail full of table bottom and the sound of a pork chop spanking plywood.

Fortunately, the joy on my friends' tear-streaked faces made lancing the subsequent blood dome all the more worthwhile.

Then on Sunday, my eleven-year-old daughter, her friend and I strolled into Roxbury Lanes for a little afternoon bowl-o-rama. It's nice that a lot of today's bowling alleys have added casinos, since what other way can slightly desperate-looking, single, male blackjack players be united with children under under one roof?

Cheers to you, capitalist ingenuity.

With the addition of those newfangled, computerized scoring systems, we were off and bowling faster than you could say, "Cool, this one isn't sticky inside."

The injury occurred during the inaugural frame when I awkwardly bent my finger, the middle one, while serving up my best dose of Earl Anthony. I'm not sure how or why a finger can be damaged while tossing a ball straight ahead, and thanks to the bumpers, I salvaged the frame nicely with a spare.

Sadly, the damage had been done, and at that point, I actually considered informing the kids that Dad had hurt his business finger and would have to sit out the final nineteen frames. Mike Ditka's threatening soprano voice instantly invaded my senses:

"Play through the pain, you toddler. I went an entire game after having my scalp ripped off and re-attached at halftime. That's why my hairline is below my eyebrows. Now toughen up, Nancy!"

I heeded the great Ditka's advice and powered through the afternoon's activities, but after returning home, the finger had begun to swell. Rationalizing that the appendage would feel better by morning, I retired that night without the benefit of ice or ibuprofen.

A throbbing sensation jolted me awake at four a.m., but it wasn't the type that can also be caused by bumpy bus rides or watching Scarlett Johansson drink from a garden hose. It was my finger. And it ached like crazy.

I rose from bed and popped a couple of Advil, visualizing a world where board games and other, more forgiving forms of amusement, lined up to greet me. It's fine, I told myself, you don't need to re-affirm your manhood through macho pastimes like ping pong and bowling. You've nothing left to prove, sir, so move forth with peace of mind.

And maybe some kind of cool helmet.

Pinch me. Ow, not that hard.

2011-07-07T20:32:00.000-07:00

"It's a pinch-me moment."

Such apt words were spoken by Flight Commander Christopher Ferguson, when commenting on the one-hundred-thirty-fifth and final space shuttle launch on Friday. Atlantis will hoist its four-person crew of veteran astronauts one last time, drop off a massive shipment of supplies at the International Space Station and stick a weightless fork in the thirty-year history of the Shuttle program.

Commander Ferguson and his mates must feel significantly god smacked by their good fortune at receiving front row seats to an historical event. It's a little like winning a lottery, except when you present your ticket, someone tells you, "We don't have a three-foot long cardboard check for you, but here's a cool orange suit, some Tang packets and a fancy little machine to make your pee into drinking water. You'll find it tastes similar to a Red Bull. Enjoy!"

The term, "pinch-me moment" floated around my subconscious after reading the article. I need more of those, I surmised, and not just for the big stuff like graduations, marriage, births and brand new Glee episodes.

I realized how much of my life is spent mulling over past and future events, completely skirting the present moment. For instance:

I awakened this morning at 5:06, extremely relieved after having occupied an indeterminate amount of time during 1983. I exhaled deeply upon realizing that I hadn't actually shown up naked to a Geology 101 final and that I didn't really have a vagina on my right calf.

Hopping on my bike at 5:49 for a brisk morning of anaerobic meditation, my brain chose not to register the magenta sunrise over the Olympic Mountains and its beautiful reflection on Puget Sound.

Nope, why do that when instead, I could stare ahead at the gravel trail and ponder what I should have said to that guy at work who said that thing to me and I didn't say anything but boy do I know what I could say now?

Last night, my daughter embarked on a movie date with a boy (I call him a boy, but he actually tips the scale closer to Burt Reynolds than Ryan Reynolds).

During the eternity she was away, I alternated between living ten years ago, at which time I'd be making up a bedtime story for her about a princess who had eaten too much Raisin Bran, and four hours into the future, when she would walk safely through the front door, and I would realize that I had made the right choice in sacrificing that rooster.

See what I'm saying? I think we can all use more "pinch-me moments." How often do we see a champion athlete, sweat and champagne streaming off his head and soaking his uniform, proclaim, "It feels great to win this trophy, but you know what? We're gonna do it again next year, too!"

Come on, man. maybe you can at least enjoy it until your shin stops bleeding.

We constantly say and hear, "Where did the time go?"

The time didn't go anywhere. We're the ones who weren't around.

Is it just me, or do they look like muppets?

2011-07-05T14:01:00.000-07:00

God bless America.

And while we're at it, let's throw in Buddha and Vishnu and Tom Cruise and anyone else who can provide a little home field advantage, because I'm afraid we need all the help we can get.

You see, a lot of us just aren't very bright.

You're still here? Cool, thank you. I was afraid you may become offended and click over to that hilarious chimp wedding site.

Look, I really don't want to come across as your stereotypical, Seattle-living, Birkenstock-and-gray-socks-wearing liberal who's blissfully ignorant that his sideburns and neck fuzz haven't been thatched since the organic barber stopped showing up at the farmer's market.

But I just may in this instance.

According to a Marist Poll released in honor of our nation's birthday, only fifty-eight percent of our country's residents were aware that America declared its independence on July 4, 1776. Twenty-six percent were unsure and sixteen percent named an incorrect date. In addition, one in four of those surveyed didn't know that country from which the United States seceded.

As appalling as these statistics are, and, mmm...boy, they are, they're certainly not shocking. Twenty-five percent of our voters support either Michele Bachmann (11%), Sara Palin (11%) or Rick Santorum (3%).

And since twenty-five percent also don't know which nation we smacked down to gain our freedom, I'd be willing to bet my gun rack that those folks are one in the same.

Bachmann stubbornly maintained that our founding fathers rallied against slavery. Umm, wrong again, Crazy Barbie with Titanium Hair®; most actually owned slaves.

Palin spun a delusional yarn about Paul Revere when she claimed that he was also warning the British that "uh, they weren't gonna be takin' away our arms..." I'll stop there, because it rambles. Wouldn't it be great to have a president who warns the enemy—

"Okay, I just want to let you guys and gals in North Korea know that we're gonna wee-wee you up a little next Thursday with a little limited nuclear strike. Take care now, folks, and back to Wipeout."

And then there's former Republican Senator and Presidential hopeful Rick Santorum, who in 2003 said, "If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual (gay) sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything."

Sweet. Does that mean we can also bring back candy cigarettes and those dangerous lawn darts?

So what about the rest of the voting populace? I'm referring to those fifty-eight percent of us who actually know the date America sprung out of the British womb without the benefit of an epidural. Who do we support?

Although Gingrich only accounts for three percent, the guy isn't ignorant of American history. He may be quite repulsive and hypocritical, but at least he knows the difference between a musket and a muskrat.

Romney? I can't really tell how smart he is, since he's too busy twisting in the winds of public opinion to take a stand on historical and constitutional events. I'm guessing that behind that sultry baritone and glistening smile, crickets chirp.

Ron Paul is a smart man, but he wants to abolish the IRS, saw the United States off at its southern and northern borders (like Bugs Bunny actually did once) and let our new island continent float away in a state of isolationist Utopian nirvana.

Intelligent, yes, but also paranoid and insanish. And as a side note, I don't want another President named Ron.

I can't remember who comprises the remainder of the Republican candidates, but I think the list begins and ends with the word, "yada."

America, what do you say we study up a little before the next election? How about if we educate ourselves to know the difference between facts and the baseless ramblings of the lunatic fringe? Do you understand that these people actually believe they're qualified to be your President?

Remember, we've misunderestimated before.

Take a moment, America. Then light that thing.

2011-07-01T15:04:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday, America.

Now get me a switch from that old maple behind the tool shed and drape yourself over Papa's knee for two-hundred-and-thirty-five birthday spankins. And a pinch to grow an inch.

Wow, we're one old country, aren't we? I'm pretty sure we've finally been around longer than M*A*S*H was.

All the wars, all the economic catastrophes, all the heart-seizing moments staring into the icy abyss of annihilation.

But enough about the Kardashians.

As we approach the Fourth of July, how many of us will actually ponder the true spirit of the holiday? Who among us will reflect upon the sacrifices performed by so many to win and maintain our freedom for nearly two-and-a-half centuries?

I'm really going to try this time. I'm going to give my full effort to not plunging my ever-sagging, soft bodily tissue into twenty-four-hour, Pabst-fueled orgy of piccolo pete pyromania. And since the "p" words are flowing, I'll add "penis" to the mix, since most of this day's ordnance experts are also owners of that dangling participle between our legs.

What do you say guys? How about we just light a couple of bottle rockets, pound down some strawberry shortcake and call it a day before something of which we're extremely fond gets blown off, placed in a plastic bag and duct taped to our stomach for that jostling airlift to Harborview?

Oh, yeah, and maybe we can spend thirty seconds or so thinking about the true significance of July 4.

Not that we're any better with other holidays. Do many of us spend oodles of time contemplating the true meaning of Christ's birth on December 25, 0000? Hopefully, after we've ripped the wrapping off our Magic Bullets and bodyscapers, we take some time to appreciate JC's humble beginnings.

It is nice to know that, although our Lord was born in a rustic setting at best, at least Joe and Mary could take advantage of that full week between the Messiah's birthday and New Year's Day, hopefully having received enough gold to convert that sowing room into a nursery.

Joseph would also have a chance to return that foul-smelling myrrh to the MAC counter at Neiman's before walking into the office on January 2 with some light-hearted birthing stories.

"I tried to comfort her and help her breathe," Joseph would say, while sipping his morning java, "but she pushed me away, yelling 'You did this to me!' All I could do was turn to Wise Man Frankie and whisper, 'I don't think so, Babe.'"

On Saint Patrick's Day, most don't observe the death of a man who introduced Christianity to Ireland. Nope, they're more concerned with what they've regurgitated on the morning of March 18, and whether the green color is from the beer or an alarming imbalance of their body's flora and fauna.

Easter rolls around, and it's more about how many Whoppers and Reese's Pieces we can scarf down by ten in the morning than it is about celebrating the day Jesus came back to life because of a freakishly human-sized bunny.

So, again, here's my challenge to you, to me, to all who consider themselves able to wade through the commercial muck of modern holidays: On the next big day, take five minutes.

All I ask is five.

My birthday is August 28.

Your butt is absolutely stunning in that shade of lipstick.

2011-06-29T13:58:00.000-07:00

Good old Eddie Haskell. Lord bless his smarmy, disingenuous heart.

What words come to mind when you think of Eddie or others of similar ilk?

Kiss-ass? Suck-up? Bootlicker? Ego-stroking, backstabbing, brown-nosing weasel?

Or maybe just a guy who knows how to play the game.

Ed McMahon's nostrils seemed to consistently caress Johnny Carson's lower large intestine.

If Sean Hannity's proboscis stuck any further up Sarah Palin's tuckus, she could perform a rhinoplasty on the guy simply by consuming too many Grape Nuts.

And we're all quite aware that had Karl Rove not illegally emmigrated his entire cranium up Bush's Rio Grande, our simian commander-in-chief would never have bought into the whole "Jesus decided I should be the decider" shtick.

So why do some hop onto the Brown Nose Express while the rest of us witness its eventual derailing and explosion on the floor of Shame Canyon?

I'm not sure why, but I know it begins early.

Remember back in elementary school, when everyone plopped a Christmas gift down on the teacher's desk on the last day before winter break? And that one kid, who raised his hand all the time, recklessly scattered the small eight packs of See's Nuts and Chews to clear a space for a scale model of the teacher's house, constructed from Almond Roca, Red Vines and Magic Shell?

"Merry Christmas, Miss Prudenta," he boasted. "My mom stayed up all night making this but it was my idea. Good thing for Google Maps."

The south end smoochers seem to grow more brazen as they age. My college Accounting 451 class contained approximately twenty-three percent strokers, all seated in the front row and all vying for the professor's attention and approval. Occasionally, our instructor liked to launch into a bit of accounting humor.

"So I said to my colleague, if you capitalize that fixed asset, any amortization could lead to an extraordinary loss. Talk about a change in working capital!"

I remember sitting in the back row, puzzling over his comment, desperately mining it for any humorous content. I found none. The front line of students erupted in doubled-over throes of laughter, a couple of the more rabid bottom nuzzlers actually dabbing their tears.

Apparently, my brain's centers for pity and extreme loathing are next door to each other.

I am now employed by an American corporation, and I'd like to remain employed by this American corporation, so I shan't be delving into the amount of brown nosing which occurs in this environment. It is, however, substantial, and those who excel at it usually fare quite well in this palace of unclothed emperors.

So happy, so satisfied I am, that my DNA has withstood the temptation to prevaricate the facts, to pander for nothing but personal gain.

And I'm totally serious; those pants didn't make my wife's butt look fat.

I was a fat kid who didn't like skating.

2011-06-26T10:08:00.000-07:00

"Dad, look at that kid. He's totally faking it. I saw him fall and there's no way that hurt. He obviously doesn't want to skate."

My eleven-year-old daughter and I gazed over at the portly, young man. He struggled mightily, spilling his body onto one of the rink's spectator benches, his mother hovering patiently with an ice bag and warm looks of concern. The Kitchen Aid gyration of his too-tight skates finally slowed to a stop as his bean bag bottom finally balanced itself on the painted wood. Success.

I wanted to approach the kid and tell him things would turn out fine for him, that his ability to operate four-wheeled boots should not and will not define him.

Then I changed my mind. Creepy.

It's Saturday afternoon at the roller rink and I'm here to tell you—over the past forty years, so much has changed in the world of tween entertainment—this has not.

Upon entering, I'm overcome by those same aromas of polished wood and disinfectant, finishing with an essence of overheated popcorn, spilled Mountain Dew and newly forming sweat glands.

The distorted din of "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" has succumbed to the wailings of Lady Gaga and Katy Perry, but this casserole contains the same ingredients. The repertoire still includes "reverse skate," "couples only" and of course, the races.

Even today, the skaters can be classified. The first grouping requires only maximum speed; form and consequences be damned. These are usually boys and they frequently resemble eleven-year-old Gilligans.

Others circle the floor in packs, lip-syncing whatever song is playing, never watching ahead because their heads are thrown back and their mouths agape in throes of laughter. These are usually girls.

A third class exists which welcomes both genders, and this is a group to which the aforementioned "injured" boy, and I, held membership. I'll call it the "Plutos."

Plutos slowly orbit the far reaches of the skating rink. And just as in the scientific world, most at the rink don't acknowledge Pluto's status as a planet.

That's okay; Pluto just wants to pass the time quietly and with little fanfare. We Plutos only roller skate out of necessity; it's either a birthday party or one hundred percent peer pressure.

To an overweight kid, skating parties take a back seat only to swimming parties on the scale of undesirable themes.

Memories of Pluto Club membership flooded my consciousness as I surveyed the spectacle. I reminisced about palming the peripheral wall like a drunken spelunker, expending maximum energy to stave off any type of wheel revolutions. A high center of gravity is not friend to the five-foot-tall, one-hundred-twenty-seven-pound skater.

Naturally, I bowed out of any speed skating competition, and when the couples skate rolled around, I usually grasped the opportunity to buy a Big Hunk or look at the condom machine in the boys' restroom.

Girls never asked me to skate with them anyway, which was totally cool; they all wanted to pair up with this kid named John Freeman, who was handsome, could balance on one wheel and kick a soccer ball the length of the field.

Usually, by the end of the session, I could skate sort of cross-country ski style, in three foot strokelets, and if I fell, I could stand up, rather than crawling Vietnam-style to the nearest railing. Solid progress.

The turned up lights signified the conclusion of our day, and my daughter and her friend skated gingerly toward me on the worn, green carpet.

"Did you guys have a good time?" I asked.

"Dad, that was so fun. Can we come back next Saturday?"

"We'll see," I replied, "and next time, I'm skating."