Knucklehead!

The Sandwich

2012-02-12T16:55:00.000-08:00

It was a Saturday afternoon, the year was 1977. My brother Eric and I were in the kitchen whipping up a couple of baloney and cheese sandwiches for our lunch. Mom was at work, and Dad was in the cellar working on something. Our youngest brother Bobby was lying on the couch, recovering from the common cold.

"Dad! Can I have lunch?" Bobby yelled. It was a small house. Voices carried, even down to the cellar.

Dad called up, "Are you guys in the kitchen?"

"Yeah!" I hollered back.

"Make Bobby a sandwich, would ya?"

There's no way to sugar-coat this. At the age of seven, our brother Bobby was a little shit. Being the youngest, he took a lot of crap from me and Eric, but he dished it out pretty well too. And now, with the support of our father, he had us doing his bidding. He was more than eager to take advantage of the situation.

"You heard him, slave boys. Make my lunch."

Eric and I looked at each other. "I'm not making it, not if he's gonna be a jerk," said Eric.

"Don't look at me, I'm not making that little twerp a sandwich."

"And hurry up about it!" Bobby ordered.

Eric slammed his green army hat to the floor, and stomped over to the top of the cellar stairs. "Dad, Bobby's being a jerk! Do we really have to make his lunch?"

"Just do it, please!" Dad replied.

"Yeah, slave boys," said Bobby. "Just DO it!"

Eric came back to the kitchen. "This sucks."

By this point, though, a thought had occurred to me. Dad didn't exactly say what KIND of sandwich to make for our smart-ass little brother. "So, Eric," I said. "Just what kind of sandwich do you think Bobby would like?"

"I don't care, baloney?"

"Okay, anything else you want to add?"

Eric's eyes narrowed, and a smirk crawled across his face. "Uh, yeah, I think he might like some peanut butter on it, too."

I spread a thin layer of Skippy on the one slice of bread. "What next?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Eric. "Maybe some mustard?"

Out came the Heinz Spicy Brown. We took a quick inventory of the refrigerator. Catsup. Horseradish. American cheese. Grape jelly. Hey, with a name like Smucker's . . .

By the time we finished, Bobby's sandwich was loaded up pretty good. We went extra heavy on the horseradish around the edges of the bread, so that first (and probably only) bite was going to be a doozy. Then we used lettuce leaves and a couple extra slices of baloney to make the sandwich look "normal". We put it on a paper plate, garnished it with some Lay's potato chips, and delivered it to our sickly brother.

"About time, slave boys. Now get me a Dr. Pepper."

"Anything you say, your majesty," I answered, stifling a chuckle.

Eric and I went back into the kitchen and waited.

"AAAAGH! What is this?!? This is DISGUSTING!" Ah, the joys of horseradish. "DAAAAAAD!"

Our father thundered up the cellar steps. "What's going on?" he asked.

"They made me a gross sandwich!"

We were still giggling when Dad confronted us in the kitchen. "What did you guys put on his sandwich?"

"Actually, Dad," said Eric, "it would be easier to tell you what we DIDN'T put on his sandwich. Milk."

We knew we were in the clear when Dad cracked a smile. "Okay, okay, maybe he asked for it. Can you guys make him a baloney-and-cheese-and-nothing-else sandwich now?"

"No bread?" I asked.

"Uh, yeah, bread too."

So we did. You've never seen a kid eat a baloney and cheese sandwich more carefully.

o

Another Year Without the Jets in the Super Bowl

2012-02-04T19:54:00.000-08:00

Yes, the Jets did win the Super Bowl. I was three.

Well, for the 43rd consecutive year, my beloved New York Jets are not playing on Super Sunday. That's right, in the entire forty-six year history of the Super Bowl, the Jets have made exactly ONE more appearance than the Edmonton Oilers who, in case you don't keep up on such things, play in the National Hockey League. The good news, of course, is that the Jets actually emerged victorious in their lone appearance, thanks to the magic of Joe Willie Namath combined with the complete ineptitude of the over-confident Baltimore Colts.

We'll take it, don't get me wrong.

Since it is virtually impossible for me to watch a sporting event as an impartial observer, I am, for the forty-third consecutive year, forced to select a non-Jets team to root for. Generally, there is a system I use to help me decide.

First, I will not ever root for the Raiders, Rams, Dolphins, Bills, Patriots, Jaguars, Panthers, Ravens, Browns, Steelers, or any team with a completely candy-ass quarterback (other than the Jets, of course). The reasons here are varied, but I view those teams as "the bad guys."

I will often cheer for a team if they have a player who I respect, both for their athletic talent and their perceived off-the-field demeanor. Peyton Manning, Drew Brees, Aaron Rodgers, and Warrick Dunn are examples.

There are also players I will never root for, no matter who they play for such as Ndamukong Suh, Chad Ochocinco, Terrell Owens and Brett Favre (again, except when he was a Jet).

Sissy.

Thankfully, this is one of the easy years, since the New England Patriots are playing. I absolutely despise the Patriots, every single thing about them. From their candy-ass quarterback to their 600-pound Sumo Lineman who hilariously has the word "fork" in his name, to their slovenly, hoodie-wearing, rule-breaking head coach, the Patriots are about as likeable as the Taliban. In fact, if New England was playing the Taliban in the Super Bowl, I would root for the Taliban.

Okay, that's not exactly true. I'd root for the Patriots to win, but for Tom Brady to blow out both knees in the process.

Vince Wilfork mistaking Jay Fiedler for a pizza.

Making my selection even simpler this year is the fact that the Pats are playing a team from New York. Sure, it's not the Jets, but I'll take a New York team over a Boston team any day of the week and twice on Super Bowl Sunday. Yankees-Red Sox, Rangers-Bruins, Knicks-Celtics, Syracuse-BU, doesn't matter. As I once heard 50,000 New Yorkers majestically chant, "Boston Sucks!"

Making this year even more fun is the fact that the Giants are most assuredly going to win the game. Sure, it might be somewhat close, but the New England defense couldn't stop traffic if they had fourteen spike-strips and a bazooka. And while the Patriot offense is somewhat formidable, they're depending quite a bit on an over-sized buffoon named Rob Grinkoflabowski (or something like that) who will be limited due to a boo-boo on hims widdle ankle.

Giants 38, Patsies 31. Write it down.

d

What Ever Happened To . . . Little Red Riding Hood?

2012-01-30T13:44:00.000-08:00

Jessica Hood was a child of the streets. They were dirt streets, since she lived in the forest, but these mean streets couldn't have been any meaner if they'd been located in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of New York City. From the time she was just a baby, Jessica lived on the periphery of the criminal underworld. Her father Robin was a local outlaw, burglarizing the homes of the upper class citizens in and around Nottingham County. Robin Hood claimed he was a benevolent crusader for the underprivileged, simply "robbing from the rich to give to the poor," but that didn't fly with his victims or the local sheriff. Mr. Hood was finally apprehended in 1983, convicted on 129 counts of burglary, and sentenced to death by hanging. The sentence was carried out publicly in early 1984.

But back to Jessica. Devastated by her father's death and unable to get along with her mother Marian who upon being widowed became a raging alcoholic and, to be honest, a bit of a whore, Jessica spent a lot of time at her grandmother's house. Most mornings, Jessica could be seen pedaling her bicycle through the woods toting a basket of goodies, sporting her trademark crimson bonnet and cape. This snappy outfit earned her the nickname "Little Red Riding Hood."

One morning in April of 1986, while en route to Granny's, Little Red Riding Hood was confronted by Oliver James Wolfe, or as he was known in law enforcement circles, The Big Bad Wolfe. Through an amazing zoological coincidence, Mr. Wolfe was in fact an actual wolf and as such, he approached the sprightly Miss Hood with bad intentions in his heart. Seeking at minimum to pilfer the girl's basket of goodies, which contained a dozen snickerdoodles, three cake donuts, a two-liter bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper and a strudel, Wolfe bared his teeth and snarled, "Hey, little girl, what's in the basket?"

To which young Jessica replied, "Ah, just some stuff for my grandmother. I'm in kind of a hurry, though, so if you'll get out of my way, maybe I'll bring you a few cookies if there are any left over, 'kay?"

Wolfe was somewhat taken aback by Jessica's cool demeanor in the face of his intimidation tactics (not to mention her offer of leftover snickerdoodles), so he mumbled something like, "Um, okay, sure. I'll be waiting over by the lake if you happen to come by later." Jessica smiled kindly and pedaled off to Granny's.

A short while later, while sitting by the lake skipping stones, Wolfe was struck with a "what the hell just happened here?" moment. Regaining his sense of entitlement and overwhelming thirst for the kill, he took off down the road and headed for the cottage of Darla Hood, former co-star of The Little Rascals [1] and Jessica Hood's grandmother.

Wolfe managed to arrive at Granny's before Jessica showed up, locked the old woman in the basement [2], threw on a nightgown and cap, and curled up in the bed. When Jessica arrived, she entered the bedroom and noticed a certain inconsistency in the eyes, ears, and teeth of what she was slowly beginning to realize was an impostor. A wolf in senior citizen's clothing, if you will.

Jessica managed to escape and contact the Nottingham County Sheriff who, after dragging his feet a bit when he found out the victim was related to his lifelong nemesis Robin Hood, arrested Wolfe on charges of trespassing and kidnapping. Oliver James Wolfe was convicted and served two years in county prison. [3]

In 2002, at the age of 23, Jessica Hood opened a bakery called "Hood's Goodies" and for a while, her business thrived. She was known for her business savvy and firm control over her employees. As she told Good Housekeeping magazine in 2003, "Quality control and customer service are essential in the goodie industry. Customers expect fresh, delicious baked goods served with a smile. Every one of my employees is expected to maintain a high standard of professionalism and if they don't, well, they won't last long. Just last year I had to fire the head of my pastry department for continually sticking his thumbs in the pies, if you can believe that. There's just no room for that kind of behavior at Hood's Goodies."

The employee in question, Mr. Jack Horner, could not be reached for comment.

Despite the popularity and financial success of Hood's Goodies, Jessica became the subject of controversy in 2005. On September 23 of that year, the five-year old Dumpty Quintuplets (Bumpty, Frumpty, Lumpty, Mumpty, and Phil) stopped by the bakery to grab a few cupcakes to snack on before school. Running low on supplies and behind schedule for a birthday cake order, the stressed-out Jessica cracked the five youngsters over the head, disemboweled them, and used their innards as ingredients in the cake batter. In a frenzy, Jessica beat them and whipped them and marked them with a B, and tossed them in the oven with no remorse whatsoever.

The distraught father of the quintuplets, who chooses to remain anonymous, released a statement through the family's attorney:

"My wife and I are devastated by the murder of our five children. What kind of a world do we live in, if kids can't go into a bakery without being scrambled to death? We're asking the citizens of Nottingham County to join us in the fight to protect children everywhere by making a donation to our foundation Five Good Eggs, which we've established in memory of our wonderful quintuplets."

Jessica "Red Riding" Hood was convicted of assault and bakery, and is currently serving a life sentence in Nottingham County Prison. She's occupying cell number B213 which, on a sentimental note, was daddy's old room.

[1] Okay, Darla Hood died in 1979 at the age of 47, which kills my timeline, but you must admit you didn't see that one coming.

[2] Some history books claim that Wolfe actually murdered and consumed Red Riding Hood's grandmother, but that account is pure fiction. As Wolfe would testify during the trial (Nottingham County. v. Wolfe, 1988) "I' ain't never ate a human in my life. Pigs, chickens, the occasional sheep? Hell yeah, that's the food chain and I ain't gonna apologize for it. But eat a human? Man, you gotta be kiddin' me."

[3] A few years after his release, Oliver James Wolfe was back in court facing civil charges of destruction of property (Winchester L. Pigg, et.al. v. Oliver James Wolfe, 1992). He lost, and was ordered to pay three million dollars in damages. Since then, he's turned over a new leaf and is on the straight and narrow. No one is afraid of him.

The Brady Mob

2012-01-23T15:42:00.000-08:00

Here's the story, of a man named ... Tony?

Throughout television history there've been many examples of model fathers. Some, like Andy Taylor and Ward Cleaver, were models of kindness and understanding while others, such as Homer Simpson and Al Bundy, would better serve as an example of parenting "strategies" you should avoid. Generally speaking, though, every TV dad was more or less a perfect match for his particular family. Sure, Al Bundy was an idiot, but so were his wife and kids. Ward Cleaver was a great father, and his family reflected that.

So whaddaya say we have a little fun here, and perform a parent transplant? What if we took one of our favorite TV families and replaced their father with the dad from a different show? I mean, how would the Brady kids have turned out if their father was, say, Tony Soprano?

Remember the episode of the Brady Bunch where a bully named Buddy Hinton picked on Cindy for talking with a lisp? "Baby talk, baby talk, it's a wonder you can walk," he'd say, sending poor Cindy home in tears. One afternoon, on their way home from Clinton Avenue Elementary School, Peter decided to stand up for his little sister, telling Buddy to knock it off. Buddy then said to Peter, "why don't you make me?" and ended up kicking Peter's ass. Peter and Cindy went home with their tails between their legs, and told their father what had happened. Being an unrealistically optimistic pacifist, Mike Brady tried to reason with Buddy's father, with no success.

But how would Tony Brady (formerly Soprano) have handled the situation?

THEME MUSIC:

Here's the story of a lovely lady
Who was bringing up three very lovely girls
All of them had hair of gold
Like their mother
The youngest one in curls.

Here's the story, of a man named Tony
Who was busy with three punks of his own
They were four thugs
Living all together
Yet they were all alone.

Till the one day when the lady met this goombah
And she knew he was the right guy for the job
So her girls were brought in to "the family"
That's the way that they became the Brady Mob.

The Brady Mob, the Brady Mob. That's the way they became the Brady Mob.

We pick up the scene in the Brady family room, with Peter and Cindy talking to their father.

TONY: Whoa, what the fuck happened to your face, Pete?

PETER: I got in a fight with Buddy Hinton.

TONY: A fight over what?

PETER: He was making fun of Cindy.

TONY: Is that right.

Never pick on a girl with mob connections, Buddy.

CINDY: Yeth, Daddy. He wath making fun of my lithp. He thaid I thound like a baby.

TONY: That's why I told your mother to take you to the fuckin' speech therapist. Haven't ya been going?

CINDY: Mommy thaid not to tell you we've been going to the mall inthtead of the thpeech clatheth. That would be tattling.

TONY: I'll deal wit' your mother later. So Peter, dis Hinton character, I might wanna have a word wit' his fuckin' father. You happen to know where he lives?

PETER: The Hintons live over on Sherwood Avenue, it's the blue house with the cobblestone driveway. I can show you if you want.

CINDY: Can I go too, Daddy? I want to thee you talk to Mithter Hinton.

TONY: No, Cindy, you better stay here wit' Alice. Let's go, Pete, we gotta stop by and pick up Silvio and Christopher and then we'll have a little chat wit' dat douchebag's old man.

Tony and Peter make a quick stop at Brady Bing, the strip club Tony owns and manages. Peter repeats the whole story to Tony's consiglieri Silvio Dante and lower-level associate Christopher Moltisanti. They drive over to the Hintons' place and Tony rings the doorbell.

MR. HINTON (opening the door): Who the hell are you greaseballs?

Mom always says, "Don't break balls in the house."

Silvio busts Mr. Hinton in the temple with the butt-end of his .44-caliber pistol, and then unleashes a knee to the stugots (that's mob talk for "nuts"). Hinton crumples to the ground, where Christopher and Sil proceed to kick him repeatedly in the ribs.

TONY: Get the fuck up, ya fuckin' fanook. Chris, Sil, help him out.

Christopher and Sil lift the semi-conscious Hinton to his feet and hold him upright.

TONY: Where's your kid?

HINTON: Humph?

TONY: Your son Buddy. Get him out here. He should see this.

HINTON (groaning): Buddy! Come down here for a minute!

Buddy hustles down the stairs.

BUDDY: What is it Da - aaaaah! What's going on?

TONY: Hi Buddy. So I hear youse been makin' fun of my little girl Cindy. Is that right?

BUDDY: NO! I NEVER SAID ANYTHING TO HER!

Tony pulls out his own pistol and fires a bullet into Mr. Hinton's thigh. Christopher punctuates this with an elbow to Hinton's mouth.

TONY (to Mr. Hinton, who is moaning in pain): You might wanna explain to your kid dat he should probably tell da truth in dis situation.

HINTON (pulling out what's left of his broken front teeth): Buthy . . . jutht tell Mither Brady duh trooth . . .

"I think I see a leg bone popping out!"

PETER: Gee, Mr. Hinton, you sure talk funny!

Christopher and Sil chuckle softly, and drop Mr. Hinton who curls up in a fetal position on the living room floor.

BUDDY: Okay, okay, I've been teasing Cindy, but I was only playing around. I didn't mean to hurt her feelings. I'll never do it again, I promise.

TONY: Whaddaya tink, Peter? Does Buddy sound like he's sorry? Or do you tink he might need a little more, how should we say dis, um, encouragement?

PETER: He's been doing it for a while, Dad, and remember he did punch me in the face.

TONY: Right, I almost forgot about dat. Christopher, go get da baseball bat from da trunk.

CHRISTOPHER: You got it, T.

Christopher exits, then returns a moment later wielding a 33-ounce Louisville Slugger, Derek Jeter model.

CHRISTOPHER: T, you're not gonna ask me to beat up a kid, are ya?

TONY: No, of course not. Give da bat to Peter.

Peter takes the bat and without a word, rams it knob-first into Buddy's mouth. Then, in one swift motion, he swings low, dislocating the younger Hinton's right knee. Buddy falls to the ground next to his father, crying.

BUDDY: I'm thorry! I'm thorry! I'm thorry!

PETER (to Buddy): Baby talk, baby talk, it'll be a while till you can walk. C'mon Dad, let's get the fuck outta here.

TONY: Dat's my boy.

Tony, Peter, Silvio, and Christopher leave the house, leaving Buddy and his dad lying on the floor bleeding.

We're not even going to discuss what would happen to Mike Brady if he had to take over the Soprano family. Somehow, I don't think his "family" would respond well to settling their disputes with calm, cool reasoning.

d

Is World Peace Really Necessary?

2012-01-16T12:19:00.000-08:00

Shakespeare once wrote, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." The Bard's philosophy has been put to the test recently by the Los Angeles Lakers' controversial forward Ron Artest. For reasons understood only by him, Ron has legally changed his name to Metta World Peace. Perhaps he did this to protect his self-esteem. I'd imagine it would be uncomfortable for 18,000 fans at the Boston Garden (or whatever they're calling it these days) to chant "World Peace Sucks! World Peace Sucks!" On the other hand, it might be interesting to hear his teammates support him by imploring coach Mike Brown to "give World Peace a chance."

Dennis "Tina Turner" Rodman

Mr. World Peace is hardly the first athlete to change his name. In many cases, the change has been made for religious reasons such as Lew Alcindor becoming Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Bobby Moore becoming Ahmad Rashad, and most famously, Tina Turner becoming Dennis Rodman.

Other guys have tried to be more whimsical about it. Middleweight boxer Marvin Hagler went to court to fight for the right to be called "Marvelous" Marvin Hagler. NFL wide receiver Chad Johnson ridiculously took on his uniform number as his last name, converting to Chad Ochocinco. The fact that he erroneously translated "eighty-five" into Spanish did not dissuade him one bit. This of course makes me wonder if there's some Portuguese soccer player running around with the name Juan Carlos Fourseven.

Artest isn't even the first NBA player to try to spread a political message on his drivers' license. Back in 1981, Lloyd Free changed his name to World B. Free.

Clever, huh? He didn't even have to do anything with his last name.

Here's my problem.

Ron Artest is just about the last guy on the planet (certainly in the NBA) to take up the mantle for world peace. If Gandhi chose to go by Mahatma World Peace, sure, I think we could all buy that. Even John Lennon would've had a bit of credibility if he recorded Imagine under the name John World Peace.

But Ron Artest? As I'm about to explain, Artest calling himself Metta World Peace is a lot like Charlie Sheen calling himself Drug Free McSoberman.

"All we are saying . . . "

As you may recall, in 2004, Artest was the central figure in one of the ugliest displays of unsportsmanlike conduct and mayhem the sports world has ever seen, an incident that has affectionately come to be known as "Malice at the Palace." Late in a game that was already well out-of-hand, Artest -- then with the Indiana Pacers -- committed an egregiously flagrant foul against Detroit Pistons' Ben Wallace (not exactly Mr. Softie himself). Mr. Wallace took exception to this and politely expressed his displeasure by violently shoving Artest. Predictably, fights broke out, a melee ensued, and eventually Artest decided to take a break and lay down on the scorer's table. The Detroit fans, somewhat irked at Artest's behavior, began throwing various concession-related items onto the court and at one point Artest was pelted with a half-full (or half-empty, depending on one's perspective) cup of soda. Some witnesses say it was Diet Coke, others claim it was Dr. Pepper. Artest, none too pleased with his new-found fizzy beverage predicament, charged into the stands and confronted the man he incorrectly believed was responsible. This, of course, inspired the surrounding fans to go -- and here I use the clinical psychiatric term -- totally friggin' berzerk. Regaining his senses (to a point), Artest returned to the now-chaotic basketball court where he was called a rude name by yet another pissed-off Piston fan. As you'd expect by now, Artest punched the guy in the face. As a result of his actions, Ron Artest was suspended for the remainder of the NBA season, including playoffs. This is still the longest suspension for an on-court incident in NBA history.

But wait, there's more.

In 2007, Artest -- who had moved on to the Sacramento Kings -- was involved in a domestic incident and was charged with corporal injury to a spouse, battery, false imprisonment and dissuading a witness from reporting a crime, all misdemeanors. He pleaded no contest.

While researching this piece, I spoke with at least three individuals who asked, "Hey, isn't Artest the guy who choked out his coach a few years back?" Actually, that was Latrell Sprewell (who has since changed his name to Butterfly Placid Tranquility), but the fact that three separate people connected Artest's name with the choking incident tells you all you need to know about the guy's reputation.

Doesn't exactly scream "World Peace," does it?

And here's another thing. There are a lot of completely normal and even, dare I say, admirable ways to support meaningful causes. Bumper stickers, for example. I don't see why Ron couldn't have just slapped a WORK FOR WORLD PEACE sticker on the back of his Lamborghini. Start a foundation, build a website, write a weekly column for War Haters Illustrated, whatever. No need to get all "I think I'll give myself a stupid name" about it. After all, Bob Barker has done a lot of great things in the arena of animal rights activism, but he never once asked to be called Puppy Spay Chihuahua.

As a Laker fan, I would like to suggest that Mr. World Peace spend less time worrying about his name and a bit more time on other issues.

Like his jump shot.

To view the video of "Malice at the Palace," click here.

d

Woodchuckery

2012-01-09T15:00:00.001-08:00

Apparently this is the kind of story one writes when one is sleep-deprived.

Just last week, I was taking a stroll in the park when I stumbled upon a grumpy woodchuck. When I say "stumbled upon," I don't mean that I noticed him sitting by a tree, or we crossed paths in front of the flower garden. I mean that I literally stumbled over him as he was plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Hey, watch where you're going, dumbass," he said. Like I said, grumpy.

"Oh, sorry," I replied. "Didn't see you there. You're a woodchuck, right?"

"No, I'm a friggin' water buffalo. Yes, I'm a woodchuck. Name's Carl."

"Hi Carl. I'm Chris."

"I don't give a shit."

"Can I ask you a question, Carl?"

"Would it matter if I said no you can't?"

"Probably not. Don't know if you know this, but we humans have always wondered something about you guys."

"No kidding. What's that? What we taste like if we're barbecued and slathered in A-1 sauce?"

"Uh, no. Actually, we'd like to know how much wood you could chuck. I mean, if you could chuck wood. What's the story?"

"You can't be serious. You're the most advanced species on the entire friggin' planet, and that's the sort of shit you spend time thinking about?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Pathetic. But I'll see what I can do. First, I guess it all depends what you mean by 'chuck,' man. Do you mean 'to toss or throw with a quick motion,' 'pat or tap lightly, as in under the chin,' or to eject from a public place, like, 'Sully was being such an obnoxious asshole that he got chucked from Fenway Park without receiving a refund?'"

I thought about that for a minute. This guy sure had a keen grasp of the English language, not to mention Bostonians. After determining that wood would not attend Red Sox games at Fenway, nor did it have a chin to lightly tap, I said, "Throw with a quick motion. How much wood do you think you could throw?"

"What kind of wood? I'm sure that I could chuck pine farther than say, mahogany." I could tell Carl was warming up to this.

"Pine."

"How big a piece?"

"Twelve inch lengths of two-by-four."

"What's the time frame? Are we asking how much wood could I chuck in ten minutes? An hour? Or how much could I chuck until I simply collapse from exhaustion?"

"Let's say fifteen minutes."

Carl said, "Well, I guess there's only one way to find out, man. Let's go get some wood!"

I helped my new rodent-like buddy into the bed of my Ford F-150 and we took a quick trip to Home Depot. I bought 500 foot-long cuts of two-by-four and loaded them in the truck. Carl rode shotgun as we headed back to the park. Along the way we hit a McDonald's drive thru and I quickly found out how many fries a woodchuck could eat if a woodchuck could eat fries. Answer: a lot.

We got back to the park where I unloaded the wood with no help whatsoever from Carl, who sat in the shade polishing off the last of his strawberry shake. When I had all the two-by-fours arranged in a neat pile, I told him that it was showtime. He did a few quick stretching exercises, picked up a piece of wood, and chucked it.

"Shit, Carl! What the hell?" He'd hit me right in the forehead.

"Sorry, man," he said, giggling. "My bad."

He didn't look sorry.

"All right, let's do this," I said. "You've got fifteen minutes, time to start chucking."

In a maelstrom of woodchuck fur and lumber, Carl sent the two-by-fours flying all over the park. A Boy Scout on a Razor scooter took one off the left hip. Another landed at the feet of a stray German shepherd, who picked it up in his mouth and bolted. Several more boards ended up in the fountain, scattering a flock of pigeons who were mostly minding their own business. Fifteen minutes later, it was all over.

"TIME!" I called.

As I counted the two-by-fours that remained on the original stack, Carl walked over to the lake, took a quick drink, scratched his personal area and crapped on the grass.

"Okay, Carl," I said, "we have the results. There are 218 boards left, which means that you successfully chucked 282. Not bad!"

"Whatever. Now piss off, would ya?"

And with that, Carl and I parted ways. But I'd learned two things that day. First, a woodchuck would chuck 18.8 twelve-inch lengths of two-by-four per minute, if a woodchuck could chuck wood. And I learned that Carl the Woodchuck is a furry little asshole.

Now where can I find that damn owl with the Tootsie Pop?

My New Year's Unresolutions

2012-01-03T16:16:00.000-08:00

So here we are in the future. It's 2012 which, according to fifty years' worth of science fiction movies, means we should all be piloting flying saucers, zipping around in jet packs, and spending our summers relaxing on the beaches of Mars. Do you realize that we're only three short years away from 2015, which was the "future" in Back to the Future, Part II?

Scary, isn't it?

As we turn the calendar page yet again, most folks cheerfully delude themselves into thinking this year's going to be different and make all sorts of resolutions designed to make them happier, or to make them better people. This year, I'm going to stick to a diet. This year, I'm going to get regular checkups and take care of myself. This year, I'm going to quit smoking. Normally these resolutions last until somewhere around Martin Luther King Day, and then it's back to business as usual.

So this year, I'm going to do something different. Realizing that I'm probably not going to take any drastic steps to improve myself, instead I'm going to make a list of New Year's Unresolutions -- things that I will strive to NOT do in 2012.

We'll start with an easy one. I will not, under any circumstances, hit Betty White in the face with a water balloon. My chances of even running into Ms. White are very slim, since I don't think we frequent the same establishments. I spend very little time in Hollywood, she (apparently) doesn't hang out at Buffalo Wild Wings. And on the off-chance I do bump into her, I most likely won't be carrying a water balloon. I'm pretty confident I'll be able to stick to this unresolution.

In the coming year I will also not shove habanera peppers up my nose and whistle the second movement of Mozart's Symphony #29. Easy enough, because I do not know Mozart's 29th symphony, and I cannot whistle.

During 2012, I will not cheer for the Boston Red Sox. By way of comparison, this is even less likely than my shoving peppers up my nose and whistling Mozart while chucking water balloons at Betty White. Not gonna happen.

I will not sit on Oprah Winfrey's shoulders as she runs the New York City Marathon. I placed a call to her agent, who explained to me that Ms. Winfrey will not be participating in this year's event. Also, I'm working that week.

I will not walk up to Will Ferrell and scream in his face, "YOU ARE AN UNTALENTED, VULGAR BUFFOON AND YOUR MOVIES SUCK!" I will instead send it to him in an e-mail.

Furthermore, I won't mow the lawn of the White House while wearing a rainbow wig and a Speedo. I think our nation's leaders will thank me for this.

I won't write blog posts while under the influence of pretty strong pain medication I received from my doctor. After this one, I mean.

And I will try not to be too disappointed that I do not yet own a flying car. After all, according to Doc Brown, that's not due to happen for a few years yet.

d

The Year Without Orange Danish

2011-12-26T21:15:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, like most kids, I looked forward to Christmas morning with all the wide-eyed anticipation of a hungry lion stalking out a semi-arthritic gazelle as it hobbled its way across the Serengeti. My brothers and I simply couldn't wait to jump out of bed at the crack of dark, bug our parents until they woke up, and storm downstairs to open our gifts.

We were just like every other kid in the world, is what I'm saying.

Kids who celebrate Christmas, that is.

And like most families, we had a few time-honored traditions that made the holiday season even more special. For example, after opening our presents and enjoying them for at least a couple hours, Mom and Dad would take us across town to our grandma's house where the routine would start all over again. Another round of spectacular games and toys -- and one Foot Fixer by Clairol, on that Christmas That Will Live in Infamy -- followed by a nice dinner of turkey or ham with all the trimmings. Most Christmases, we would then head down to Florida for a week or so to visit my mom's family.

In addition to these fine traditions, there has always been one other small-but-significant detail that has made every Christmas complete. I am of course referring to the Pillsbury Orange Sweet Rolls.

For as long as I can remember, Mom would diligently prepare a pan of those scrumptious danish with the orange frosting, and we'd munch away as we opened our presents. It just wasn't Christmas without them. In fact, for the past several years, my wife Theresa has whipped up a batch for us to enjoy on Christmas morning, before heading down to my parents' house.

Pillsbury Orange Sweet Rolls are to Christmas morning what turkey is to Thanksgiving, trick-or-treating is to Halloween, and getting totally rip-roaring drunk is to New Years' Eve. The orange-flavored icing on the cake, so to speak.

Until this year.

Before I continue with the story, I have to share with you my mother's opinion that in many of my stories, I tend to make her look like "the bad guy," that I'm unfairly harsh in my retelling of events. Personally, I call this "responsible and accurate reporting," but in the interest of fairness, I thought it best if I make you aware of an opposing viewpoint. Of course, this "opposing viewpoint" is held by a grown woman who would, on more than one occasion, chase her pre-adolescent sons down the upstairs hallway, wielding a stretch of plastic track from a Hot Wheels set yelling, "Come back here right this minute, or you're getting this across your butt!"

So I leave it to you to judge her credibility as we proceed.

Since our kids are older and therefore do not pounce on us anymore, Theresa and I woke up this Christmas morning at around ten o'clock. At least that's when I woke up. Theresa was already up and around at this point, so to be honest, she could've risen at dawn for all I know. Since we had planned on heading to my parents' at noon, there was no urgent need for breakfast. Theresa hadn't prepared the orange danish, but I didn't figure this would be a problem since my mother was sure to have taken care of it.

Little did I know.

So we arrived at my folks' where Mom was busily preparing dinner for the houseload of people that would arrive shortly. Turkey, ham, three different kinds of stuffing, various pies, almost everything one could hope for on Christmas day.

Almost.

I do not mean to sound ungrateful here, but somehow my mother had forgotten all about the traditional Pillsbury orange danish. To make matters worse, if that is even possible, when I politely brought this egregious oversight to her attention, she didn't seem to know what I was talking about.

"What do you mean, where are the orange danish?" she asked.

"You know, the Pillsbury orange danish that we've had every single Christmas since I was a little kid."

She seemed incredulous. I guess overwhelming pangs of guilt can cause one to feign surprise. "I haven't made those in years."

"You're joking, right? Where are they?"

"Chris, why would I make orange danish?"

"Why WOULDN'T you?"

We went back and forth like that for several minutes, so to bolster my argument (which really shouldn't have been necessary when you stop to think about it) I turned to my brother Eric and asked, "You remember the orange danish don't you? That we have every year?"

I guess he didn't want to hurt Mom's feelings or something, because he said, "I remember having them, but not that it was some kind of tradition."

Unbelievable.

So then I asked our other brother Bobby. His reply?

"I don't know what you're talking about."

At this point I must have been carrying on a bit, maybe acting like a baby about all this, because Theresa said, "You know, you're acting like a baby about all this."

Easy for her to say. She hadn't been looking forward to orange danish for 364 days.

Aside from that (which is sort of like the old question "Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"), our Christmas was very nice and dinner was outstanding. Mom did a wonderful job as always, which is why we all love her so much. One of the reasons, anyway.

But next year, Mom?

Don't forget the danish, please.

d

Dumbed-Down Classics: Of Mice and Men

2011-12-19T06:36:00.000-08:00

According to a recent study which I am just now making up, 83% of American high school seniors are reading at the sixth grade level or below. Therefore it's not surprising that when asked to name a few great works of literature, today's teens typically give responses such as "Wikipedia," "Twilight," and "What the hell is literature?"

Not to worry, I'm here to help.

In an effort to make classic novels accessible to a new generation of whacked-out, Facebook-addicted nimrods, I'm taking it upon myself to translate them (the novels) into language that is easily understood by everyone, even your teenage daughter who thinks "OMG U R SO STOOPID LOL" is a complete sentence.

So here we go. We'll start off with one of my favorites.

THE DUMBED-DOWN LITERATURE SERIES PRESENTS:
John Steinbeck's OF MICE AND MEN

Here's a tale of two men, who set out on their own
To earn honest wages, and perhaps find a home.
George was the smart one, stern but kind-hearted
His pal Lennie was, to be blunt, retarded.

Lennie was enormous, but wouldn't hurt a fly
At least not on purpose, as we'll learn by and by.
For a mouse he could pet, that's all he was wishin'
But what Lennie calls "pettin'" most people call "squishin'"

When he made George mad, to make light of the fuss
Lennie would beg, "Tell about guys like us."
It was a ritual they had, a mantra, you'd say
And they had to run through it almost every day.

"Other guys," George began, "ain't got no one else,
The things that they do, they gotta do by their self.
But not us, because we both got each other
We walk side by side, we're loyal like brothers."

"Go on," Lennie pleaded, "tell about our own place,"
And he listened to George with a smile on his face.
"We'll have our own house," at least so they'd planned,
"And we'll work hard and live off the fat of the land."

"We'll sell off our crops, and we'll share all the money,"
Then Lennie burst out, "Tell me about the bunnies!"
George let out a sigh, as became force of habit
"Yes, Lennie," he said, "you'll tend to the rabbits."

But to make this dream real, they'd have to build up a stash
Not drugs, you dumb asshole, it means save up cash.
They were hired as farmhands, and they labored each day
Feeding the livestock and baling the hay.

"Aloha, Mr. Spicoli."

They met many ranchers, tough guys with grit
Who had western-type names like Slim and like Whit.
A stablebuck Crooks, and Candy the oldie.
In the movie, the same guy who taught Jeff Spicoli.

The villain of the story is a punkass named Curley
The son of the boss, he was hostile and surly.
Simply put, he was a prick that nobody could stand,
But they put up with his crap so they didn't get canned.

Curley's wife, let me tell you, she was quite a hottie
She didn't mind showing off her sensational body.
Making passes at Carlson, flirting with Whit,
Yeah, the bitch had a knack for stirring up shit.

One day after lunch, Curley seemed even meaner,
He'd misplaced his wife, asked if anyone seen her.
Which, for some reason, Lennie thought was quite funny
And Curley got pissed, "What you laughin' at, dummy?"

He swung at the big guy, whacked him right in the chops,
And Lennie cried out, "George, please make him stop!"
When Curley saw that Lennie wasn't going to fight,
He tagged him again with a left and a right.

George then decided it was one punch too many,
And turned his pal loose yelling, "Go get 'im, Lennie!"
The next punch, Lennie caught in the palm of his hand,
And he crushed Curley's fist, ground his bones into sand.

Blood spurted everywhere, it was really quite gory,
To save Lennie's job, they came up with a story.
The farmhands discussed it, and all that they'd seen
Was Curley getting his hand caught in a machine.

With things back to normal, George continued to plan
For the day when they'd live "off the fat of the land."
Candy overheard and asked, "Is that really true?
I've got some spare cash if you'll let me come too."

George worked the numbers, and much to his delight,
He realized it could work, you know, it just might!
So the three men worked together and saved up more money,
And assured Lennie that he could still tend the bunnies.

But just when their dream was there to be had
Lennie screwed it all up, and he screwed it up bad.
See, Carlson gave Lennie a pup to take care of
A mistake, of course, he should've been quite aware of.

As I said once before, Lennie liked to pet things
But because he was "slow" he would tend to forget things.
Like when you grab puppies to stop them from yapping
If you grab them too hard, it's their neck you'll be snapping.

So he killed the poor puppy, and he knew it was trouble,
But when Curley's wife wandered in, well, the trouble was double.
She sat down next to Lennie, in the barn where it's dirty
And Lennie said, "Gee, ma'am, you hair sure smells purty."

Curley's wife let him touch it, which wasn't real bright,
And before very long, she was shaking with fright.
Lennie, as usual, started getting too rough
When the woman cried out, Lennie said, "That's enough!"

"You gotta be quiet, please lady, don't yell,
If George hears you hollerin' he'll come give me hell."
But she kept right on screaming, the terror had filled her,
And before Lennie knew it, it seemed that he'd killed her.

He knew that he'd done it, dog gone and dag-nabbit.
There was no way in hell he'd be tending them rabbits.
So he hid by the river, waited there for his friend
He knew that ol' George would come save him again.

Back at the barn, Candy got the shock of his life
As he was the one who found Curley's dead wife.
He went and got George, and the two men felt sick
They knew Lennie'd hang for this, and it wouldn't be quick.

George made up his mind that he'd find Lennie first
And make sure that bad didn't end up as worst.
So he went to the river, where he knew Lennie'd be
And he found his friend crying, sitting under a tree.

"You gonna give me hell?" he asked softly, while wiping a tear.
"No," said George, "We'll just sit quietly here."
"Tell me again," Lennie said, "About the fat of the land,"
And George stood behind him, with trembling hands.

"Some guys got no one gives a hoot in hell about 'em
In fact, the world might be better without 'em.
But not us, that's not how our life will be
Because I got you, and because you got me.

One day we'll have a place of our own
A farm, and some livestock, and even a home.
It's right out there, Lennie, just reach out and grab it."
And Lennie called out, "I get to tend the rabbits!"

Just then George heard Curley's mob coming to get 'em.
But no way in hell was he going to let 'em.
They'd torture poor Lennie, beat him till he was dead,
So George took out a gun and he shot him instead.

d

Crumbling Economy Forces Santa to Downsize

2011-12-14T17:30:00.000-08:00

In breaking news from the North Pole, Kris Kringle has announced that beginning in January 2012 his company, Santa Claus Enterprises, will be implementing massive budget cuts to deal with the current global economic crisis.

"This has been coming for some time now," Kringle told reporters at a recent press conference. "We've always been a non-profit organization, but unless we make drastic changes, we'll no longer be able to provide children with the service they've come to expect."

The biggest change will be the discontinuing of Christmas Eve delivery of presents and goodies. This will allow Santa to sell his Icemaster Turbo SL-500 Sleigh and also terminate the employment contracts of his reindeer staff.

"This was a tough decision," said Kringle. "But the reality is, no one is allowed to see me making the deliveries anyway, so if we just ship gifts all around the planet, the impact on our customers will be minimal. FedEx has agreed to give us a substantial discount on shipping costs, so when you balance that against the expense of sleigh maintenance and the housing, feeding, and upkeep of our reindeer, we'll come out ahead."

When asked what will become of Santa's legendary sleigh, Kringle replied, "We're putting it up for auction right after the holidays. The Icemaster is a one-of-a-kind vehicle, equipped for both land and air travel. The ultra-super-sonic engines allow it to cruise at Mach 7, and its stealth mode feature renders it invisible to enemy radar. Slap a few missile launchers and a bomb bay on that sucker and it will undoubtedly become the linchpin of some lucky nation's air force. We're starting the bidding at fifty million dollars."

The revelation that the sleigh is powered by engines, not reindeer, came as a shock to members of the media. When asked to explain, Santa said, "The reindeer are purely cosmetic, used mainly to support our company's image. What magic would there be in Santa Claus soaring through the sky in a supersonic sleigh? No, Donner, Comet, Vixen and the crew are simply along for the ride."

Santa's elves have not escaped the proverbial head-rolling either. Currently, Santa Claus Enterprises maintains a staff of over five thousand "vertically challenged" employees who work year-round to build toys for children all over the world. However, with today's kids becoming more and more sophisticated, the demand for generic, hand-made gifts has decreased to practically nil.

"Look, what kid wants an airplane carved out of wood or a skillfully-crafted red wagon when they can have a laptop computer or an iPad?" said Santa. "We're going to keep five hundred or so elves to work in our I.T. department, where they'll be ordering products from Nintendo, Sony, Apple, and other manufacturers for us to send off to the good boys and girls. Everyone else is being let go. Even at minimum wage, the savings will be significant."

Santa went on to say that he was going to have to make some changes in his own day-to-day activities as CEO. "I'm still going to be making a list, but now I'll only be checking it once. I figure, if one or two naughty kids slip through the cracks, it's not that big of a deal. And no more 'seeing you when you're sleeping.' I've got better things to do, if you want to know the truth."

Kringle and Salaben, in happier times.

Badhron Salaben, shop steward for the International Federation of Elves (Local 241), did not share Kringle's enthusiasm about the diminished work force.

"This is total frickin' elk dung," said Salaben. "Laying off ninety percent of your entire manufacturing staff is just insane. Most of these guys have been working at the North Pole since they were teenagers. Their fathers were toy-makers, their grandfathers were toy-makers . . . it's a legacy around here. And now Kringle is just gonna put forty-five hundred elves out in the cold? It's not like there are a lot of other employment opportunities for them up here above the Arctic frickin' Circle. You ever see a homeless elf? Break your heart, man."

The Global Reindeer Association (GRA) had no such concerns about their laid-off members.

"Not a problem at all," said Dasher. "It's not like the fat tub of figgy pudding ever paid us anyway. He kept us locked in a stable all year, feeding us hay and oats. Like we were HORSES or something! Firing us? More like liberating us, if you ask me."

Asked if the timing of Kringle's announcement might negatively impact the upcoming Christmas, Dasher replied, "Nah, fat boy timed it perfectly. The elves can't do squat because the toys are already packed up in the warehouse, and we reindeer are just decoration to begin with. What are we gonna do, strike?"

Comet, though, has other ideas. "Oh, it's gonna have an impact, all right. Starting a week or so ago, I've had a couple disgruntled elves bring me nothing but burritos and prune juice for every meal. Come Christmas Eve, I'm gonna be packed to the antlers with turd bombs. Let's just say I'm gonna make an impact on most of North America."

In related news, the Wall Street Journal reports that stock in Santa Claus Enterprises (SNTA) has dropped 35% in the wake of recent events, trading at $28.03 per share at the close of business on December 14.

d

Jesus X

2011-12-08T10:27:00.000-08:00

You want to tick off a bunch of people this Christmas season? Of course, who doesn't? All you have to do is send out your Christmas cards with the message, "Wishing you and yours a very Merry X-mas." Most of your friends and family probably won't say a word about it, at least not to your face, but certainly a couple hyper-sensitive folks with nothing better to do will take exception to the "X-mas" part.

The assumption is, when you use "X-mas," you're "taking Christ out of Christmas," and by doing so you expose yourself as a pagan nimrod, destined to spend eternity burning to a crisp in the company of Satan, Osama bin Laden, Adolf Hitler, and whoever invented beat-boxing. How dare you "cross out Jesus's name" from the holiday where we celebrate his birth?

I did some research (believe it or not) to determine when this illicit yuletide abbreviation was introduced. Turns out that in Greek, X is the first letter in the word "Christ," and was used as early as the 1600's to abbreviate words like Xian (Christian), Xianity (Christianity), and Xanthemum (Chrysanthemum). It wasn't done out of disrespect, it was done because when your only writing instruments are chisels, or perhaps the Gutenberg Printing Press (invented by Johannes Gutenberg, the great-great-great-great grandfather of Police Academy star Steve Guttenberg), you want to shorten as many words as possible.

So basically, referring to Christmas as "X-mas" is just like calling Alex Rodriguez "A-rod." Not that I'm comparing the Yankee third baseman to the yuletide season, but you have to admit, there are some similarities. For example, they're both good for one month of excitement per year, neither one shows up in October, and when all is said and done, you have to admit you spent way too much money. Also, X-mas features artificial trees, A-rod displays artificial muscles.

But I digress.

I realize, of course, that certain devout types will still object to "X-mas," so in an effort to bring peace and joy to all mankind (and womankind, back off ladies), I am offering a solution. A way to "level the playing field," if you will.

We're going to start replacing the letter X with the word "Christ" wherever it makes sense to do so. For example, the game Tic-Tac-Toe will require one person to be "O's" and his opponent to be "Christs." Sure, they'll be harder to draw, but we're talking about equality not convenience.

Other changes:

When burying treasure, pirates will "mark the spot" with a Christ.

Hospitals' radiology departments will stock up on Christ-ray machines.

David Duchovny will star in the next Christ-Files movie.

Wolverine and his buddies will be known as the Christ-Men.

Women will spend weekend after weekend searching for a hot guy with the Christ-factor.[1]

And of course, the 1960's civil rights leader will henceforth be referred to as Malcolm Christ. I'm sure that won't cause a ruckus, right?

Now if you'll Christ-cuse me, I'm off to do some X-mas shopping.

[1] Thanks to Olivia for this one.

A Gift from Grandma

2011-12-06T11:32:00.001-08:00

When we were young, my brother Eric was our family's Eeyore -- pessimistic, rather gloomy. Experience taught him early on that if something bad was going to happen, it was going to happen to him. Most of the time it wasn't even his fault, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, fall victim to a misunderstanding, or suffer some other stroke of random misfortune like putting his arm through a window or sliding down a wooden bench and getting a foot long splinter embedded in his thigh.

One Saturday afternoon when I was thirteen and Eric was nine, our dad came home with two bikes that were given to him by a friend whose kids had outgrown them. One was a sleek metallic blue five-speed with a banana seat and hand brakes, the other was a small turtle-shit green K-mart model with coaster brakes and a basket on the handlebars. In retrospect, Dad should've decided beforehand which of us was going to get which bike. Maybe he was hoping it would work out naturally, but whatever the case, Dad committed one of the Cardinal Sins of Fatherhood -- he asked both of us which bike we wanted. The result was not a surprise.

"I want the blue one," I said.

"No, I want the blue one," said Eric.

After several minutes of arguing back and forth, firing phrases like "I'm older, I should get it," and "No fair, you always get your way," at each other, Dad decided to flip a coin.

"Chris, you call it," he said.

"Why doe HE get to call it?" asked Eric.

"Fine, you call it then," I said.

"Heads," said Eric.

Dad tossed the coin, caught it, and flipped it over on the back of his hand.

"It's tails. Chris, you get to pick your bike."

I'd like to say that I took this golden opportunity to be the bigger person, to set aside my own selfish desires and accept the turtle-shit green K-Mart clunker so my little brother could have the bike of his dreams, to be a thoughtful and caring big brother who Eric would look up to for the rest of his life.

But I think we all know what really happened.

"I'll take the blue one."

Eric, predictably, pitched a hissy fit and ran upstairs to our bedroom. I felt guilty for about eight seconds, then I hopped on my bike and rode to my friend Paul's house, shifting gears the whole way.

A similar incident had occurred a few years prior only instead of bicycles, the subject was Halloween costumes. Most years, our Aunt Patti took me, Eric, and our youngest brother Bobby to FAO Schwarz in New York to pick out really cool outfits to wear for Trick or Treat. One year I was an astronaut, another time Eric was a snazzy-looking Canadian Mountie, and Bobby spent Halloween 1975 gathering Tootsie Pops and Milky Ways decked out as a four-foot tall Spiderman.

One year, though, all we had to choose from were the family's Costumes of Halloweens Past, those that were recycled year to year and passed along as hand-me-downs. Bobby was a tiger, I was Batman, and Eric was a clown.

Eric, however, had absolutely no interest in being a clown. He griped, he grumbled, he pouted. To this day, no one is sure why he was so against the idea, but it may have had something to do with the time we were all kidnapped by Giggles McYukyuk at one of our mom's Cub Scout leaders' meetings.

It gets worse.

Not only did Eric have to don the clown suit, Mom insisted on stuffing the front of the costume with balloons so he resembled one of those inflatable punching bags. As a result, Eric is the only child in Halloween history to sulk his way through Trick or Treating.

It also led to the most hilarious picture in our family's scrapbook:

So yeah, Eric always seemed to be the one getting the bum deal, which makes what happened on Christmas 1979 all the more pitiful.

Every Christmas, we'd wake up at the crack of dawn, roust our parents out of bed and storm downstairs to unwrap our presents. Once the gifts were opened, Mom would whip up a batch of Pillsbury orange danish and we'd spend the rest of the morning playing with our new toys. In the early afternoon, we'd drive across town to our grandmother's house for round two.

Traditionally, Grandma would give us each a stocking full of candy and small toys, a couple mid-level gifts (clothes were the most common in this category), and finally, our one "big" present. Grandma had a fairly close relationship with Santa Claus, so we always knew that the main gift was going to be something really cool. One year I got a complete set of barbells, another time it was a guitar, and when I got a bit older, I received a top-of-the-line Texas Instruments digital watch.

The 70's were a much simpler time.

So anyway, on the Christmas That Will Live in Infamy, we'd plowed through the preliminary presents and were ready for the main event. Family policy required us to open our presents one at a time, so we all got to see what the others had received. Also, it made the process last longer than twelve seconds.

"Okay, who wants to open their big gift first?" asked Dad, clearly forgetting about the bicycle incident of a year earlier.

"I do!" said Bobby.

"Me!" I shouted.

"Here we go again," muttered Eric.

Since there were three of us involved in this decision coin-flipping wasn't an option, so Dad wrote down the numbers 1, 2, and 3 on slips of paper and put them into a bowl. Eric drew first and pulled out the number 3.

"What a surprise, I'm last," he said.

Bobby had drawn the number 1, so he retrieved his gift from under the tree and ripped off the red and gold wrapping paper.

"Cool! A Johnny Lightning racing set! Thanks, Grandma!" He reluctantly set the box aside so he could watch me unwrap my present.

Mine was wrapped in green paper with snowmen all over it. I tore it open, to reveal the gift I'd been asking for since August.

"An Atari video game set with five game cartridges!" I said. "Pacman, Adventure, Kaboom, bowling, and Tank Battle! This is great, thanks, Grandma!"

By this point, Eric was practically bursting with anticipation. Seeing Bobby and me hit the jackpot with the Hot Wheels and Atari, he just knew his present was going to be something spectacular. Taking his time, he removed the silver paper from the box, revealing his special gift. It was exactly what he'd asked for . . .

A few months earlier, Eric and Mom were watching television when a commercial came on advertising an innovative new product. It was an item that Eric did indeed have a particular need for, even if it wasn't something most ten year olds would have any interest in. As kind of a joke, he said to Mom, "Hey, look at that, maybe Santa can bring me one of those for Christmas." Mom, however, didn't realize he was kidding, so she passed this information along to Grandma who went out and bought Eric the gift he was now looking at with a puzzled and somewhat somber expression on his face.

The Foot Fixer, by Clairol.

Think about this for a minute. Here's a ten-year-old kid who's just seen his brothers open a brand-new video game system and a racing set where you can actually juice up the cars and they rip around the track on their own. It's Christmas, the highlight of every kid's year, and what does he have to show for it?

A frickin' Foot Fixer.

All things considered, the kid handled it pretty damn well. He didn't burst into tears, he didn't throw the thing across the living room, he didn't look at Grandma and ask, "What the hell is THIS?" He just let out a pathetic sigh and said, "A Foot Fixer. Thanks, Grandma."

He wanted to cry, though, you could tell.

Here's the rest of the story.

Eric had flat feet. He was always quick to point this out, and he often used it as an excuse to get out of doing household chores, kind of like a ten-year-old on disability.

"Eric, it's your turn to bring in the trash cans."

"I can't, my feet hurt. I have flat feet, you know."

"Eric, it's time to set the dinner table."

"My feet hurt, I'll do it later. I have flat feet, you know."

Truthfully, he did suffer through bouts with foot pain from time to time, especially at night while trying to get to sleep. So when he and Mom saw the Foot Fixer commercial on TV, he thought it might be something that would help.

But not as his Christmas present.

The real victim here, though, is our grandmother. She genuinely believed that Eric wanted The Foot Fixer, and once she realized how disappointed the poor kid was, that it was all a big mistake, she felt terrible. I don't recall what happened in the aftermath, but I'm sure it involved taking Eric to Toys R Us and letting him pick out whatever he wanted.

But to be honest about it, The Foot Fixer wasn't a total loss. If you filled it up with water and plugged it in, the resulting vibrations caused a tsunami that was great for capsizing our toy battleships.

Note: In no way is Grandma at fault for this. She was absolutely the kindest, most thoughtful, and most wonderful human being to ever grace the planet. Her role in the Foot Fixer Incident of 1979 was simply to provide her grandsons with whatever they asked for. The misunderstanding was absolutely not on her. No, the blame lies somewhere else entirely.

I'm looking at YOU, Mom.

What Ever Happened To . . . Schroeder?

2011-11-12T14:02:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers:

Time is short right now, and I haven't been as attentive to Blogland as I have been in the past. So, until things slow down a bit, enjoy this re-run of one of my favorites.

In his childhood circle of friends, Schroeder was "the quiet one". Never caused any trouble, didn't want to be the center of attention, he preferred to spend his time practicing the piano and listening to his beloved Beethoven. His only pet peeve was a girl named Lucy Van Pelt, whose unwanted attention and infatuation with Schroeder drove him to distraction.

Lucy's affection blossomed into full-fledged stalking by the time they got to high school, and during his junior year, Schroeder and his parents were forced to file a restraining order against her. That was also the year that Schroeder gave up the piano.

"My love of music never left, but I found out pretty quickly that piano players don't get chicks," Schroeder told Rolling Stone magazine. "At least, not NORMAL chicks. And Beethoven's cool, but after you've played Fur Elise a thousand times, it gets kinda boring. When I was sixteen, I heard my first Hendrix album, and I knew right away that my future was as a guitarist."

With his perfect pitch and natural talent for music, Schroeder took to the guitar immediately, and formed a band called Lucy's Obsession. The band had a distinct sound, blending hard core punk rock with the neo-classical and Romantic elements of European music. During the late '70's, Lucy's Obsession climbed to the top of the charts with their eponymous debut album, featuring the top ten single I Gotta Rock. Schroeder talked about their first bona fide hit in a 1979 interview with Circus Magazine.

"That song (I Gotta Rock) came from my childhood. Every Halloween, a bunch of us would go trick-or-treating and we'd talk about what kind of candy we got at each house. 'I got a candy bar, I got a caramel apple,' stuff like that. Well, there was this one kid with a huge head, I can't remember his name, but he was a total loser. For whatever reason, at every house we went to, all of us got treats except him. He kept getting rocks. So when we showed each other what we'd gotten, he kept saying, 'I got a rock . . . I got a rock.' The phrase just stuck in my head, and it ended up being our biggest hit."

Between 1979 and 1993, Lucy's Obsession recorded seven albums, including the Platinum Psychiatric Help, Five Cents, which was released in 1984. Although the band never really caught on with the mainstream music world, they did receive a lot of attention in 1986, when Schroeder filed a lawsuit against an up-and-coming alternative band called Jane's Addiction.

"Yeah, Jane's Addiction hit the scene right about the same time that the Five Cents album came out," Schroeder recalls. "It was such an obvious rip-off that our lawyers suggested we do something, so we filed the suit. We let them keep the name, but let's just say that some money changed hands."

Jane's Addiction lead singer Perry Farrell could not be reached for comment.

When asked about Lucy Van Pelt, stalker and inspiration for his band's moniker, Schroeder became agitated. "She really made my life difficult in high school," he said. "When we were little, she was just annoying, but as we got older, she pretty much freaked out. She'd send me articles of clothing in the mail, follow me home from school, peek in my bedroom window at night. My parents eventually went to court and put an end to it. She still shows up at our concerts sometimes, though. I think she's got a thing for [the band's drummer] Steve now."

Confusion still remains as to whether "Schroeder" is the guitarist's first or last name. Rumors have surfaced claiming that his real name is Heinz von Schroeder and he is actually descended from Nazi war criminals. Other sources claim that his name is Schroeder Reinhardt, and that he is a relative of jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt. There has been no clear evidence either way, and Schroeder himself refuses to tell. "I've heard the rumors, of course, and they're all wrong. And now that the band and I are famous, I kinda like the mystery. There are lots of one-named musicians. Sting. Bono. Slash. So that's just who I am. Schroeder."

Lucy's Obsession reunited in 2008 after a fifteen-year sabbatical, and is currently touring the U.S. opening for Lady Gaga.

Thanksgiving: The 90-Pound Weakling of Holidays

2011-10-30T17:19:00.000-07:00

Is he really saying, "Eat me?"

Recently, my swell pal Suldog wrote a lengthy rant about how the over-commercialization of Christmas has infringed upon the respect and attention that he feels should be given to Thanksgiving. He's called this piece, and the resulting political movement, "Thanksgiving Comes First." The basic premise is that we shouldn't begin the Christmas hoopla (in-store marketing displays, TV commercials, etc.) until after everyone's done their Thanksgiving dinner dishes and the Detroit Lions have lost their annual Turkey Day game.

I'll admit that I agree with Suldog's sentiments to a point. I'm not crazy about hearing "Sleigh Ride" pumping through the speakers at my local supermarket in October. Hell, I live in Southern California where it doesn't even feel like Christmas on Christmas, let alone Columbus Day. But I don't think we can blame the supermarket management for this, nor can we pin the yearly Thanksgiving neglect on toy companies, advertising agencies, or whoever's in charge of when "A Charlie Brown Christmas" airs. No, Thanksgiving is its own worst enemy, and there are several reasons why it has become the 90-pound weakling of holidays.

The simplest, of course, is that Thanksgiving is chronologically-disadvantaged, sandwiched between the two most popular and marketable days of the entire year -- Halloween and Christmas. Even the lesser holidays like Valentine's Day, the Fourth of July, and Easter benefit from being somewhat isolated on the calendar, although Easter struggles a bit because no one is quite sure when it's coming. April? March? The day before Memorial Day? Who the hell knows? But Thanksgiving has a better holiday four weeks ahead of it and a month or so behind it. It's kind of like the Three Stooges, Christmas and Halloween are Moe and Curly, Thankgiving is Shemp.

The next problem Thanksgiving faces is that there's really not much to it. Halloween is all about costumes, spookiness, parties and candy. Christmas, of course, is full of presents, family gatherings, traditional songs, and endless merriment and good will. What does Thanksgiving bring to the table? Turkey, cranberry sauce, indigestion, and a couple football games. Hell, Christmas has everything that Thanksgiving has. Every year, my family gets together for a huge Christmas dinner of turkey (or sometimes ham), mashed potatoes, that casserole made from green beans and crispy noodles, and Grandma's lemon cheese pie, just like we do on Thanksgiving. And on top of all that, we get to exchange gifts and listen to the Frank Sinatra Christmas Album. Put another way, Thanksgiving is merely Christmas without the presents which, unless you live in Whoville, kind of sucks.

So the question becomes, how do we help Thanksgiving earn its proper respect? I think the first thing we need to do is move it the hell out of November. Pack up the horns o' plenty and the Indian corn in a huge U-Haul and relocate to the second Thursday in September. Sure, that puts it a week after Labor Day, but who cares? Using our Stooges analogy again, Labor Day isn't even Curly Joe, it's more like Moe's second cousin Phil who hated slapstick comedy so he became a plumber. With Thanksgiving in September, it gets to lead off the fall-winter festivities, building up to Halloween and Christmas.

Next, we need to come up with a Thanksgiving representative, a character who is instantly recognizable and lovable. Christmas has Santa Claus, Halloween has witches and goblins, Easter has the giant bunny, Valentine's Day has Cupid, even the Fourth of July invites Uncle Sam to the barbecue. Thanksgiving, though, has absolutely no one banging its proverbial drum. The closest you'll see is a turkey wearing a pilgrim's hat, but let's be honest here. The turkey can't possibly be the Thanksgiving rep because by the end of the day he's DEAD! Not exactly the most festive of all outcomes. What do you think the reaction would be if every Easter, families got together and slow-roasted a rabbit? "Say, Jimmy, would you like a leg or an ear?"

James O'Thankful says, "Have another drumstick!"

So the turkey is out. But what if we named an official Thanksgiving Pilgrim, a suave, smooth-talking guy named James O'Thankful (he's part Irish, go with it) who shows up on Thanksgiving Night with extra gravy and a few seasonal trinkets, and reminds your family of everything it should be thankful for. Love, health, happiness, the fact that Christmas is just a few months away (we've moved to September, remember?).

I think that would be a good start.

In the meantime, Thanksgiving will have to deal with Christmas and Halloween poking it in the eyes and cracking it over the head with baseball bats.

Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.

Subway Subterfuge

2011-10-24T17:45:00.000-07:00

In case you've somehow missed it, October is "Anytober" at Subway, which means for the entire month you can get any foot-long sub for the low, low price of five bucks. The commercials are everywhere, the annoying "Five Dollar Footlong" jingle being sung by a wide variety of even more annoying characters. Cheerleaders, Asian guys playing video games, the list goes on.

"Five! Five dollar! Five dollar foot looooong. Any, any, any! "

Let's start by examining their creation of the word "Anytober." This, my friends, is what's called a "reach." "Any" doesn't sound anything like "Oct." It's a terrible attempt at wordplay. Last time Subway introduced the "any footlong for five bucks" deal, it was February, which they transformed into "Februany." While this still wasn't going to earn them the Clever Ad Pun of the Year award, you could tell what they were going for. For lack of a better word, it worked.

But Anytober? I'm not buying it.

On the bright side, though, five bucks is a pretty good deal for a foot-long sub sandwich, and since I love Subway, the last few weeks have been Anytoberfest at my house. But today, Subway and their "Any-any-anyness" pissed me off big time.

I entered the store and decided to try a foot-long pastrami sub. Never had one before, as I'm more of a Subway Club or Italian BMT guy, so I figured it was time for a change of pace. I ordered it, gave the (ahem) "Sandwich Artist" my condiment preferences, and made my way to the cash register to hand over a five-spot.

"That'll be six seventy-five."

"Excuse me? What happened to Anytober?"

"The pastrami doesn't count . . . it's a premium sandwich."

"Doesn't count? I distinctly remember the cheerleaders singing ANY ANY ANY."

"Right, but that's just for our regular foot-longs."

"Well that's not any foot-long, is it? It's ANYTOBER, Todd! Technically, I should be able to come in here and order a foot-long Cold Cut Combo with triple meat, double cheese, and Grey Poupon mustard and have it cost five bucks. Any means ANY."

Apparently it doesn't. I paid $6.75.

"Thanks for visiting Subway," said Todd. "Come again any time."

Which, if you're going to believe their "Almost Anytober" policy, really means, "Come again some of the time."

d

iPhone Idleness

2011-10-10T11:53:00.000-07:00

I was one of the last people on the planet to own a cell phone. It was 1999, and I just didn't feel the need to be all that accessible. I had reluctantly purchased a pager earlier in the year, and even that was more of a pain in the ass than I thought it would be. But eventually I broke down and got the cheapest Nokia phone I could find, basically a hunk of plastic with buttons that weighed about four pounds.

Ever since then, I've had a rare form of Attention Deficit Disorder, something I call Cell Phone Disaffection Syndrome (CPDS). Every six to eight months, I get bored with whatever phone I have, and end up getting a newer, better, glitzier model. After I got tired of the clunky slab o' plastic, I upgraded to a slimmer, lighter Nokia. But then the RAZR flip-phone hit the market, and I absolutely had to have one of those. All sorts of wonderful features, and it looked so 22nd century. It even had a camera. I couldn't imagine how you'd improve on something that high-tech.

And then someone invented "smart" phones.

So I got a Blackberry Curve, a phone that would actually let me access the Internet. Sure, it took three hours for the Google home page to download (or is it upload? I can never keep that straight.), but it was the INTERNET! ON MY PHONE! Of course, the original Blackberry Curve turned out to be a complete piece of crap, so a few months later I upgraded to the Blackberry Storm. How's that for brand loyalty? The Storm didn't even have buttons, you just tapped letters on the screen and voila! A text message! Of course, it was virtually impossible to type the letter you wanted because touchscreen technology was apparently too difficult for the Blackberry IT department to grasp, but the Storm was one fancy piece of equipment, if you didn't mind removing and then reinserting the battery every couple hours because the damn thing froze up again.

So I upgraded to the Blackberry Bold because who needs touchscreen, anyway?

Of course, after a year or so, the Bold became more trouble than it was worth. The little pad that you slide your finger across to scroll through your icons (there's probably a name for it, but you know what I'm saying) turned out to be one moody son of a bitch, and sometimes decided it didn't want to do anything. Plus, it browsed the web like Theresa browses Target which is to say, it takes forever and pretty much wastes your entire day. So a few days ago, I went and did something I swore I was never going to do.

I bought an iPhone.

Thankfully, I was eligible for an upgrade so it cost me next to nothing, and let me tell you, this is one absolutely ingenious little device. First of all, yes, it's touchscreen which had proven to be problematic with my now-obsolete Blackberry Storm. But apparently the Apple guys are way smarter than the Blackberry guys because I'm having no trouble typing what I want to type. And if I do happen to make a mistake, the iPhone magically corrects my spelling. Plus, I still have the camera feature, it has a GPS, e-mail, and in addition to all that technological goodness, it's also a telephone.

Random thought: If all this technology had been available in the 70's, we might have heard this Stevie Wonder classic:

I just texted to say I love you.
I changed my Facebook status because I care.
I just Skyped to say I love you.
And I Tweeted from the bottom of my heart.

Moving on.

You can also watch videos on the iPhone, with amazing clarity. But wait, there's even more. Over the weekend, I was introduced to the wonderful world of "apps" which is short for "apparently not having anything better to do with your time."

Some of these apps are quite useful, like Mobile Banking and my personal favorite, the In-N-Out Burger app that instantly points you to the nearest In-N-Out restaurant. What the hell will they think of next?

Slice, slice, Baby!

And game apps! I'm telling you, you have not lived until you've played a thrilling game of Fruit Ninja. You can keep your Angry Birds, the sheer joy of slicing up virtual kiwi, coconuts, and watermelons is beyond description.

Hmm. Maybe there's a "Get a Life" app.

Anyway, I'm very happy with my new iPhone, and I'm sure this will be the last cell phone I ever need to own. I mean, really, how could they possibly improve on this?

d

Just 'Chute Me

2011-10-02T19:44:00.000-07:00

I'm not a particularly adventurous person. My idea of "roughing it" is staying at a hotel where the room service menu doesn't include shrimp cocktail. Vacations are for relaxing, not for pitching a tent and hanging bags of food in trees so the bears don't eat your Mallomars.

Not everyone shares my cautious attitude, however, so travel agents have discovered another great way to separate vacationers from their money -- provide them with unique and challenging ways to kill themselves. Rock-climbing, skydiving, and ceremonial fart-lighting while chugging Budweiser from a beer bong (yes, Alabama has a Department of Tourism too) all attract and gloriously cripple thousands of tourists every year. For thirty bucks, you can even buy a framed action shot to share with loved ones as they stand around your hospital bed. But, like I said, such treacherous pastimes aren't for me.

Except once.

I was on a Mexican cruise, and the ship docked for the day in the beautiful resort/dump of Puerto Vallarta. I spent the morning taking the official city tour, which consisted of a high-speed foray in a beat-up '72 Volkswagen Beetle driven by Paco the Tour Guide. Paco quickly pointed out the carnicerias, which is Spanish for "store that sells fly-infested pig heads." We saw many of Puerto Vallarta's other lovely attractions too. I'd be happy to tell you about them, except I was too busy vomiting out the rear window to notice what they were.

The tour ended (perhaps by accident, but let's give Paco the benefit of the doubt) when the VW's right front tire blew out shortly after we'd run over a flock of wayward chickens. I headed back to the dock with three hours left to kill, and since the ship's casino was closed while in port, I tried to find something "touristy" to do. I bought a couple packs of Chiclets from the kids on the beach, and that's when I noticed a cardboard sign propped up against a sleeping "extra" from The Three Amigos. The sign read "Parasailing: $20".

Parasailing is really quite simple. A crew from the Mexican Navy straps you into a parachute, which is tethered to a speed boat. The boat heads out to sea, and as it picks up speed, you run along the beach and gently rise into the air. The captain pilots the boat in a large circle while you enjoy the breath-taking view from an altitude of about three miles. After a while, the boat comes back to shore, and you return safely to the beach, your life forever changed.

I can give that a go, I thought. Before fully committing, I decided to assess the risk by watching a few other tourists take their turns. I popped open a Corona and took a seat at a nearby picnic table. Over the next forty-five minutes or so, I saw a little kid, an old lady, and a morbidly obese gentleman in an unfortunate shirt and Bermuda shorts have the time of their lives.

If they could do it, I reasoned, so could I.

So I handed my twenty bucks to a guy named Jorge. His two partners got in the boat as Jorge helped me strap on the parachute. Jorge then gave the captain the high sign, and we were off.

According to The Official Mexican Parasailing Captain's Training Manual, the take-off procedure requires the boat to stay parallel to the shoreline to provide a sufficient "runway". Once the parasailer is airborne, the captain then -- and only then -- heads out to sea. That's how it's supposed to work, and that's exactly how it DID work with every single person I watched go up.

That's not, however, how it worked this time.

As the boat accelerated, I trotted along the beach, waiting to be lifted into the air.

And waiting.

And waiting.

I ran faster and faster trying to keep up with the speedboat, which was now approaching the speed of sound. Before long I lost the race and gravity took over. I plunged face first into the sand and got dragged about fifty feet. Fortunately, I came to a quick stop. Unfortunately, it was because I slammed sideways into a pile of large boulders. Jorge was yelling at the top of his lungs, "PARE EL BARCO! PARE EL BARCO!" (in English: "Get your asses back here, this stupid gringo is about to die!").

The captain turned the boat around and returned to shore. I picked myself up off the ground and assessed the damage. Banged up hip. Scraped up knees. Bump on my forehead. "Uh, I think I'd like my money back, Jorge. I'm done."

"Sorry, amigo, no refunds." At least, that's what I think he said. It was hard to hear him clearly with my ears full of sand.

Since I didn't want to resort to fisticuffs over a matter of twenty dollars, I decided to give it one more shot. We secured the parachute, backed up to the original starting point, and tried it again. This time, the parachute filled with air and off I went, into the wild blue yonder.

It was not comfortable. I wasn't simply hanging from the harness, I was also "sitting" on a rope "seat" that was digging and chafing its way into the "back of my thighs". After about fifteen seconds, I was ready for the whole debacle to be over with.

They kept me up there for a good ten minutes, which seemed much longer and resulted in the rope "seat" finding its way into my butt crack. Given my lack of confidence in Jorge's parachute maintenance skills, I was reluctant to shift around to try and remove the rope from my keester for fear of unhooking myself and plummeting to an embarrassing and watery death. So I dealt with it.

Eventually, we headed back towards the beach, and I landed without further incident. Jorge helped me out of the chute, shook my hand and said, "Amigo, chu want to go 'gain? Only ten dollar dees tine."

"Hell no," I said, as politely as you can say "Hell, no", and I walked back toward the street to get something to drink. I bought a Corona, and when I turned around I saw Paco's VW, complete with a repaired tire. I said hello but I don't think he recognized me, which is understandable given my facial lacerations and swelling.

"Welcome to Puerta Vallarta, senor," he said. "You want a tour of the city?"

Category Five Hurricane

2011-09-23T15:39:00.000-07:00

When I regained consciousness, I was curled up in the corner of an upward-bound elevator in the Orlando Sheraton.

The year was 1985. I was in college.

Our jazz ensemble traveled from Southern California to Orlando to participate in the Walt Disney World Jazz Festival. Now, you’ve all probably heard the stereotype that band members are geeks, dorks, and various types of goobers. This, of course, is a stereotype and as is the case with most stereotypes, it’s absolutely true. Most of us were nineteen or twenty years old, so we were still a year or so away from being of legal drinking age.

In California.

In the great state of Florida, however, the legal drinking age was twenty, a detail that did not escape our attention. The first night,we were sitting around in the hotel room, plotting the evening’s activities. When you’re underage, opportunities for obtaining alcohol are somewhat limited, and you get used to bumming booze off the older siblings of your party buds, or bribing someone of age to make a beer run. With our new found freedom, though, it was much simpler.

“Hey, let’s go down to the hotel bar and get hammered!” suggested Alex.

Alex Harrison was a trombone player, and I mean that in the nicest sense of the term. He was about six-two, and vaguely resembled Frankenstein. He was the kind of guy who would do anything for a laugh, even if he were the butt of the joke, which he often was. Alex owned a gold Volkswagen Beetle with a sunroof. Just for shits and giggles, he’d open the sunroof, pop his head out, and drive around like that. It was hilarious, as well as ridiculously stupid.

We hooked up with two more guys, Ralph and John, piled into the elevator and headed down to the Zanzibar Lounge. The hostess seated us at a table in the back, and we perused the drink menu. Gator Wizz. The Swamp Bomb. The Barracuda.

“Hey, check out this one,” said John, pointing at the drink menu. He was the lead trumpet player, incredibly arrogant, and among the four of us, had the most experience with alcohol. None of it good, but experience nonetheless. “The Category Five Hurricane. This looks pretty potent.”

The Category Five Hurricane, Zanzibar’s specialty, consisted of three kinds of fruit juice, rum, vodka, peach Schnapp’s, a shot of grenadine, and if I’m not mistaken, turpentine and nitroglycerin. The menu was not particularly specific.

Up to this point in our young, foolish lives, most of our drinking experience was with beer, and we all knew (more or less) what our personal limits were. For example, I knew that three beers gave me a nice buzz, while five had me doing the Technicolor yawn on someone’s carpet. Through an unforgivable oversight, the Zanzibar Lounge did not provide a beer-to-Category Five Hurricane conversion chart, but as it turns out, Budweiser and Hurricane do not have a one-to-one correspondence. It’s more like a one to a very tiny sip correspondence.

We did not know this at the time.

“You fellas gonna trah the Hurry-kine?” drawled the waitress. According to her gold name badge, she was Amanda. A bit on the pudgy side, not spectacular looking, but nothing you’d throw a bag over, either. Let’s call her a soft six on the one-to-ten scale.

“Yep,” said John. “A round of Category Five Hurricanes please, Amanda. We’re ready to party!”

A couple minutes later, Amanda brought out the hooch, and we were in absolute fucking awe. Though it wasn’t made clear by the picture on the menu, the Category Five Hurricane is served in a glass that’s approximately the size of the Stanley Cup.

Oh, were they tasty. Peach, orange, lime, just a hint of turpentine. We blew through the first round of Hurricanes like Anna Nicole at a Viagra convention.

“Okay, the next round’s on me,” said Ralph, although it came out more like, “Oh, kay. Zhuh neft rowd’s agh meh.” Ralph was a throwback to the 1950’s. Leather jacket, slicked back hair that he was always combing. He was a neo-Fonzie, if Fonzie played the tenor saxophone, wore an earring, and had an acne problem.

Amanda carted out the next round, and we dived back in.“Mebbe we orta get zub food zo we don’ get too wayshted,” suggested John, as he stared into his drink.

“Good thinkin’,” mumbled Alex. “Don’ wanna ged sick er shumfin.”

We ordered some hot wings, onion rings, potato skins, and the seafood platter. And, of course, another round of Hurricanes.

By this time, things were getting a little fuzzy. Okay, a lot fuzzy. We knew we had to get up early in the morning for our performance at the Tomorrowland Terrace, so we didn’t want to do something irresponsible like staying up too late.

“You boys ready fer one mo-ah round?” purred Amanda. Over the last half hour or so, she’d somehow gone from a six to a solid eight, and rising.

“Who’sh gudda buy duh nesht round?” asked Alex.

Ralph passed out face first in a plate of fried clams and cocktail sauce. We took that as a signal that the next round was on him.

By the time we polished off the last our Hurricanes, it was approaching one o’clock in the morning.

“Grf bulla frubba gut googa,” suggested John.

"Waff stroffa," replied Alex. "Bub dubba burble gorp."

“Merf,” I added, reluctantly. “Blubba gunk friff brap.”

Ralph said nothing. He was still asleep in his seafood platter.

We paid the check, which was astronomical, tipped the waitress, splashed some water on Ralph's face to revive him (somewhat) and stood up.

Have you ever been really, really hammered? Not tipsy, not buzzed, hell, not even merely drunk. I mean blurry vision, room spinning, jelly-legged, I-can’t-feel-my-fucking-face blasted. That kind of covers our state of being as we attempted to navigate our way out of the Zanzibar Lounge.

"Oh, Earl, look at those boys," said some blue-haired old bat. "That's just embarrassing."

"Forrrrk Yoooooou," mumbled John, drawing a shocked gasp from Gramma Moses.

We somehow made it to the elevator and headed up to our rooms. The sudden movement made me even dizzier than I already was, so I sat down in the corner and stared at the ceiling. It seemed to be melting.

The next thing I knew, I was in the elevator by myself. Nauseous. With a screaming headache. I stared at my watch and waited for it to come into focus.

Five o’clock AM. Those fuckers had abandoned me.

We were all supposed to be in the lobby at eight, so we could go over to Disney World and be ready to perform by eleven. I got off the elevator at the eleventh floor and stumbled to my room. When I opened the door, I noticed an unusual smell. Vomit, mixed with the unmistakable scent of fruit juice and cocktail sauce. I went into the bathroom, and there was Ralph, asleep with his head resting on the toilet seat.

Ralph had ralphed everywhere. The shower curtain. The bath tub. The sink. It looked like “The Exorcist Meets Psycho”.

I kicked him in the ribs to wake him up.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuucccckkkkkk,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, I know, me too. Let’s clean this shit up.”

We did the best we could. When the bathroom was passable (to us) we took turns showering and got about an hour of sleep. We got ready and barely made it to the lobby on time. John and Alex were asleep on one of the lobby couches. Everyone else was milling around, chipper as can be, ready for an exciting day in the Magic Kingdom.

As we dragged ourselves onto the bus, the band director noticed our condition.

“What the hell happened to you guys?” he asked. “You look like you’ve been hit by a tornado.”

He was pretty close. Actually, it was a series of Category Five Hurricanes.

Talk is Jeep

2011-09-13T18:19:00.000-07:00

If anyone ever asks you for the price of stupidity, the answer is this:

$161.24 plus tax and labor.

I'll explain how I arrived at this figure in just a little while but to fully understand the situation, we must start at the beginning.

Not Theresa's truck, but it makes the point better.

About a year or so ago, Theresa's truck, a Ford F-150, decided that it no longer wanted to remain operational. I would go into more detail about this, but after the McRib fiasco, I sort of promised Theresa that I'd stop writing things that she might find embarrassing, no matter how true or utterly hilarious they were. So we're going to leave it at, "the truck broke."

Anyway, instead of rushing into a new vehicle, Theresa decided to save up for something really nice and in the meantime we'd just make do with the cars we had.

The plan worked perfectly, and just last weekend, we went out car shopping.

Smart Car, aka truck without the bed.

Theresa's first instinct was to buy a new truck. She liked the look, and after all, trucks are rugged. The problem is, we don't really need a truck. For years, back when the F-150 was running, I thought that she had far more vehicle than she really needed. The cab was a little crowded, and we hardly ever used the truckish features, which basically transformed the F-150 into a gas-guzzling Smart Car.

Ironically, right after her truck shuffled off the mortal coil, we moved into a new house. How convenient it would've been to have a truck to help carry our belongings across town. Also, for the past year, we've been landscaping our back yard with decorative rock. We probably could've carried 20-30 bags at a time in a sturdy vehicle such as, I don't know, a Ford pickup, but we no longer had one. Do you know how many bags of rock you can carry in the trunk of a 2008 Chrysler Sebring?

Eight.

To sum up, when we had a truck we didn't need it, and when we needed it we didn't have it. And now that we'd finished everything we could possibly need a truck for, Theresa decided to go a different direction.

So we looked at Jeeps. Some with four doors, some with two. Some were used and some were new. Jeeps in red and tan and blue. We think Jeeps are cool, do you?

Sorry about that, kind of got lost on Mulberry Street for a minute.

After a bit of Jeep-browsing, Theresa decided on a four-door silver Wrangler Sport with a removable roof, outstanding stereo system including XM radio, lots of bells and whistles. In fact, it was only lacking in one feature.

This particular Jeep did not have automatic locks and windows.

To most people, this wouldn't be much of a sticking point. Sure, it's a little inconvenient to actually use a key to unlock your doors, and manually rolling windows down is primitive to the point of absurdity, but still. It was a pretty cool Jeep, so you'd think these minor details could be overlooked.

And you, my friend, would be very, very wrong.

Theresa wasn't having any of it.

Theresa: Is there any way we could get the automatic windows installed?

Salesman: Sure, it usually runs an extra fifteen hundred dollars. We could build that into your deal.

Me: For five hundred, you can poke me on the shoulder and I'll roll the window down for you.

Theresa (ignoring me): Do you have any Jeeps with automatic windows and locks?

Salesman: Of course.

So we looked at some more Jeeps. None of which were even remotely close to our price range. But they did have automatic windows and locks. And leather interior, GPS systems, stuff like that.

Back in the negotiating room, the salesman had met our requirement for the monthly payments on the original, prehistoric, non-automatic window Jeep.

Salesman: So we're back to the windows and locks.

Me: Theresa. This is an awesome deal. We can live with the windows and locks.

Theresa: Who's side are you on here, anyway?

Me: Yours. I want you to have the car you want.

Theresa: I don't want to feel like I'm settling, though, this is still a lot of money.

Salesman: Okay, what if I could get your locks and windows installed for this same price?

Theresa (pauses . . . looks at me . . . then back at the salesman): Then we would have a deal.

And with that, Theresa got exactly what she wanted. She deserved it.

All of which brings us back to the price of stupidity.

At our house, we have a two car garage which, up to this point, has been a one-car-and-a-whole-lot-of-other-crap garage. Not wanting to park her new Jeep in the driveway, where it could be defiled by lawn sprinklers, low-flying birds, or neighbors who have limited control of what their lawnmowers run over and send flying all the hell over the neighborhood (I'm looking at YOU, Walt from Next Door), Theresa suggested that we organize the garage to make room for both of our vehicles.

So we did.

The next morning, I started backing ever-so-slowly out of the garage. This was a dangerous task for two reasons:

1. I'm not real good at driving in reverse.
2. It was six in the morning and I was really Goddamn tired.

I carefully looked over my right shoulder, because the last thing I wanted to do was to scrape, bump, or smash the Jeep. As I inched my way backward, out of the corner of my ear I heard a loud crunch, which sounded an awful lot like a driver's side mirror getting ripped off by the door frame of a garage.

Which, coincidentally, is precisely what it was.

$161.24 is what a side view mirror for a 2008 Chrysler Sebring costs.

As I said earlier, plus tax and labor.

Stupid.

d

Cowardly Consumption

2011-09-03T13:30:00.000-07:00

I was at the Outback Steakhouse the other night, enjoying a delicious filet of salmon when an interesting question occurred to me.

"How did mankind decide which animals we would use as our primary food sources?"

Why, for example, do we eat cows, but not horses? Why pigs, but not raccoons? Why chickens, but not yellow-billed cotinga? Have you ever TRIED yellow-billed cotinga? For all we know, they're absolutely scrumptious.

After giving the matter some thought, because I obviously have too much spare time, I've reached an iron-clad and irrefutable conclusion:

Human beings are lazy and stupid, so we'll only eat slow, ugly animals and birds that can't fly.

Before everyone starts screaming at me, I do realize that some people eat deer (cute and quick) and duck (they fly), but you're not going to be able to get McVenison or a Jumbo Quack down at the local fast food chain any time soon. Our major staples are beef, pork, chicken, and turkey. Animals we can easily catch and that won't put up much of a fight. You don't "hunt" cows, you round 'em up and slaughter 'em. You don't go on a turkey "hunt", you go on a turkey "shoot," as in, "There he is, Rufus, plug 'im!"

Speaking of hunting, where do we get off calling that a "sport," anyway? Let's look at deer hunting. Now, I've got nothing against hunting per se, if you want to take your rifle and blow Bambi's head off, that's your business. But when your opponent's entire defensive arsenal is "run like hell," that's more or less a mismatch. Oh, it might LOOK like a sport, but it's like entering sprinter Usain Bolt in the Special Olympics -- and I'm going to end the analogy right there before it gets completely out of hand.

You want to make hunting a sport? Try hunting tigers with a Swiss Army knife or going after mountain lions with a billy club. Give the animals a fighting chance. Hell, that's a sport I'd shell out a few bucks for on pay-per-view.

Which brings us back to why we eat the slow, ugly, and flightless. We're wimps. We're not going to try to mass produce lion meat, because there's a pretty decent chance that we'll be the ones that get consumed in the process. Maybe barbecued lion ribs would be out of this world, but it's just not worth the risk. So we go after cows and pigs. They're slow, ugly, and non-threatening just like the Cincinnati Bengals.

The Double-Double says "Moo."

Don't misunderstand, I'm not complaining about this. I love steak and chicken, and I eat them as often as possible, just like the good Lord intended. I know the whackos at PETA get all out of joint with the "God's creatures are not food" argument, but as far as I'm concerned, if God didn't intend for us to chow down on chicken, He wouldn't have created Colonel Sanders. I'm no theologian, but I've never heard scripture quoted to the effect of "thou shalt not partake of In-N-Out Double-Doubles." In fact, the only clear statement God has ever made on what we should and shouldn't eat has to do with FRUIT. The first time someone ate an apple, boom, humanity was screwed for all eternity. And yet the produce section remains well-stocked. Plus, I think the book of Timothy says that everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if you put catsup on it. Or something like that.

So anyway, just out of morbid curiosity and the desire to see a rifle-totin' redneck get mauled to death, here's what I'm suggesting. Let's expand our food choices. For every deer that a hunter shoots, he must also attempt to bag three other "non-traditional" sources of meat. Take out a ten-point buck, you gotta go after a tiger, a polar bear, and a pit-full of angry cobras. If we're given a wider variety of food choices, we might finally be able to answer the one question that's been puzzling mankind for centuries:

Does yellow-billed continga really taste like chicken?

As Subtle as a Love Gun

2011-08-24T07:54:00.000-07:00

"Paul Stanley is sick of KISS." - Paul Rudd, Role Models

I was in fifth grade when the the rock supergroup KISS exploded upon the American music scene in 1975, amid smashing guitars and blistering pyrotechnics. KISS actually formed in '73, but it wasn't until the release of the album Alive! that they became the pop culture/glam rock Gods that they Gene Simmons believes they are to this very day.

Because of the timing, I went directly from being a fan of the Brady Bunch to a Love Gun-wielding soldier in the KISS Army. One would think that I could've transitioned through some sort of pop culture halfway house, say, the Partridge Family or the Bay City Rollers, but no. It was "Sunshine day, everybody's smilin'" one day, "It's cold gin time again" the next. It's probably a good thing the Bradys and KISS never overlapped in the public consciousness, because the Brady Bunch episode featuring Davy Jones would've had a whole different dynamic if the ex-Monkee had been replaced by circa 1975 Gene Simmons. I doubt Mrs. Brady would've been so enthusiastic about her daughter's "prom date."

After much begging and cajoling, my parents bought me the Alive! album for Christmas. I don't think my father had ever heard KISS's music at this point, he was more the Roger Miller "King of the Road" type, but KISS's Kabuki-makeup and blood-spitting, fire-breathing antics caused him to make some grossly unfair assumptions about the band's potential negative influence on his 10 year-old son.

The first sign of trouble came when he walked into my room with "Nothin' to Lose" blaring through the speakers.

Before I had a baby, didn't care anyway

Thought about the back door, didn't know what to say . . .

He entered my room, hands covering his ears. "What's that crap you're listening to?"

"Uh, the KISS album. Why?"

"Thought about the back door?" he quoted. "What do you think that means?"

"He's trying to get her attention and she's not answering the front door?"

Believe it or not, I was serious. I was a pretty naive kid, and it's not like I was analyzing the lyrical underpinnings of the Simmons-Stanley songbook anyway. That would come later, and boy, was I surprised when I found out what "Plaster Caster" was all about. But that one was still three albums away.

"Yes, exactly right, he's ringing her front doorbell. Enjoy the music," Dad muttered as he walked out, shutting the door behind him.

This was also about the time my dad heard the ridiculous rumor that the name KISS was actually an acronym for "Knights in Satan's Service", and that the band members were devil-worshipers. Come on, how could anyone believe such nonsense?

I patiently explained to Dad that, according to the February 1976 edition of the KISS Army Newsletter, Paul Stanley came up with the name "KISS" because it was a simple, one word moniker that everyone could identify with. Gene, Paul, Ace, and Peter were definitely not Satanists.

But damn, Gene, you're really tough to defend sometimes.

By the time Alive II came out three years later, I was a full-fledged KISSmaniac. I dressed as Peter Criss for Halloween, owned the entire KISS-cography, and faithfully scooped up any issue of Circus, Rolling Stone, or People (yep, People) magazine that the boys appeared in. I dreamed of the day that my Dad would let me attend my first KISS concert. It was a tough sell. Love Gun tour, 1978? Not a chance. Dynasty tour, 1980? No way.

Eventually, however, I wore him down and he gave me the go-ahead.

In 1996. The Reunion Tour. I was 31.

By today's standards, KISS music is pretty tame. Double entendres abound, and no one's going to call Paul Stanley subtle ("You make me rock hard, baby all night. My love's a glove and you fit just right" is but one example), but compared to say, Eminem, even the most raunchy of KISS lyrics come off as fairly tepid.

And I'm still a fan, the entire KISS catalogue downloaded on my iPod (even Music from the Elder, which sold about eight copies when it came out in '81). When my son was about ten, I recruited him into the KISS Army as well. Took him to a concert and everything.

The boys are still touring, too. Sure, Peter and Ace have been given the boot (again), but Gene, Paul, and a couple other guys are still rockin' and rollin' all night and partyin' every day.

Dad's still convinced they're the minions of Satan.

d

Quelfian Quips

2011-08-14T20:55:00.000-07:00

My family and I love to play board games. Monopoly is a favorite among some of us, even though most of the time the game ends with everybody hating each other. We also enjoy Apples to Apples, Wits and Wagers, and Scrabble. But recently, we discovered a game that surpasses all others in terms of hilarity, humiliation, and outright lunacy.

It's called Quelf.

The object of the game is simple. You roll the die, move your piece, draw a card from the deck that matches the color of the space you landed on, and do what the card says. The fun comes from the fact that the cards tell you to do ridiculous things, such as:

Every time an opponent laughs, you must slap your knee and say "Waka, waka, waka."

Go fill a bowl with water. Now, soak your left hand in the bowl until your next turn.

Every sentence you speak for the rest of the game must end with, " . . . hear me, for I have spoken!"

The last time my family played, Theresa's son Doug finished the game wearing a sweat sock as a necktie. And also lipstick.

It's not really a game for people who are shy or self-conscious.

When we first brought Quelf home, we noticed the list of contents on the back of the box:

440 cards in five different categories
1 awesome Quelf game board
1 pad of paper and player guide
1 die and 1 thirty-second timer
8 character game pieces
1 giant invisible harpoon - it's invisible for a reason, use it wisely.

That's right, a giant invisible harpoon. My family being what it is, my dad immediately said, "You know Chris, you should write the company and tell them that our invisible harpoon was broken during shipping."

So of course, I did. I looked up the company on-line (Wiggity Bang Games) and fired off an e-mail to company president Matt Rivaldi.

Dear Mr. Rivaldi:

I recently purchased Quelf, and let me start by saying my family and I absolutely love it. I can honestly say that prior to our Quelf experience, no one I know has ever worn a paper towel as a mask, simultaneously worn a sock for a necktie and pink lipstick (though my dear Uncle Charlie has been known to wear them separately), or pretended to be a singing prison guard. So thanks for that.

Here's my problem.

On the box, it says that the game includes one invisible harpoon. Now, we were able to locate the harpoon easily enough by lightly dusting baby powder over the game pieces. It was at that point, however, that we noticed our harpoon was broken at one end. This must've happened at some point during the shipping process.

If we could get a replacement harpoon, that would be wonderful.

Thanks!

We all had a good laugh, and didn't give our invisible harpoon situation another thought until a few weeks later when I received a response.

Hi Chris,

Don't think we are ignoring your message. Our CIHE's (Certified Invisible Harpoon Engineers) are looking into the problem. These things are supposed to be indestructible . . . obviously they are not. As soon as we get our report back, we'll let you know what we can do for you, but rest assured we'll make it right.

Maybe it would help if you could take a picture of it to show our engineers.

Sincerely Wiggity,
Matthew Rivaldi
President, Wiggity Bang Games, LLC

"Take a picture of it," he says. I want to work for this guy.

So I carefully placed the invisible harpoon (the shaft and the broken tip) on our dining room table and snapped a picture.

I attached the photo file to another email that read:

Dear Mr. Rivaldi,

Thank you for your prompt reply. As you requested, I'm sending a photograph of our broken harpoon. As you can clearly see, the business end is snapped right off. I hope this will help your engineers devise a way to keep the invisible harpoons from breaking, as no one wants to play Quelf without them.

Looking forward to your response.

This whole invisible harpoon fiasco came to an end just the other day when I received a package via the United States Postal Service. It was a tube about four feet long with a warning label: INVISIBLE HARPOON ENCLOSED. BE CAREFUL WHEN OPENING MAILING TUBE.

I have to hand it to the Wiggity Bang people. They are true to their word.

You can buy your own Quelf set at most department stores, and also through the Wiggity Bang website.

Trust me, you'll have a blast.

But please. Be careful with the invisible harpoon.

d

Designated Driver

2011-08-06T20:58:00.000-07:00

I'm not much of a drinker. Sure, I'll have an occasional beer during the ball game, or a couple frou-frou beverages at a restaurant (the Wallaby Darned at Outback Steakhouse is a personal favorite) but, generally speaking, I can buy a twelve-pack of Coronas for the Super Bowl in February and polish off the last two or three at our Fourth of July barbecue.

This was not always the case.

My first few years of college, at least my fuzzy recollection of them, were spruced with regular weekends (and by "regular" I of course mean "every friggin' weekend without fail") of partying. Actually, "party" in this case is a euphemism for "sitting around someone's living room (or dorm) getting totally sh'faced."

sh'faced /shah-FAYST/, (adj.); 1. From the American Slang term "shit-faced," meaning inebriated beyond what is normally possible in human beings. This is caused by excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages, usually in a group environment. Symptoms include the inability to walk straight or speak coherently, a tendency to make embarrassing comments about one's self or others (looking at YOU, Tim Sterling), developing an unexpected sexual attraction to a member of the opposite sex whom you would not normally even look twice at, and of course temporary loss of consciousness. (ex. "You hear about Sterling? Last night at DeNunzio's party he took off his pants, sang Who Let the Dogs Out, and then hit on DeNunzio's golden retriever. I hope I never get THAT sh'faced.")

One night at DeNunzio's, we were playing a heated game of Quarters. For those of you unfamiliar with this exciting pastime, here's how it works. The players sit around the dining room table (or coffee table, or -- this is usually in college dorms -- an overturned milk crate with a large slab of plywood on top), and take turns bouncing a quarter into a highball glass of beer. If you successfully land the quarter in the glass, you get to choose an opponent to chug the beer. The object, of course, is to get everyone as completely sh'faced as possible. Strategy is minimal, competition is somewhat casual, and there's not really a "winner" in any practical sense of the word.

It's not exactly chess, is what I'm saying.

The best part of the game is when a player makes three shots in a row. At that point, he or she gets to make up a new rule, limited only by one's creativity. These might include:

Any player to touch his face must take a drink, even if it's not his turn.
Players must say the phrase "And awaaaaaay we go!" before taking a drink.
If you don't chug the beer all in one gulp, you have to make an obscene phone call.

I spent a lot of time engaging in this sort of activity, and I learned a lot about myself. For example, I learned that the first part of my particular brain to be affected by alcohol is the part that figures out when you've had too much to drink. I would chug beer after beer, and at no time did any of my synapses shoot off a message like, Whoa there, seems like we're losing control of our large motor function and relying much too heavily on words like "dude" and "bro" when conversing with others. Maybe it's time to slow down a little. No, I would drink myself into oblivion, a quality that earned me the nickname "The Pass-Out Kid," also known as POK, also known as "Paco."

All of which brings us to our public service message, which is as follows: If you're going to be incredibly stupid and irresponsible with your alcohol intake, for God's sake do not get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle.

Not long after I got my driver's license, my father invited me out to the garage for a heart-to-heart. The gist of it was, "I know you're going to college soon and you'll probably have a few drinks from time to time. When that happens, do NOT try to drive home or get in a car with someone else who's been drinking. Give me a call, no matter how late, and I'll come get you. No lecture, no questions asked."

It sounded like a trap, but as I got older I realized why he offered that type of "immunity." My dad knew that if I was worried about getting in trouble for drinking, I might try to hide it from him. This could lead to driving under the influence and putting my life at risk. It just wasn't worth it.

Despite what you may think, especially after what I've already told you, my friends and I were pretty responsible and knew there were precautions we needed to take to protect ourselves from, well, ourselves. Therefore, we always appointed a designated driver or two. Most times, our system involved a sort of "shuttle service." We attended a very small local college, and all of us still lived at home with our parents. At the end of the night, the designated drivers would load up their cars with "fallen soldiers," take them home, and in most cases help them get to their bedrooms undetected.

Not everyone's father has a "no questions asked" policy.

Anyway, on one particular evening at DeNunzio's, our activities wrapped up around one in the morning. The designated drivers made their rounds, and before long everyone was home safe and sound.

Except of course for Paco who, since he was passed out in a hammock in the back yard, had gone undetected until DeNunzio literally stumbled into him while picking up the empty Budweiser bottles strewn all over the lawn.

"Dude, what are you still doing here?" he asked.

"Rumph?"

"Everyone left an hour ago, how are you gonna get home now?"

"Dunno. I prob'ly shouldn't drive, though, huh?" I said.

"Uh, no. And I can't take you home either, 'cause I'm still buzzed. Better call someone, dude."

Time to take Dad up on his offer. At two o'clock in the morning. After three attempts and three extremely pissed off wrong-number recipients, I successfully dialed my home phone number. Dad answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi Pop. 'Member how you said if I was ever drunk and needed a ride you'd come an' ge' me? Well, uh, I think I need that now."

"Sure, where are you?"

"DeNunzio's."

"What's the address?"

"I dunno."

Silence.

Dad chuckled softly, and said, "Well, I'm going to need you to get it. It'll make it easier for me to find you."

"Oh, right. Hang on." I got the address from DeNunzio and gave it to my father. He arrived twenty minutes later, poured me into the passenger seat of his car, and took me home. As promised, there was no lecture about the dangers of drinking, no threats of confiscating my car keys, nothing but comfortable silence until we had a brief emergency about a mile from our house.

"Dad, I think I need you to pull over."

Knowing what was coming, he skidded to a stop on the side of the road. I opened the door and leaned out.

Blaaaaaauggggggh!

I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my Police t-shirt (Synchronicity tour, 1982), sat up, and fastened my seat belt. We got home a minute or two later, and that was the end of it.

Well, almost.

At 6:30 the next morning, I was awakened by a loud knock on my door. In fact, "loud" doesn't really capture it. Given my extremely hungover condition, it sounded like a SWAT team was taking down my bedroom wall with a battering ram.

"Chris, come on! Time to get up! Let's go get your car!" My dad said no lectures, no grounding. This was neither.

A loophole, apparently.

"Go 'way!" I growled from my bed.

"Let's go, don't have all day!" BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG, the knocking continued. I swear I heard giggling.

"Okay, okay!" I said, gathering my faculties to the limited extent possible. "Gimme a minute!"

We drove back to DeNunzio's and got my car.

Dad has always had the knack for handling things in just the right way, and because he gave me a certain amount of freedom as a teenager -- with a safety net -- I was able to learn from my mistakes without getting in any real trouble or putting myself in danger.

Thanks, Pop, I appreciate it.

But watch your back. One of these days, I might come pounding on your door at six in the morning.

On a Sunday.

Searching for Cortes

2011-07-30T14:45:00.000-07:00

Hernan Cortes. Explorer.

Try as we might, there is simply no way to avoid the various forms of physical and emotional punishment life has in store for us every day. All we can do is close our eyes and embrace the pain, and then do our best to patch the wounds, soothe the battered feelings and move forward. To help with the recovery, nature has considerately provided us with a universal cure.

It's called "Mom."

No matter what ails you, Mom can take care of it. She'll put mercurochrome and a band-aid on the knee you scraped playing touch football in the street. She'll prepare an ice pack for the purplish knot on your forehead you got from the neighborhood rock war. And in your teen years, she'll give you a hug and a vote of confidence after you spill your guts to her about how totally unfair it is that even though Brenda Cantrell told you she thinks you're really funny and nice and made you fall completely in love with her, she turned around and went to the Valentine's Day dance with that meathead Brent Chastain.

Moms are psychiatric therapy and Robitussin all wrapped up in a flowery apron.

Therapussin.

Mike the Whip had a mom too, her name was Cheryl, and she was one tough lady. She raised her three children more or less on her own, and we're not talking about the Brady kids, either. Mike and his sister and brother were the rough-and-tumble type, and keeping them in line was no easy task. She laid down the law, and ruled with an iron fist. A wooden spoon, actually. Suffice it to say, I saw her crack the Whip on more than one occasion.

She was not exactly Shirley Jones from The Partridge Family, is what I'm saying. She was more like Deacon Jones from the Los Angeles Rams.

It was a snowy Sunday morning, about nine o'clock. I'd spent the night at Mike's house, and we were sitting at his kitchen table finishing off our bowls of Froot Loops, discussing our plans to build a snow fort in his front yard and pelt the passing cars with a barrage of snowballs. A howl from down the hall interrupted our conversation.

"MIIIII-CHAEL!"

"Uh-oh," I said. "What'd you do now?"

"Nothin', I don't think. I'd better -- "

"MICHAEL! GET IN HERE THIS MINUTE!"

"Jesus, Mom, keep your pants on! I'm coming!"

I ignored the Freudian implications of Mike's response, not that I'd have thought of it in those terms when I was ten, and continued shoveling Froot Loops into my mouth as Mike went to see what his Mom wanted. He was back a few minutes later with a ten-dollar bill in his hand.

"C'mon, she wants us to go to Cumberland." Cumberland Farms was a small convenience store a couple blocks away. We put on our coats and went out into the snow.

"So what are we getting?" I asked.

"Something called Cortez."

"What's that?"

"Beats me."

"Didn't you ask her?"

"I tried, but she just started yelling at me to go get Cortez. She's in a real bad mood."

"Isn't she always?" I asked, as I a made a snowball and pegged the stop sign at the corner of Runyon and Grove.

"Yeah, but she's even worse than normal today. I think she's sick." Sensing a challenge, Mike made a snowball of his own, stepped back ten feet or so, and took his shot. He hit the sign right in the middle of the O. We spent the next ten minutes firing snowball grenades from all angles and distances. As usual, Mike won. Final score was fifteen to twelve.

We walked into Cumberland Farms and headed toward the aisle with the band-aids and aspirin. We figured it was as good a place to start as any.

"How do you spell 'Cortez?'" he asked, scanning the shelves. In our circle of friends, I was the "smart one." It was a relative term, to say the least.

"Well, if it's like the guy we're learning about in social studies, it's C-O-R-T-E-S. Or maybe it's a Z at the end. Something like that." In Miss Baron's fifth grade class, we'd just studied explorers. Hernan Cortes, Vasco da Gama, Ferdinand Magellan. Those guys.

"I don't see anything even close to that."

"Maybe we should ask Mr. Panella."

Mr. Panella was the weekend clerk at Cumberland Farms. Mike and I, along with most of our friends, used the mini-mart as our one-stop superstore for baseball cards, slushies, Bottle Caps, Charleston Chews, Mason Dots, Sprees, Twizzlers, and other childhood staples. A couple years later, on a dare of course, Mike would pilfer a six pack of Old Milwaukee from the refrigerator section. On Mr. Panella's watch.

"How you boys doin' today? Enjoyin' the snow?"

"Yeah, absolutely," I said. "Gonna build a fort later on."

"Ah yes, snow forts. I don't suppose you're planning on throwing snowballs at cars or anything, are ya?" he asked rhetorically. Not getting a response, he continued, "Ya need help finding something?"

"Yeah, we're lookin' for something called Cortez," said Mike. "Do you have that?"

"Cortez?" asked Mr. Panella. "Is it some kind of candy?"

The likelihood of Mike's mom sending us out in the snow to get her a previously-unknown brand of chocolate bar was right up there with the possibility of Mike and I spending a snow-day off from school studying our multiplication tables.

"Nah," said Mike, "It's not candy, but I'm not sure what it is. My mom's in bed sick, so it's probably medicine or something."

"Sick? Is it a headache, or is she throwing up?"

"I dunno. She said she has cramps and she's really crabby. Crabbier than usual, I mean."

A woman behind us in line had overheard our conversation, and she tapped Mike on the shoulder. Undoubtedly, in a future conversation, Mike would refer to this brief contact as "getting to second base with an older woman." He was like that.

Smiling, she said to Mike, "Follow me, I think I know what you're looking for." We followed her back to the medicine aisle, passed by the Tylenol, the cough syrup, the Q-tips. She reached for a box and handed it to Mike.

"Here's what your mother sent you for. Better get them home to her right away." She walked away, chuckling.

Mike looked at the package, puzzled. "Kotex? What the hell's this?"

"What's it say on the box?"

Kotex. Nothing at all like Cortes.

"Kotex sani-something napkins? She sent us here for napkins?"

"I guess. That lady seemed to know what she was talking about. Might as well get it."

"Okay, but if I get smacked 'cause this is the wrong thing, I'm kicking your ass."

We took the Kotex to the counter, and Mike fished the ten-spot out of his coat pocket.

"Well, well," said Mr. Panella. "This would certainly explain the crabbiness."

We had no idea what he was talking about.

Back at Mike's house, we stomped the snow off our shoes on the front porch, and walked in. As soon as the door slammed shut, we heard the voice from the bedroom.

"MIIIII-CHAEL! WHAT THE HELL TOOK YOU SO LONG? GET IN HERE!"

"I'm tellin' ya, Chris, this better be what she wanted."

"Good luck, man."

He returned a minute later, looking relieved. "Yep, that was it. She's still crabby, though. But at least she let me keep the change. Four bucks!"

So we put our coats back on and walked back to Cumberland Farms, stopping for a snowball-at-the-stop-sign rematch along the way, and bought four dollars worth of Bottle Caps and Charleston Chews.

All in all, not a bad morning. And we still had the snow fort to look forward to.

d

Mike

2011-07-21T08:32:00.000-07:00

Mike the Whip was the first friend I ever had.

His family lived right across the street from mine, on Runyon Avenue in a small New Jersey town. Mike and I met when we were three years old, and for the better part of twelve years, we encountered all sorts of relatively mild adventures. Whether we were imitating our hero Evel Knievel or busting light bulbs at an abandoned toy factory, Mike was always the star of the show. He was fearless, fun-loving, and couldn't say no to a dare. Everyone should have a friend like Mike the Whip.

For a number of reasons that I won't get into here, Mike's childhood was shorter than most kids'. When we were twelve, his family moved a few miles away, and we lost touch. But a couple years later they returned, so Mike and I were classmates in ninth grade. He'd only been gone a short time, but a lot of changes happen between the ages of twelve and fifteen, and I noticed that Mike was somehow different . . . edgier. Don't misunderstand, he was still a loyal friend with a good heart, but a lot of the "fun" was gone. He was more serious about things, and seemed to be expecting the worst in most situations. For example, our friend Paul and I had been receiving a lot of harassment from a kid named Gordie, who lived down the street. Nothing too serious, mainly threats and verbal bullshit, but when Mike heard about it he decided to take care of things. The next time Gordie showed up on our block, Mike walked up to him and without saying one word, blasted him in the jaw with a right hook.

The harassment stopped.

Then my family moved to Southern California and although I never heard from Mike again, I never forgot him. I've greatly enjoyed sharing our adventures with all of you, and while I'll admit to a certain amount of "artistic license," the Mike that comes across in these stories is a reasonable facsimile of who he was as a kid. Over the years, I've tried to hunt him down on the web, Google searches and what not, and until recently I had no success whatsoever. A few days ago, through a friend, I found out that Mike changed his last name when he was eighteen . . . he took his mom's maiden name as his own. With that information, I was finally able to track Mike down.

Here's what I found out.

After high school, Mike lived for several years in a town not far from where we grew up and worked as a bartender. After that, he got married, moved to Florida, and became an ironworker. This is not a great deal of information, but it was something, and I would have been very happy to have learned at least this much if not for one detail.

I was reading it in an obituary from 2002.

Mike the Whip died at age 37 as the result of "a tragic accident at work." Knowing Mike, he was probably doing something difficult or dangerous that no one else wanted to do, but needed to be done. That's who he was.

Fearless.

There are many more Mike the Whip stories that I want to share from our youth, but those will have to wait for another time. For now, I want to remember who he was, think about the man he became, and mourn how he left us far too soon.

Take care, Mike. We won't forget you.

d

The Best and the Worst: Sports Names

2011-07-18T14:22:00.000-07:00

There have been some great names in the history of organized sports. Some names are memorable for the way they sound to the ear, names like Cassius Clay and Antero Niittymaki for example. Names with onomatopoeic qualities are also a lot of fun. You'd be hard-pressed to find a more appropriately-named hockey player than former Tampa Bay Lightning bruiser Radek Bonk.

At the other end of the spectrum, you'll find names that are at best unfortunate and at worst, tragic. I could probably do an entire top ten list of athletes whose names would be more suitable for adult film stars, but for the sake of variety I'll resist the temptation. Therefore, former major leaguers Johnny "Ugly" Dickshot, Dick Pole and Pete LaCock didn't make the final cut.

For our purposes here, we're only going to use athletes' given names. Anyone can come up with a catchy nickname like Magic Johnson, Too Tall Jones or Boom Boom Mancini. But it's a true mark of greatness (or embarrassment) when you've got a memorable moniker right from birth.

So grab your peanuts and Crackerjacks and enjoy your visit to the Sports Name Hall of Fame/Shame.

BEST

1. Mickey Mantle (MLB)

"Now batting, for the Yankees . . . centah fieldah . . . numbah seven . . . MICKEY MANTLE . . . numbah seven."

When Yankee Stadium public address announcer Bob Sheppard introduced Mantle to the crowd, it was like the voice of God. Simply put, there is no better name in sports than the alliterative and All-American sounding Mickey Mantle. It's the perfect name for an athlete, or possibly a superhero.

"Mild-mannered bank teller Mickey Mantle spends the daylight hours blending in among the citizens of New York City, but when darkness falls and the criminal element creeps out from dank cellars and secret hideaways, Mantle downs a couple shots of Jim Beam and a six-pack of Budweiser and becomes . . . CAPTAIN CHARISMA!"

One of the greatest Yankees of all time, he also has the greatest name. Eat your heart out, Joe Dimaggio.

2. Usain Bolt (Track and Field)

The fastest sprinter in the world has a name like "Bolt?" The headlines practically write themselves.

USAIN BOLTS TO ANOTHER GOLD MEDAL

LIKE A BOLT OUT OF THE BLUE

BOLT OF LIGHTNING

I wonder if the name is what inspired him to become a track star. If he were named Usain Vault, would he have risen to fame as an Olympic gymnast? Would an up-and-coming Usain Splash have unseated Michael Phelps as the greatest swimmer on the planet? Don't look now, Shaun White, but you're about to hand over your snowboarding crown to the great Usain McHalfpipe.

The name makes the man, or so they say.

3. Lindy Ruff (NHL)

In hockey, there is a situation known as "coincidental minor penalties." This is when two players from opposing teams are simultaneously slapped with two-minute sentences in the penalty box for minor infractions such as hooking, slashing, or failing to end a sentence with the word "eh?"

I know. Canadians.

Anyway, I think a better definition of a coincidental minor penalty would be if former NHL defenseman Bill Houlder were penalized for holding. Or if Cory Cross were sent off for cross-checking. And of course, in keeping with the topic at hand, if ex-Buffalo Sabre Lindy Ruff were banished to the sin bin for roughing.

What a great name, though, right? Ruff. And he'd better be. Imagine the trash talk if he lost a fight.

"Get up, Lindy, and see if you can find the rest of your teeth. From now on, we're gonna call you 'Lindy Timid.'"

4. Van Lingle Mungo (MLB)

I love the way this one rolls off the tongue. Van Lingle Munnnnn-go. Apparently so does jazz singer/pianist Dave Frishberg, because he wrote a song about it. In fact, when you Google "Van Lingle Mungo" you get more hits for the song than you do for the actual guy, who was a pretty decent pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1930's.

Click here to listen to Frishberg's tune, you won't be sorry.

5. Scott Speed (NASCAR)

This one is so perfect I'm tempted to not even believe it's his real name. I can just see the young and aspiring race driver Scott Kromwicki sitting around one day thinking, "Man, I'll never make it in NASCAR with a name like Kromwicki. I need to come up with something zippy, something flashy." After rejecting "Scott O'Sparkplug," "Scott Turbo," and even "Slammin' Scotty Bumpdraft," he finally settled upon the simple and memorable Scott Speed. It sounds like Speed Racer's cousin, or something.

But he didn't make it up at all . . . that's the name he was born with. And it's absolutely perfect for the NASCAR circuit.

Too bad he's not very good. Hasn't won in several years.

Maybe he should adopt a pseudonym like "Scott Slow."

HONORABLE MENTIONS: Jonathan Quick (NHL), Shaquille O'Neal (NBA), Jeff Beukeboom (pronounced BOO-Kaboom, like an exploding ghost) (NHL)

WORST

1. Dick Trickle (NASCAR)

Easily the most ridiculous name in sports, if not the entire history of mankind. I've never understood why guys named Richard willingly go by the name "Dick." Even when you have a normal last name, like York or Van Patten, it can't do much for the ego when you're hearing, "Hey, how are you today, DICK?" But when your last name is also a word . . . it can lead to absolute disaster.

Seriously, Dick Trickle? It sounds like a diagnosis you'd get from a urologist.

"We just got the results back from the lab, and while your prostate looks fine, it seems like you've got an advanced case of dick trickle. Here's a prescription for Flomax, and we'll schedule a follow-up exam for next month."

Seems like Ricky Trickle would've been a wiser choice.

2. Grant Balfour (MLB)

Let's examine this one, shall we? If your name is the command "GRANT BALL FOUR," what would be the absolute worst job for you to have?

Exactly.

Grant Balfour is a major league pitcher for the Oakland A's. Amazingly, he's not the first hurler to overcome a name that implies ineptitude. Back in the 1980's, the Pittsburgh Pirates had a pitcher by the name of Bob Walk.

Announcers must love it. "The three-one pitch . . . slider, low and outside, Grant Balfour just did."

I can hardly think of anything worse. An NFL kicker named Steve Widewright? A running back named Tyrell Fumbleman?

Grant Balfour. I guess it's better than Dick Trickle.

3. Fair Hooker (NFL)

Listen up, parents. When your last name is a synonym for prostitute, you have to be very, very careful about naming your child. "Michael Hooker" isn't going to attract unwanted attention. "Rich Hooker" and "Randy Hooker" most definitely will.

Which brings us to former Cleveland Browns wide receiver, Fair Hooker. Let me start by saying, what the hell? "Fair" isn't even a name. It's like Mr. and Mrs. Hooker did this on purpose. You can even look at it two different ways:

While many Vegas prostitutes do an outstanding job of customer "service," Champagne Fixxx is only a below average-to-fair hooker.

Cinnamon Bunns told me I could get a full hour for two hundred bucks, but then she left after forty-five minutes. She is not a very fair hooker.

Monday Night Football's Don Meredith said it best. "Fair Hooker? I've never met one."

One very tall Fucka.

4. Gregor Fucka (European Basketball)

Okay, okay, to be completely fair about it, there's supposed to be some little symbol over the c, the name's Slovakian, and it's pronounced "FOOTCH-ka."

But still.

One can only imagine the hell his MOTHER went through. "Are you Mother Fucka?"

And imagine what happened when she had to pick up the kids at the babysitter. "Ivan and Helga are here to get their little Fuckas. And not a moment too soon, those Fuckas were absolutely horrible today. I can't want for them to get the Fuckas out of here."

Sure, as a European basketball player, he's a virtual unknown here in the States, but one can only hope he'll someday find his way to the NBA. I'd love to see him play for the Knicks. You know the Madison Square Garden crowd would hang a huge banner:

WELCOME TO NEW YORK, FUCKA!

5. Craphonso Thorpe (NFL)

It started innocently enough. Craphonso's father is named Craig Alphonso Thorpe, who thought it would be clever to smash his first and middle names together to create "Craphonso" (pronounciation: Cra-FONZ-o). Pretty clever, actually, and if his name were Robert Edward Thorpe, having a son named Robard would be unusual, but not embarrassing. But I don't completely blame Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe for this one. Someone at the hospital needed to step up to avert this disaster. I'm picturing the scene, when they're giving the information to the nurse in charge of the birth certificate.

NURSE: Okay, Mr. Thorpe, have you and your wife chosen a name?
CRAIG: Yes we have, we're going to call him Craphonso.
NURSE: Can you spell that for me?
CRAIG: Sure. C-R-A-P . . ."
NURSE: Whoa, whoa, whoa, are you sure about this?
CRAIG: What?
NURSE: That spells "crap." You really want to do that to the kid?
CRAIG: It uses both my names. Craig and Alphonso. Cra-FONZ-o. Get it?
NURSE: Yes. I get it. It starts with crap, and he's going to hate you.
CRAIG: Just write it down, that's what we're going with.

Good thing dad's name wasn't Balthazar Isaac Thorpe. Otherwise, Peyton Manning would be completing touchdown passes to a guy named Balsaac.

DISHONORABLE MENTIONS: Dick Butkus (NFL), Miroslav Satan (NHL, and sadly, NOT for the New Jersey Devils), Ron Tugnutt (NHL)

d

What Ever Happened To . . . Pebbles Flintstone?

2011-07-12T14:50:00.000-07:00

The only daughter of Fred and Wilma Flintstone, Pebbles lived as normal a childhood as possible, when you consider that her dog was a barking dinosaur, their kitchen sink was a woolly mammoth, and the family car was powered by her father's oversized feet. By all accounts, Pebbles had a bubbly personality, cheerful disposition, and was a joy to be around.

During her junior year at Bedrock High School, however, her demeanor began to change. Pebbles had developed into an attractive teenager (according to a male classmate named Shale McQuarry, she was "a stone cold knockout"), but she was uncomfortable with that sort of attention which caused her to become withdrawn, and her self-image deteriorated rapidly.

"We didn't notice it right away," admits Wilma. "But Pebbles became sullen and moody. She was involved with the boy next door, and he was always polite to Fred and me, but we just weren't sure about the nature of their relationship. They'd go into Pebbles' room, and for hours we'd hear nothing but 'Bamm! Bamm! Bamm bamm bamm! Looking back, maybe we should've talked to her about it."

Pebbles dropped out of high school halfway through 12th grade and took a job as a waitress at the local Hootstones. The attention of older men gave her the self-esteem she'd never gotten from her relationship with, as Fred called him, "that Rubble kid." Pebbles was growing up quickly.

Too quickly, as it turned out.

"Working at Hootstones showed me that I could be my own woman," said Pebbles in an interview for Rocksmopolitan Magazine. "My high school relationship was purely physical, and Bamm Bamm didn't respect me one bit. I wasn't meant to be the plaything of some hormonal Neanderthal. I'm better than that."

When her Hootstones income proved insufficient to support her increasingly materialistic and self-centered lifestyle, Pebbles took to stripping. Headlining at the Spearmint Stegosaurus, she averaged several hundred bones a week, just in tips. At the age of 20, Pebbles was invited by none other than Hugh Hefrock to spend a few weeks at the Caveboy Mansion. She quickly became Hef's favorite, and was featured as the Cavemate of the Month in the magazine's July issue.

Predictably, Pebbles soon outlived her usefulness to Hef and, running low on viable options, she returned to Bedrock to try to reconcile with her estranged parents. When her bus pulled into Granite Central Station, however, she was greeted by none other than her ex-boyfriend Bamm Bamm Rubble, who'd armed himself with two dozen roses and a Whitrock's Sampler. They walked to a nearby coffee shop, and reminisced about days gone by.

Pebbles decided to give him another chance.

When your main squeeze has a nightclub bouncer name like "Bamm Bamm", there's no point crying "foul" when he clubs you upside the head for overcooking the brontosaurus burgers. On a muggy August night, Rubble knocked Pebbles unconscious with repeated bamms to the head. Thinking he'd punched her ticket to the big quarry in the sky, Bamm Bamm rushed her to nearby Bedrock General Hospital where she was immediately taken in for surgery.

Distraught at what he'd done, Bamm Bamm drove to the home of his parents, Barney and Betty. When he told them the story, the three Rubbles went next door to break the news to the Flintstones.

This was a poor decision.

Upon hearing that his Pebbly-Poo had been reduced to a comatose red-headed fossil, Fred went absolutely sabertoothed-tigershit. He stormed into his bedroom, got his Slate and Wesson 357 Night Guard, and dropped Bamm Bamm with a bullet to the head.

Fred Flintstone was arrested and convicted for the murder of Bamm Bamm Rubble. He is currently serving a life sentence in Gravelworth Penitentiary.

Although Pebbles survived the savage beating, she was never quite the same. She has frequent dizzy spells, occasional memory loss, and a few really unattractive scars. An attempted civil suit against the Rubbles was short-circuited when Barney Rubble pointed out (reasonably), "Hey, our kid is dead. Yours is just a bit wonky. Whaddaya say we call it a wash?"

Putting the past behind them, Barney and Betty Rubble moved to Fort Lauderstone, and are currently retired.

Pebbles lives at home with Wilma and Dino the Dinosaur.

And Bamm Bamm is still dead.

d

Doody Duty

2011-07-04T00:03:00.000-07:00

If you're a dog owner like I am, you've probably devised an efficient and reasonably sanitary system for removing your pet's butt biscuits from your yard. My technique is fairly simple: Theresa does it. This is because, without putting too fine a point on it, our dogs Munson and Newton are the canine version of Beavis and Butthead which is to say, they are incredibly stupid when it comes to finding a proper location for doing their business.

Case in point. Our backyard is a combination of bare lawn (read: dirt), decorative rock, and patio. And also a swimming pool, but thankfully, the pool is not a major character in this troubling tale of turdish treachery. You would think that the easiest and most comfortable place for our wonder mutts to drop the doggy deuce would be the dirt, right? Well, you are exactly wrong. They often choose to go on the rocks which, on particularly warm days, makes for a fairly disgusting clean-up process.

At least that's what Theresa tells me.

Welcome to Atlantic City.

But cleaning up after our dogs is a duty (rimshot) we humans must undertake with diligence because otherwise the entire planet will be overcome with poop and end up smelling like Philadelphia. You're probably thinking, hey, didn't he mean to say "end up smelling like New Jersey?" No, I did not. Bashing New Jersey is a cruel and over-used cheapshot taken by comedians who don't appreciate the Garden State's finer qualities. I happen to be from Jersey (specifically, Exit 9), and I therefore know that it doesn't smell anything like dog poop.

It smells like raw sewage and chemical waste.

In breaking news from Lebanon, New Hampshire which I am not making up, Debbie Violette, the manager of Timberwood Commons Apartments, has implemented her plan to identify and prosecute individuals who do not clean up after their Shih-Tzus and poodles. Using scientific technology developed by BioPet Vet Labs, Violette patrols the apartment complex, collects samples of dog poop that have been carelessly left on the property, and with the help of -- I'm still not making this up -- "PooPrints" DNA testing, determines the identity of the offending dog and owner. For this to work, of course, Timberwood Commons's dog owners are required to submit a DNA sample to Violette's office to be filed for future reference.

Debbie Violette, Doody DNA Specialist

"I want people to know we're serious about this," says Violette. "We've tried sending warning letters, we've tried doing a lot of things."

I'm not sure why Violette thought that dogs would respond to warning letters, since they can't open envelopes without shredding them completely to smithereens, but I admire her creativity in addressing such a stinky situation. She could really take it to the next level by getting the CSI specialists involved.

Cue theme music: "Whooooo are you? Doo doo, doo doo . . . "

Interior: Forensic laboratory, Crime Scene Investigation Unit, Las Vegas, Nevada. Lead Investigator Gil Grissom and Level 3 Investigator Nick Stokes have received an evidence sample from freelance investigator Debbie Violette of the Timberwood Commons Fecal Collection Team and are completing their final analysis.

GRISSOM: Judging from the size and consistency of this sample, we're probably looking at a small-to-medium sized canine with a canned dog food diet. Could be a cocker spaniel, a beagle maybe. I'm going to run the DNA sample through DeCAP and see if we get a match.

STOKES: DeCAP?

GRISSOM: Stands for "Defecating Canine Apprehension Program." The database contains information on all dogs in North America, including the name and address of their owner, genetic background, and criminal history.

STOKES: That's dog-gone brilliant!

GRISSOM: You're a riot, Nick.

CSI experts Brass, Grissom, and Stokes always get their mutt.

Grissom runs the sample, and retrieves a print-out of the results.

GRISSOM: Looks like we found our culprit. This poop was left on the grounds of Timberwood Commons Apartment Complex by a six-year old Boston Terrier named Max, owned by a Jonathan Tompkins of Lebanon, New Hampshire.

STOKES: Any priors?

GRISSOM: This mutt's got a rap sheet as long as a greyhound's hind leg. Three outstanding warrants for unlawful defecation, six counts of felony catslaughter, a couple citations for public urination and a misdemeanor for destruction of a couch cushion.

STOKES: I'll call the Lebanon Department of Animal Control with the results. It's about time to get that bad dog off the streets.

End Scene.

Even with the fancy technology, it's just a matter of time until dogs and their owners figure out a way to beat the system. For example, instead of sending in an initial DNA sample from your own actual dog, you could steal some poop from a neighbor dog's pile and submit that. This way, when your dog takes a dump on the complex's lawn and you ignore it like you always do because you're a lazy son of a bitch who has no regard for the environment or the soles of your neighbors' sneakers, the DNA testing will eliminate your canine as a suspect.

Violette would have to be on the lookout for turd burglars, is what I'm saying.

As a favor to those around you, always take a few minutes to scoop up your dog's poop. Even without the threat of DNA evidence and eventual prosecution, it's still the right thing to do. As I said, it's not that difficult or time consuming.

Especially if you can make a family member do it.

d

Forehand Folly

2011-06-28T14:28:00.000-07:00

Summer is here and in an effort to do something other than sit on my butt watching TV all day, I've decided to start playing tennis again. Ten years and several pounds ago I played the game three or four times a week, and I'd actually gotten pretty good. Measuring your success at tennis is different than in other sports. In bowling, for example, if you keep rolling the ball into the gutter and wind up with a score of, say, seventeen, there's no sugar-coating it. You just plain suck. If you're golfing and you spend five minutes whiffing at the golf ball before you finally manage to shank it fifty yards into the trees, it's time to take up a new hobby. But in tennis, just as in sex, as long as you're with someone of the same basic skill level, things are going to be fine. Problems of course arise when one partner is a whole lot better than the other. When that happens, there's a really good chance you're going to get your balls smashed back into your chest.

So last week, I went to play tennis with three of my friends -- Matt, Martin, and Ray. Those guys have been playing regularly for several years and are therefore much better than I am. If we were the Beatles, for example, the three of them would be John, Paul and George while I would be Ringo. Actually, that's giving me too much credit. Ringo had his moments, and when hey-hey-hey came to yeah-yeah-yeah, he was a pretty respectable drummer. I guess I'd be the guy who got kicked out of the Beatles right before they became famous because he didn't want to get the haircut or something. On a related note, if you or someone you know has a tendency to let their analogies spin wildly out of control, contact the Convoluted Analogy Hotline at 1-800-COW-IS-TO-CALF. Operators are standing by.

We normally play doubles, first of all because there's four of us and the math works out conveniently, and also because with two players on a side, there's less running around to do. For my part, I pretty much stand in one place hitting the balls that come directly to me while my teammate Matt runs around like a maniac getting everything else. He's younger and fitter than I am which, while not saying much, is definitely a factor in devising our game plan. Besides, I'm a little rusty on basic tennis strategy, so I'm never quite sure where on the court I'm supposed to be. A lot of the time, and I only wish I were exaggerating here, it looks like I'm playing dodgeball.

In formal tennis tournaments like Wimbledon, the U.S. Open, or the Greater Pawtucket Regional Tennis Classic, a team of linesmen (or lineswomen) position themselves at various locations around the perimeter of the court to determine if the players' shots are in or out of bounds. If a ball hits "inside" the line or "on" the line, the ball is considered to be "in." If a shot, for whatever reason, goes screaming into the stands and caroms off the skull of a guy returning to his seat with a handful of churros, the ball is called "out." There is another umpire who sits in a tall chair at center court called, coincidentally enough, the "chair umpire." His (or her) primary responsibility, as far as I can tell, is to have profanities screamed at him by John McEnroe.

In a casual match, such as the one Matt, Martin, Ray and I were engaging in last week, players make the call for their opponents' shots. You'd think the temptation to cheat would be overwhelming, but in our case it turned out to be just the opposite. We're all friends, of course, and I could tell that Martin and Ray were giving me the benefit of the doubt on a lot of their line calls. It's almost as if they were thinking, You know, Chris hasn't played in a while and he sure ran a long way to get to the ball on that one. What's a couple inches or so? "IN! NICE SHOT!"

Even so, Matt and I lost the first set 7-5.

Which brings us to the topic of keeping score.

The scoring system in tennis is so complicated and random that it makes a bowling scoresheet seem like child's play. A child playing with a computer, perhaps, but still a child. To make things as simple as possible -- remember this is relative -- we'll work backwards.

The winner of a tennis match is the first player (or doubles pair) to win three sets. For women, it's best two out of three because women usually have better things to do than spend four or five hours chasing fuzzy yellow balls around. Win the most sets, you win the match. This is the easy part.

To win a set, you have to be the first to win six games (we'll talk about "games" in a minute), by a margin of two. For example, a set cannot end by a score of six games to five. When it gets to that point, you play another game and either the set is won 7-5, or it's tied at six and you play what's known as a "tiebreaker." The tiebreaker is decided when one player (or team) reaches seven points, again by a margin of two. Tiebreakers have been known to last several weeks and end with a score of 140-138.

Believe it or not, this is still the easy part.

To win a game, you have to win four points, again by the ever-present margin of two. In most sports, like hockey and baseball for example, the scoring is linear. One, two, three, four . . . you get the idea. In tennis, however, you do not start with "zero." You start with "love." As sweet as that sounds, it doesn't make a lot of sense. When you score your first point, you have 15. Your second point takes you to 30. So here's a quick quiz. What do you have when you get your third point?

Did you say 45?

Wrong.

After your third point, you have 40. This has never been explained to anyone without their head exploding.

When the game is tied at 40, this is called "deuce." Then someone has to win two points in a row to win the game. There's more to explain, like the definitions of "ad-in" and "ad-out" but it would just bore you into oblivion if that hasn't already happened.

Back to our doubles match.

After losing the first set, Matt and I rebounded and took the second one six games to four. Halfway through the set, I started to feel like I was dragging a Steinway grand piano through wet cement but we persevered through my agony.

The highlight of the match was when one of my errant serves drilled Matt in the back of the head. But he didn't even get mad.

This is because he knew there was no way I would've hit his head if I'd actually been aiming at it.

d

Blockbuster Brouhaha

2011-06-19T21:31:00.000-07:00

Technologically speaking, the early 1990's were basically the dark ages. The Internet had yet to be invented, music was stored on cassette tapes and compact discs, and Blu-Ray was something that Mrs. Charles only did on her husband's birthday. One common form of entertainment way back then was something we called "renting a video." There were special stores for it and everything.

One Saturday evening, I drove a mile and a half to one such store, called "Blockbuster Video." After browsing the action-adventure shelves for a few minutes, I decided on Die Hard 2: Die Harder. I'd seen the original Bruce Willis masterpiece, of course, so I pretty much knew what to expect from the sequel. I took the movie to the checkout counter, grabbed a couple bags of microwave popcorn (with butter) and left the store, eagerly anticipating the two hours of cinematic mayhem I was about to experience.

Back at home, I dumped the popped popcorn into a bowl, cracked open a Diet Dr. Pepper, and inserted Die Hard 2: Die Harder into my video cassette recorder, or as it was more commonly known, my VCR. For younger readers, or those of you with some sort of memory disorder, VCRs were devices in which you could put a "tape" and then "record" a show from television. You could also "play" a store-bought "movie" or pre-recorded "program" and sit on your couch watching it until your brain cells "imploded." It was like TiVO but without the magic. There were all sorts of problems with this technology, for example, once the tape got all twisted and stuck (usually the fourth or fifth time you played it) the movie was thereby converted into garbage. Also, when your tape ended, you had to take about five minutes to rewind the damn thing before you could watch it again.

It was like living in the Stone Age.

So there I was, relaxing on my couch, watching the opening scene where Bruce Willis senses trouble at Dulles International Airport and ends up killing an innocent evil mercenary, when I suddenly got the feeling that I'd seen this movie before. Not wanting to sit through the whole thing again, I rewound the tape, put it back in its plastic case, and returned it to Blockbuster where I figured they'd let me exchange it for something I hadn't seen, like Predator.

Here's where the trouble starts and let me remind you once again, for the purposes of this story, you are on my side.

I took Die Hard 2: Die Harder to the counter and explained the situation to Lauren the assistant manager, who appeared to be about eleven years old.

"Hi, I just rented this movie, but stupid me, it turns out I've already seen it. Is there any way I could exchange it for a different one?"

Lauren gave me a look similar to one she might have given me had I asked her to explain how the situation in Europe immediately after the fall of Germany led directly to the Cold War and if, in her opinion, the Western Allies should have acted to oppose Soviet domination of Eastern Europe.

"You want to do what?" she asked.

"I rented Die Hard 2: Die Harder, but when I started watching it, I realized I've seen it before. Can I just exchange it for a different movie?"

"I'm sorry, that's against company policy. I can't do that."

"You can't? Why not? What's the problem?"

"Well, how do I know you haven't already watched the video and are trying to get a second one free?"

"Okay. Good question, Lauren, you make an excellent point. But look. Right here on my receipt it says I paid for the video at 6:44. It is now 7:31. According to the box for Die Hard 2: Die Harder -- see right there? -- the running time is 124 minutes. I'll do the math for you, that's a little over two hours. So I couldn't possibly have watched it by now."

"Maybe you just took the movie home and made a copy."

"I wouldn't know how to do that even if I wanted to."

"Well, I can't exchange it. You'll just have to return that one and rent another movie."

Clearly, I was dealing with someone who was incapable of thinking beyond her bubble or making a customer-friendly decision. I figured I'd try to walk her through a solution.

"Lauren, listen carefully. All you have to do is scan this one back in, then let me choose another movie. I'm sure there's a procedure for this kind of thing. You must be able to do something."

"I'd need approval from the manager."

"Okay, great, let's get him out here."

"It's his day off. I'm in charge. And I'm telling you, you can't exchange movies."

"Fine, just give me a refund and I'll pay for a different one. How about that?"

"Sorry, no refunds."

"You know, Lauren," I said, feeling the anger percolating in my guts. "It's stupid-ass policies and mindless drones like you that will one day, about fifteen years from now, inspire some creative genius to come up with a system where, for a reasonable monthly fee, customers can order movies, have them mailed to their homes, keep them for as long as they like, and then simply send them back. They'll call it Mailflix or something. When that happens, Lauren, you watch how quickly Blockbuster and its 'let's-screw-over-the-customer' business philosophy fall right off the face of the earth."

"I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice, sir, you're disturbing our customers."

That's it, Lauren, make me the bad guy.

"I'm a customer, dammit, and you're disturbing me! Now are you going to let me exchange this movie, or am I going to write a letter to your corporate office and explain how completely uncooperative and rude you've been?"

"You know, sir, because you're causing a scene, I'm going to give you your money back and ask you to leave."

I'm sure that Lauren thought she was doing the right thing, customer service-wise, and figured that by giving me a refund she would ease my hostility and send me on my way. But she couldn't have been more wrong.

"Oh, but wait, Lauren, I thought you said you couldn't give out refunds."

"I can if it will get you out of the store, you're disrupting our business."

"What the hell?! You can't give me a refund if I'm being calm and reasonable, but you can give me a refund for being a loud, obnoxious jerk? Don't you realize you're simply rewarding my bad behavior? Doesn't really make me feel like cooperating, if you want to know the truth."

I walked over to the rack of Red Vines, Whoppers, and Raisinets. "What happens if I pick up this candy display and chuck it through the plate glass window?" I asked, eyes ablaze. "Do I get a thousand shares of Blockbuster stock?"

"Sir, here's your money back. Please leave now before I call the police."

Not wanting to rehash this entire fiasco with the local authorities, I took my money and headed for the door.

"Good night, sir. Have a nice evening."

I replied with the great Bruce Willis line from Die Hard 2: Die Harder.

"Yippee-ki-yay, Motherfucker."

Wait a minute.

"Yippee-ki-yay, Motherfucker" was from the original Die Hard. The one where he's trying to rescue people from a tall building . . . with the bad guy named Hans Gruber . . . I thought that was . . .

Well, shit. Turns out I haven't seen Die Hard 2: Die Harder after all.

I'll have to put it on my Netflix list.

d

Alfundo Anxiety

2011-06-13T19:34:00.000-07:00

Any psychologist worth his salt will tell you that the only way to conquer your fears is to face them head-on. Also, he'll tell you that the phrase "worth his salt" is out-dated and stupid. While the idea of facing one's fears sounds like reasonable advice, and works well for the fear of hamsters or the fear of flannel, it probably falls short in more terrifying situations. If you had, for example, an innate fear of being pummeled to death by former heavyweight champ Mike Tyson, would you really want to face up to it? Sure, you could walk up to Iron Mike and say, "Hey, Champ, the Lullaby League called, they want their voice back. And by the way, nice tattoo." That would indeed be a fine example of facing your fear, but then you'd be facing reconstructive facial surgery. At best.

When I was young, I was afraid of lots of things. Some were relatively minor, like clowns and the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. They were petrifying, yes, but it's not like Bozo was going to follow me to school. That's mostly because Mike the Whip would've beaten the seltzer out of him, but also because he's a fictional TV character. I got over my childhood phobias by the time I was about eight. Well, that's not entirely true. I watched Stephen King's It on cable a few months ago and it freaked me out all over again.

My fear of fire lasted quite a bit longer. Like, permanently. To this day, I've never struck a match or flicked a Bic. On camping trips, I have to find a three-foot stick to roast marshmallows. If I have to light the fireplace, which is to say "if I can't find Theresa," I use one of those trigger-operated lighters that look like miniature shotguns. I'm not sure where this fear came from, but it's here to stay. On the plus side, though, I'm never going to be a suspect in an arson case. So there's that.

One fear that I did manage to take on and conquer was my fear of roller coasters. When I was a kid, my parents would take me and my brothers to Dorney Park in eastern Pennsylvania. I don't know if it still exists (I suppose I could Google it), but back in the 70's it was wonderful, even though their mascot was a creepy clown named Alfundo. I loved almost everything about Dorney Park; the Skeeball games, bumper cars, miniature golf. Everything except the gigantic wooden roller coaster which was called "One Way Ticket to Hell" or something like that. Every year, my dad would try to bribe me into riding that thing, to no avail. Promises of cotton candy and soft-serve ice cream didn't stand a chance against bone-chilling mortal fear.

It wasn't until I was about 11 that I finally rode my first roller coaster. Space Mountain, Walt Disney World, 1976. At that time, Space Mountain had only been in existence for one year, and many rumors swirled regarding its safety. It was supposedly so fast that people were losing their glasses, false teeth, wallets, and overpriced lunches. I wasn't exactly eager to put myself through that, hell, it had only been about a year since I'd gathered up the nerve to go on the Haunted Mansion. But with some encouragement from my father, I agreed to give Space Mountain a try.

We stood in line for over an hour. During this time, the dark recesses of my mind spewed out images of a roller coaster pushing Mach 2, whipping around the track flinging passengers to the Happiest Death on Earth. Dad didn't help matters, either. If you've ever been on Space Mountain, you know that there are all sorts of space objects projected in the darkness. Comets, asteroids that look like giant chocolate chip cookies, meteors. Well, my dad pointed to one of the stars zipping across the ceiling and said, "See that? That's one of the cars!" I could just feel the seven-dollar hot dog looking for the escape hatch.

We finally boarded the ride, and for about thirty seconds, I was petrified. But then I started to enjoy it. I enjoyed it a lot. We got back in line and rode it again. Just like that, I was hooked.

I rode my first "loop" coaster, "Lightning Loops" at Six Flags' Great Adventure, on my eighth grade class trip. After that, I became somewhat of a roller coaster aficionado. Magic Mountain's "X" is probably my favorite, but "California Screamin'" at Disney's California Adventure is a fantastic ride, too.

But over the past couple years, things have started to change again. Don't get me wrong, I still love riding roller coasters, but I have to pick and choose. It seems that certain rides, particularly those that swing side to side like "Batman" at Magic Mountain make me want to do the ol' technicolor yawn. Even the friggin' Ferris Wheel at California Adventure turned me a vague greenish color.

That just getting me getting older, though. It's not fear.

Fear would be a roller coaster soaring through rings of fire, with Alfundo riding next to me. And maybe a flying monkey or two working the controls.

d

Word Wackiness

2011-06-06T22:11:00.000-07:00

A famous writer once said, "When you can't think of anything to write about, write about not being able to think about anything to write about."

Okay, I just made that up. But see? I'm already four sentences into a piece about absolutely nothing, so perhaps there's some merit to that fictional philosophy after all.

Which doesn't change the fact that I've got nothing whatsoever to write about.

That's not entirely true. I do have another Mike the Whip story percolating, the one about the time we dared him to steal a six-pack from the local Stop-N-Shop. It's pretty funny, actually. We were about ten years old and bored, so we walked to the corner store to buy a couple Slurpees. Cola for me, cherry for Mike and Robbie. The store had a big Budweiser display, and that's when Robbie decided to test Mike's nerve. Anyway, I'll get to that story in the next week or so, but it's going to take a bit of time to work up. So for now you get to plod your way through this garbage, if you're still reading up to this point.

I guess we could talk about a few of my favorite words. Like festooned, for example, I love that one. The basic definition is "decorated with," as in, "By the time Mrs. Jones finished preparing for her son Jimmy's birthday party, their living room was festooned with streamers, balloons, and a giant octopus pinata." That's your basic usage of "festooned," but if we contemplate the situation outside the cubical cardboard container for a moment, we can have even more fun.

For instance, "Corporal Wilson threw himself on the live grenade, saving five members of his platoon; however, the inside of the foxhole was then festooned with Corporal Wilson's innards."

Another great word is fisticuffs. If you've been hanging around here for awhile, you've undoubtedly come across that one a few times. It's such a classy and articulate way to say "ass-kicking" or "beating the shit out of each other." Check out the difference.

When Otis and Frank realized there was only one donut left, Frank grabbed Otis by the throat and strangled him within an inch of his life. And then he grabbed the cruller.

Or . . .

When Otis and Frank realized there was only one donut left, they settled the matter with fisticuffs.

And it sounds cool, too. Fisty-cuffs. Like a more intense pair of handcuffs.

And last but not least, the most versatile and all-encompassing derogatory word of all time, "douchebag." This one's interesting on the surface because it's almost never used in the literal sense. I'm not even sure there is such a thing as a douche bag. Ladies, help us out here.

But as a personal attack, there is simply no match for the incisive, humiliating "douchebag," or if you're from New Jersey, "ya fuckin' douchebag." Again we'll illustrate this through comparison.

"I can't believe Herman just blew off his date with Jenny. What an inconsiderate jerk."

"I can't believe Herman just blew off his date with Jenny. What a fuckin' douchebag."

So much more accurate and vivid.

Given what we've learned today, I guess I'll have to come up with the coolest sentence of all time. Here goes:

Johnny and Phil, after calling each other all sorts of names like "shit-brained douchebag" and "good for nothing swamp sucker," engaged in a spirited display of fisticuffs at which point their bedroom wall became festooned with their blood, mucus, and spittle.

You don't come across linguistic calisthenics like THAT every day, now, do you?

d

Costco Conundrum

2011-05-31T16:34:00.000-07:00

Grocery shopping has always been sort of a necessary evil for me. When I was a kid, my mom used to drag me and my brothers to the local Acme Market, and I would invariably get in trouble for asking the store manager where we could find the Acme Rocket Skates or the Acme Invisible Paint. Also, the decision on what breakfast cereal to get almost always led to fisticuffs.

"I wanna get Boo Berry!"

"You always get to pick! Let's get Cookie Crisp!"

"Cookie Crap sucks! I wanna get Cap'n Crunch!"

Sooner or later, Mom would just grab the first box she could get her hands on, which is how we all discovered the bland taste and fiber-out-your-butt quality of Kellogg's Product 19.

As I've gotten older, my relationship with grocery stores hasn't improved much.

Recently I was at the local Stater Brothers supermarket and as I was putting all my items on the checkout conveyor belt, I noticed that a startling number of my groceries had been smashed all to hell. I suppose I could've been more careful about loading my cart and avoided burying the package of King's Hawaiian Rolls (slogan: So Addictive You'll Think We Make 'em With Crack) under three twelve-packs of Diet Dr. Pepper, but as I will explain momentarily, I had little choice in the matter. With the current layout of the Stater Brothers store, a certain degree of product mutilation was bound to happen.

First of all, the fruits and veggies are at one end of the store, the baked goods at the other. The soda and canned products are located in aisles seven and eight, smack dab in the middle. What this means is no matter which end of the store you start with, the heavy stuff is going to crush either your bread or your tomatoes. It would make far more sense to put your canned goods in aisle one so customers could build a sturdy bottom layer in their cart, then have the freezer section in aisles two and three, and so on until you get to the last aisle which would be stocked with your eggs, breads, and other smooshables.

Not exactly super-symmetric quantum field theory, is it?

So there I was, two weeks ago, thinking I knew all there was to know about supermarkets when Theresa told me she had signed us up for a Costco membership.

Costco, for those of you who are as unfamiliar with it as I was, is basically your Steroid-Pumping-Retail-Slash-Grocery-Metropolis From Hell. To begin with, there's an admission fee, just like Disneyland. For fifty bucks, you can get a Gold Star Membership, which allows you to shop at Costco whenever you darn well feel like it. For a hundred dollars, you can upgrade to the Executive Club which includes all the benefits and privileges of the Gold Star plan along with -- and I quote -- an annual two percent reward on most Costco purchases, as well as additional values on member services, such as lower prices on check printing, payroll services and identity protection; an account bonus for money market and online investing accounts; free roadside assistance for vehicles covered through the auto insurance program; and extra travel benefits.

Just tell me where I can find the Pop Tarts, thank you very much.

When Theresa and I went off on our first Costco shopping spree, I didn't know what to expect. A really big grocery store, is what I was figuring. But once we entered through the magical sliding doorway, this is what I saw:

As it turns out, Costco sells friggin' everything and sells it by the boatload.

For example, in addition to a few slabs of steak and a jumbo package of chicken breasts for barbecuing, I wanted to get a couple cans of Del Monte French-Cut Green Beans. Due to official Costco regulations, though, you can't just get a regular can of beans. You have to buy them in cans the size of your head. Think I'm joking?

Since we don't typically invite the United States Marine Corps to our house for dinner (not that they wouldn't be welcome), I have no idea why Costco would force us to buy this many green beans.

Also, Theresa sometimes likes to fry up a few Tater Tots so we needed to pick up a bottle of Mazola Corn Oil. But alas, Costco doesn't carry mere bottles of the stuff, so we ended up buying it in a very convenient eight-gallon jug.

That should take care of our Tater Tot needs well into the year 2015.

It gets even crazier in Costcoland because their product line extends far beyond groceries. Need a flat-screen TV?

Go to Costco.

A gas barbecue?

Costco.

Take a gander at the Table-o-Clothing!

Hammocks, shirts, books, pool toys, furniture?

Costco. You name it, they have it.

Hell, they even have a jewelry department where you can buy a reasonably-priced diamond ring for that special lady in your life. Can't say I'd recommend it, though. There's a reason they don't have a television commercial with a blushing bride-to-be holding out her left hand for her girlfriends to admire, gushing the phrase, "He got it at Costco."

I know. Women.

By the time we'd finished shopping, Theresa and I had so much stuff loaded onto our flatbed cart that we genuinely started to worry about whether or not we'd have room at the house to store the industrial strength drum of Captain Crunch, the shipping crate of Pop Tarts, the 100-pound bag of potato chips, and the 1500-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper.

But wouldn't you know it, Costco has just the solution.

That's right, they even sell sheds.

d

Shopping Shenanigans

2011-05-23T09:59:00.000-07:00

I had planned to do three things on Saturday morning; withdraw money from the bank, go to Easylife Furniture to buy a living room set, go home and spend the rest of the day relaxing.

So I rolled out of bed around 9:00, went through the whole morning routine (Head-Shaving: An Adventure in Blood Loss), and I was ready to roll by 9:30.

"Okay, Theresa, I'm outta here. I'll be back in about half an hour." That truly was my plan. Thirty minutes, no more no less. I'm a guy, running a couple errands isn't exactly blind-folded quadruple by-pass surgery.

"Oh," she said. "You mean you don't want me to come with you?"

This is what's known as a "loaded question" which is to say, it's not a question. It was Theresa's thinly-veiled way of saying, "Yay! Shopping!" I realized of course that if I'd said, "Nah, I"ve got this," I was going to get the pouty-faced guilt trip, so I took a deep breath and replied:

"Of course I do, honey, I'd like nothing better than to take you to the furniture store. I was just thinking that maybe you'd have better things to do than tag along with me."

Translation: "Shit."

I went to the living room and turned on the television while Theresa went through her whole morning routine. Shower, hair, makeup, primping, selecting an outfit, nail-filing, eye-brow tweezing, brushing her teeth, selecting a different outfit, and of course picking out the right shoes. She wrapped it up at 11:00, or put another way, about half an hour after I would've been back had I gone by myself. Had I stuck to my original game plan, I'd be eating my lunch already. Not that I am bitter.

First stop, Bank of America (motto: Fees, Fees, and More Fees),where I filled out the withdrawal slip for a hefty wad of cash. Furniture is not inexpensive unless you're into Gilligan's Island bamboo stuff, which Theresa and I are not.

We drove to Easylife Furniture to pay for the living room set we'd picked out the previous evening. I located Pete, the odd-looking tobacco-stained Easylife sales representative, and filled out the paperwork while Theresa wandered off to check out dressers.

I forgot to tell you this, but we had purchased a dresser the night before, right after we'd selected the living room furniture. Our new dresser was at home in our bedroom as we shopped that morning, so why Theresa felt the need to browse the dresser area is anyone's guess. But far be it from me to question such things, at least to her face.

So anyway, I gave a couple grand to Pete the salesman, and we arranged for the furniture to be delivered on Thursday. Bada bing, bada boom, we were out of there, and I seriously thought we'd be getting home around noonish.

That's because I'm very naive.

We pulled out of the Easylife parking lot, and headed -- I thought -- back to the house. Apparently, Theresa had other plans.

"Honey, can we stop by PetSmart? I need to get some diapers for Newton."

Mustering all my strength, I refrained from both sighing and rolling my eyes because that would've only turned out badly. "Sure, T, I'd be happy to go to PetSmart, there's nothing I'd rather be doing right now at all."

Sarcasm. Not just an attitude, a way of life.

We went to PetSmart and located the Puppy Pampers. I should probably explain this. Due to Newton's unwillingness or inability to refrain from "marking his territory" in the house, Theresa and I have resorted to dressing the little pain in the ass in diapers. This is even more important now, because if he pisses on the new furniture, I'm going to beat him to death with Big Bertha.

It's a golf club, shut up.

So Theresa grabs a package of the doggy diapers and we get in line. Just when it's our turn, she looks at me and says, "Oh, wait, we need to get one of those watering dishes."

This time I lost the battle. I rolled my eyes.

She selected an automatic-refill water dish, the kind where you fill up the tank, flip it upside down in the dish compartment, and forget all about it until the dogs come panting to the back door a week later. We checked out, but as we were walking to the car I noticed that Theresa had mistakenly purchased the automatic-refill food dish, not the water dish. She went back in and made the exchange while I contemplated the relative merits of hanging myself versus committing harakiri.

It was now 12:30. I should've been home hours ago.

Theresa came back out with the water dish, but before she even got in the car, another store in the strip mall caught her eye.

"Hey, can we go check out that furniture place?"

Heavy sigh. I didn't even bother fighting it.

"Why, what's over there?"

"Furniture."

"Yeah, okay, and?"

"Well, I want to look at dressers."

Dressers. Yet again.

"You mean like the one we bought last night and spent an hour or so putting together?"

"I want to see if we got a good deal."

"And if we didn't?"

"Just come on."

Unfinished? Looks done to me.

So we went over to Dave's Unfinished Furniture. I have to admit, the name captured my attention. I imagined all sorts of half-completed items. Three-legged chairs, cushionless couches, armoires without arms or whatever. "Why yes, Theresa, we have a lovely dresser for you over here. No drawers, though, is that a problem?"

Turns out that's not what unfinished furniture is.

While she was looking at dressers for about half an hour, I tried to recall a few plotlines of CSI: New York to see if I could figure out a way to remove trace evidence from a hypothetical murder scene. When Theresa finally finished perusing the showroom, we left with nothing but Dave's business card.

It was just after 1:30.

On the road again. We made it as far as the intersection of Amargosa and Bear Valley, less than a mile from Dave's Unfinished Furniture store.

"Oh, can we stop at Target?"

Maybe if I just pull out into the intersection, a speeding tractor trailer will . . .

"Sure, Theresa, why not?"

The Target store near our house is one of the new-and-improved SuperTargets. They have groceries, clothes, electronics, pretty much anything you can imagine. If there is a Hell, it's rife with SuperTargets and fabric stores.

It's important to remind you at this point, when I go shopping, I don't browse. My shopping style can best be described as "find it, buy it, get the hell out."

Which bears not the slightest resemblance to Theresa's shopping style.

To Theresa, shopping is not a task, it's an event. I've observed her technique on more than one occasion, and as far as I can tell, it's simply "wander up and down every aisle, comparing the useless crap in the store to the useless crap we have at home, stop and have a pretzel, try on clothes you have no intention of ever buying, go grab a latte from the in-store Starbucks, look at ugly shoes, consider buying a couple doggie toys for Newton the High-Maintenance Wondermutt, and maybe, just maybe, actually purchase something."

You can't be mad while eating a Double-Double.

Theresa put on her own production of Alice in Targetland while I suffered a Grand Mall seizure.

We left SuperTarget with a box of Cheez-its and a 12-pack of Diet Coke.

The time? 2:45.

Thankfully, we were only about a mile from home, so options for further course corrections from Theresa Friggin' Magellan were limited. But wouldn't you know it, she managed to pull it off.

"Hey, let's stop at In-N-Out Burger. My treat."

All was forgiven.

d

Dishwasher Debacle

2011-05-16T17:12:00.000-07:00

When you're in a relationship, it is very important that you and your significant other see eye-to-eye on important matters such as which way the toilet paper goes on the holder, who sleeps on which side of the bed, and -- this one should go without saying -- who gets primary custody of the TV remote. If a couple can't agree on the big issues, there's no way they'll get through the smaller ones like whether or not they want to have children.

Another potential topic for debate, by which I mean heated argument nearly leading to fisticuffs, is the proper procedure for loading the dishwasher. I've recently learned that there is more than one point of view on this. In my experience, most household appliances are named for their function. For example, a food processor is for processing food, the cheese grater is for grating cheese, and the wooden spoon is for disciplining your children. Using my Sherlock Holmesian powers of deductive reasoning, I came to the conclusion that our Whirlpool 1000 Series SheerClean Tall Tub Built-in Dishwasher was for washing dirty dishes.

Clearly, that was where I went wrong.

According to the International High Priestess of Dishwashing who, because I don't want to sleep on the couch for a week, shall remain nameless, no dish, glass, fork, bowl, plate, knife, spatula, spoon, mug, or especially pot with burned chili crusted all over it God-dammit should be put in the dishwasher unless it has been thoroughly washed first. To me, this is ridiculous because dishwashers are expensive and therefore I am not going to do their job for them. The dirtier the dish the better, is how I look at it.

We have a policy in our house that states, "Whoever is responsible for dirtying a dish (defined as a plate, bowl, cup, utensil or other dishwasher-safe piece of cutlery), assumes the additional responsibility of loading it into the dishwasher." There are also sub-sections of the policy covering when to run the dishwasher and who's responsible for emptying it when the dishes are clean. The problem with this system, as you've probably figured out, is that the International High Priestess is the only one who bothers to follow it. The rest of us have a much simpler procedure, namely, the "put the dirty dish in the sink and the dish fairy will take it from there" method. It's a system that serves us well most of the time.

Which brings us to last night's events.

I was attempting to give the dish fairy a break by taking the dirty dishes from their comfortable resting place in the sink, and loading them into the dishwasher. As I was bending down to put a plate in the rack, the International High Priestess materialized out of nowhere and said, "You're not putting that in the dishwasher, are you?"

Remaining in my hunched over position, with one hand on the plate and the plate in the dish rack, I replied, "Why no, of course not. What ever gave you that idea?"

Sarcasm. Not just an attitude, a way of life.

"You know you can't put a dirty dish in the dishwasher."

"I can't?"

"No, it needs to be washed first."

"Then what does the dishwasher do?"

"The dishwasher just finishes -- here, just give me the plate, let me show you. Again."

I handed her the plate and paid careful attention to the lesson that followed.

"Okay, you take the sprayer and rinse the plate like this." She demonstrated. "Now, take the soapy sponge and scrub both sides of the plate. Rinse off the soap and now it's ready for the dishwasher."

I thought to myself, The dishwasher? It's ready to be inspected by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration and used to serve dinner to the Boy in the Plastic Bubble. "It's not the difficulty, it's the pointlessness," I replied. "If you're going to run it through the dishwasher anyway, why go through the trouble of washing it by hand?"

In the end we agreed to disagree, which means she's right, I'm wrong, and we're all going to do it her way.

As long as she doesn't find out how I do the laundry, I'll consider myself ahead of the game.

d

Salamander Surprise

2011-05-09T02:10:00.000-07:00

When Mike the Whip's mother packed his lunch for school that day, she had no idea that, less than an hour later, he would be adding an amphibian to his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Mike's culinary embellishment wasn't the result of a desire to try new delicacies, it wasn't because he was looking for a unique source of protein, no, Mike shoved a salamander into his PB and J for one reason only.

We dared him to.

Mike the Whip was one of those kids -- every neighborhood has one -- who simply could not refuse a dare. Whether it was feeling up Debbie Esposito, jumping his Huffy over five trash cans, or swiping a six-pack of Old Milwaukee from the local Stop-N-Shop, if you said, "Hey, Mike, I dare you to . . . " it was one hundred percent guaranteed that The Whip was going to take you up on the challenge.

Paul, Mike, and I were third graders at Parker Elementary, a school named not for the great bebop alto saxophonist Charlie "Bird" Parker, but simply for the street on which it was located. The three of us walked to and from school every day (yes, kids -- in the snow, barefoot, uphill both ways), and since we had little tolerance for boredom or routine, we made a point of never taking the same route twice. Sometimes we'd walk along Route 28, other times we'd take a series of side streets, and every so often we'd take the "scenic route" through the nearby woods. The term "attention deficit disorder" wasn't part of the cultural lexicon in those days, but if it had been, we would've been the poster boys.

On the day in question we chose the scenic route, and began the trip by tossing five aluminum cans into the brook to see which one made the trip downstream the fastest. We dubbed this race the "Indy-can-apolis 500." Actually, Paul and Mike named it that, voting down my suggestion of "Can-tucky Derby." Being kids, we didn't consider the ecological ramifications of introducing even more garbage into New Jersey's water supply, even after sitting through Woodsy Owl's "Give a Hoot, Don't Pollute" assembly earlier in the year. We thought Woodsy was kind of a douche, and besides, this was the Indy-can-apolis 500 we were talking about.

So we were strolling alongside the brook, cheering on race leaders Mario Can-dretti and Aluminum Unser (the A&W Root Beer and Orange Crush cans, respectively), when Mike said, "Hey, look, there's a couple salamanders down by the water."

"Yeah, so what?" I asked.

Mike walked down the bank to get a closer look. "I think they're cool," he said, scooping the black and tan lizardish creature in the palm of his hand. "Check it out."

Paul and I checked it out, completely disregarding the tin cans racing down the home stretch. The little bugger must've been a baby, only a couple inches long, half of which was its tail. And it was slimy. We passed the salamander back and forth, letting it scurry up and down our arms. I don't know what put this thought in Paul's head, but out of nowhere he said, "Hey, Mike, I dare you to eat it."

"Eat what?"

"The salamander. I dare ya."

I know what you're thinking. That's simply ridiculous. No way is a kid going to eat a living reptile. And if we were talking about any other kid, I'd agree with you. It's crazy, it's stupid, clearly, the potential havoc to one's digestive system would prevent any child from even thinking about such a stunt.

But you never met Mike the Whip.

Mike and I met when we were three years old, and were friends for the next decade. During that time, there never seemed to be any discernible criteria for what he considered to be food. It was disturbing, actually. He'd eat dirt for no particular reason. On another dare, he swallowed fifty-seven cents in small change (five dimes, a nickel, and two pennies). He jokingly said later that when he took his next dump, it was two quarters and seven pennies. And on several occasions Mike's tendency to swear led to the consumption, albeit involuntary, of small pieces of Irish Spring soap.

Eating a salamander wasn't out of the question, is what I'm saying.

Mike took the thing in his hand and looked it over. "Can I kill it first?"

"Nah, I dare ya to eat it alive," said Paul.

"Okay, fine, but you gotta at least let me put it in my sandwich or something, otherwise I'd probably just cough it up or gag."

"Yeah, Paul," I said. "That way it'll be easier for him to swallow it whole, like a chunk of food." And maybe he'll accidentally bite it in half, squirting guts in his mouth, is what I was silently hoping for. Best friends or not, that would've been awesome.

Mike handed me the salamander and opened his lunch bag. "I got a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I'll stick him in that. Either of you guys got something for me to wash it down with?"

"I got something in my thermos," Paul said, flipping the latch on his official Scooby Doo lunchbox. "Apple juice, I think."

"Aw, man," said Mike. "Apple juice is disgusting."

"Uh, Mike?" I said. "I'm not trying to be picky here, but you're about to eat a live salamander. I don't think the juice is gonna be your main problem."

"Yeah, but still, you don't have any Dr. Pepper?"

"Sorry," said Paul.

Mike unwrapped his sandwich, peeled back the top slice of bread, and I placed the salamander on the bed of peanut butter. He squeezed the bread together, so that only the tip of a tail was poking out. I can't imagine what the poor salamander was thinking at this point.

"Okay, open up the thermos, I'm gonna need the juice pretty quick."

The next sequence of events is burned in my memory, as vivid as if this all had happened yesterday instead of almost forty years ago.

Mike stared at the sandwich for about thirty seconds, mentally blocking out the fact that he was about to eat a live squiggly-wiggly. Closing his eyes, he took a bite, making sure to leave plenty of clearance to avoid biting the thing in half. He stuck out his hand, shaking it frantically -- Paul's cue to hand him the thermos. Mike took a swig of apple juice, and swallowed the chunk of PBJ and S without chewing.

Time stopped.

"OH MY GOD I CAN FEEL IT WIGGLING IN MY STOMACH!"

In the years that have passed, I've come to the conclusion that this was simply a trick of the imagination. Surely, the salamander couldn't have survived the trek down Mike's throat into a pool of stomach acid. Imagination or not, though, Mike was absolutely convinced that he had a live lizard crawling around in his belly.

Which is probably why he violently barfed out everything he'd eaten since pre-school.

Looking down at the yellowish pool of vomit -- bile, chunks of Pop Tart, dead salamander -- Mike shook his head.

"Man, I told you. Apple juice is disgusting."

d

Deborah's Bicycle

2011-05-02T02:08:00.000-07:00

Most of the things I write on Knucklehead! are intended to make you, the reader, smile or laugh. Every so often, though, I'm inspired to write something more serious or sentimental. This is one of those times. What follows is a true story.

Deborah is ten years old, a fourth grader at a typical elementary school in a typical neighborhood. In April, most of the students at Deborah's school took the mandated state tests, to assess their proficiency in language arts and math. On the next to last day of the testing period, before the first bell rang, assistant principal Mr. Matthews noticed Deborah sitting alone on a playground bench.

"Good morning, Deborah," said Mr. Matthews. "Why aren't you out there playing tetherball with your friends?"

"I'm not feeling so good," she said with a sniffle. "I sneezed and coughed all night, but I'll be okay."

"You sure? I can take you up to the nurse's office to see if you have a fever and we can have your mom pick you up."

Deborah shook her head, wagging her neatly-styled ponytail. "I can't go home, it's a testing day."

"We don't want you to get sicker though, Deb. You can always make up the test tomorrow."

"I have to stay, Mr. Matthews. I want to win the bike."

In an effort to motivate students to attend school every day of testing, a local Target store donated three brand new bicycles to the PTA. At the end of the testing period, all students with perfect attendance would have their names entered in a drawing, and the bikes would be presented at a schoolwide assembly. For the entire two weeks of testing, the students buzzed with anticipation. "I'm gonna win a bike!" "Nuh-uh! I'm gonna!"

Mr. Matthews reached out and placed his hand on Deborah's forehead. "Well, you don't feel warm," he said. "Go on to class, but if you start feeling worse, be sure to come up to the office. Your health is more important than a bike."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Deborah said with a smile. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and walked off to room 207.

The following week, on Friday, the students who qualified for the drawing gathered in the cafeteria. The excitement was palpable. To a chorus of "oohs" and "aahs," Mr. Matthews and a few student volunteers rolled three bicycles onto the stage.

A black and orange motocross bike.

A sleek green racing bike with hand brakes and five different gears.

A pink "girls" model with a banana seat and handlebars adorned with multi-colored vinyl streamers.

It was the girls bike that had Deborah's attention. As she looked it over, Mr. Matthews walked up behind her.

"Got your eye on this one, huh Deborah?"

"Yeah, isn't it great? I really, really want to win it, but there's so many kids in the drawing. I don't have much chance, do I?"

"I promise you," said Mr. Matthews, "you have just as good a chance as everybody else."

"Yes, I guess that's true," said Deborah. "Oh, I hope I get picked! I just have to win it."

"I hope you do too, Deb. Good luck. Knuckles!" He held out a fist, and Deborah bumped it with her own.
She returned to her seat as Mr. Matthews walked up on stage to start the drawing.

"First of all, I want to thank all of you for coming to school every day during testing," he said into the microphone. "I'm sure your hard work and dedication will help us reach our testing goal for this year. As you know we have three bikes to give away," -- loud cheering from the crowd -- "so let's get started, shall we?"

Mr. Matthews reached into the box of names. He pulled out the first slip of paper.

"Our first winner is a sixth grader . . . is Jeffrey Donahue here?"

Whoops and hollers from the sixth graders followed their spindly, freckled classmate to the stage.

"Okay, Jeff," said Mr. Matthews. "Take your pick."

Jeffrey checked out the black and orange motocross bike -- the knobby tires, the pegs on the rear axle. He walked over to the green racing bike, sat on it and squeezed the hand brakes. This was not a decision to be taken lightly. He gazed back and forth. Racing bike? Motocross bike?

Apparently, the pink bike with the streamers was not in the running.

"I think I'll go with the orange one," he said.

"Good choice!" said Mr. Matthews. He wheeled the bike to the side of the stage and taped Jeffrey's name to the handlebar. Off-microphone, he told Jeffrey that he could call his parents after school to come pick up his new bicycle.

Jeffrey, freckles shoved together by a toothy grin, jogged back to his classmates where he was greeted with high-fives.

"Okay, who wants the next one?" Mr. Matthews asked.

Five hundred students shouted "I DO! I DO!"

He pulled out the next slip of paper. A thousand eyes opened wide in anticipation. In the fourth grade section of the crowd, Deborah thought, "Please let it be my name. Or at least another boy's name this time." She knew that if a girl won, the pink bike with the streamers was history.

"Our next winner is a third grader!"

Cheers from the third grade contingent, disappointed moaning and groaning from everyone else.

"Moses Williams!"

Moses sprinted to the stage like he was competing for the anchor spot on the Olympic 440-meter relay team.

"Let me guess," dead-panned Mr. Matthews. "You're going to take the pink one."

"NO WAY!" shrieked Moses. "I want the green one with the gear shifter!"

"It's all yours, Moses, congratulations!" Mr. Matthews taped Moses's name to the handlebar and set the bike aside.

With just the pink bike remaining, the enthusiasm among the boys in the audience waned significantly. Even if their name was picked, would they really want to win a girls' bike? The teasing wouldn't end until they were in high school, if then.

"Okay, just one bike left," said Mr. Matthews. "Let's see who the lucky winner is this time."

He pulled a name from the box. The cafeteria was as silent as a cafeteria full of elementary school kids can possibly be.

"The winner is . . .a fourth grader . . . "

Deborah held her breath. She was a fourth grader!

"It's a girl . . . "

Butterflies invaded her stomach. She was, of course, a girl.

"Congratulations to . . . DEBORAH VELASQUEZ!"

Deborah shot up from her seat. "Yes!" she yelled. "Yes yes yes yes yes yes YESSSSS!"

She ran up onto the stage and gave Mr. Matthews a big hug. "I can't believe it!" she said. "This is the best day of my life! I won!"

"You sure did, Deb. Remember to come to the office at the end of the day to call your parents to pick it up."

Three-thirty arrived. The winners, still giddy, lined up in Mr. Matthews's office to call home with the exciting news. Jeffrey made the first call. Then Moses. Finally, it was Deborah's turn.

"Hi Mom! Something awesome happened at school today! . . . remember the drawing for the bikes that I told you about . . . yeah, that was today . . . well guess what? I WON! . . . no, I'm not kidding! I really did! . . . yeah, and I'm going to give it to Scarlette, okay, but please don't tell her . . . no, I want it to be a surprise . . . okay Mom, thanks . . . oh, I almost forgot, can you come pick up the bike in the truck? . . . awesome, thanks. Love you!"

Mr. Matthews wasn't sure if he heard right. "Deborah, did you say you're giving the bike away?"

"Yeah, it's for my little sister Scarlette. She's six. She's been wanting a bike for so long, but we don't have enough money for her to have one so I told her I'd try really hard to win the one here at school so she could have it. I was hoping and hoping, and I really won! Isn't that great?"

"That's really generous of you Deborah, but couldn't you keep the new bike yourself and give Scarlette your old one? I mean, you earned it with your attendance."

"I don't have a bike at home, Mr. Matthews. I told you, we don't have the money for stuff like that. That's why I had to win this one for Scarlette."

'Deborah, that is the kindest, most amazing thing I've ever heard in my life," said Mr. Matthews. "Scarlette is very lucky to have you for a sister."

"She's a good kid, Mr. Matthews, she deserves it."

A short while later, Deborah's family pulled into the school parking lot in a Ford pickup. As Deborah walked the bike out to the truck, her sister Scarlette hopped out through the passenger door. She took one look at the pink bike with the banana seat and handlebars adorned with multi-colored vinyl streamers, and when her big sister told her who the bike was for, Scarlette broke into a beaming smile.

It was almost as bright as Deborah's.

We hear an awful lot about what's wrong with kids nowadays -- violence, vandalism, underachievement -- and not so much about what's RIGHT with them. The next time you see a news report, or hear a neighbor talking, or find yourself thinking about "those rotten kids," I want you to do yourself a favor.

Take a minute and remember Deborah. And the kindness in her ten-year-old heart.

d

d

Go Directly to Jail, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Punch Your Grandmother

2011-04-24T21:30:00.000-07:00

Monopoly is the most popular board game in the world, which is not surprising since it's one of the few games guaranteed to make you hate your entire family. All it takes is one ill-timed trip to Boardwalk with a hotel on it and someone's flipping the board over, tossing property cards in the air, and firing the dangerously sharp battleship token at the Boardwalk owner, potentially poking his eye out. Also, the game takes seventeen hours to finish, not including the mid-game fisticuffs. For those reasons, I stopped playing Monopoly when I was about twelve. Being called a "greedy, money-grubbing, property-hoarding swindler" by my own grandmother was what finally did it. Not that I didn't deserve it, but there was no way I was giving up Illinois Avenue and Short Line Railroad for Water Works.

I mean, really.

In the thirty years since that fateful day, I gave very little thought to Monopoly except of course when McDonald's used it as some sort of game promotion. Big Macs and fries have been a staple of my nutrition program for as long as I can remember, so my exposure to McNopoly was bound to happen sooner or later. One Saturday afternoon, I peeled Marvin Gardens off my large order of fries and discovered that I was one-third of the way to winning a 1997 Jeep Wrangler, unless I happened to be related to an employee of McDonald's or Parker Brothers or their affiliates, which I wasn't. But aside from the McDonald's thing, the game of Monopoly didn't cross my mind again until a couple years ago when a teacher at my school started using it as a way to reinforce his sixth grade students' math skills.

Tim Vandenberg is an outstanding teacher. His students love coming to school, he spends time getting to know them and teaching them in a way that ensures success, and his class consistently scores at the top of the charts as far as state testing goes. Tim is also a Monopoly wizard. He has systematically determined all the statistical probabilities involved in the game. I'm not talking about dice rolls, such as how often double-fours come up. Asking Tim to calculate dice probability is like using IBM's 1.025 Petaflop Roadrunner Supercomputer to play Tetris. No, Tim has created a Monopoly board that includes the average rent earned by each property, the chances of landing on various color groups, and precisely how many rolls of the dice will take place before Aunt Jenny blows a gasket and whizzes her battleship token at your head. Basically, Tim Vandenberg is the Monopoly version of Rain Man.

"Uh oh! I just bought St. James Place. Orange monopoly, the most profitable color group on the board with an average rent-per-roll of forty-seven cents, definitely forty-seven cents.[1] With two of my opponents' tokens coming around the corner, there is definitely, definitely a 59 percent chance that one of them will land on an orange property. Better build houses, definitely three houses, because the rent-to-investment ratio is the most advantageous at that level."

He's smart, is what I'm saying.

Tim (facing camera) competing at the US Championship

Tim and his class were featured in a documentary about Monopoly entitled "Under the Boardwalk." I know what you're thinking. Someone actually made a movie about Monopoly? What's the running time, thirty-six hours? Maybe it should be called "Go Directly to Sleep, Do Not Pass Go."

That's what I was thinking also.

When the movie was released on DVD, Tim gave me a copy and I checked it out. I was sort of hoping it would be a compilation of people yelling and arguing, throwing game boards and properties up in the air, pelting each other with cast-iron race cars and thimbles, culminating in a climactic battle scene where a fifteen-year-old kid named Butchie tells his Uncle Frank exactly where he can shove Reading Railroad. Sort of like a Hasbro production of "Sling Blade."

As it turns out, though, "Under the Boardwalk" is fascinating, taking a captivating look at the history of Monopoly and some of the people who play it. The movie wraps up with coverage of the 2009 National and World Championships. Tim, in fact, was runner-up in the U.S. tournament.

With a new-found appreciation of Monopoly, some co-workers and I began playing on a regular basis. Having been somewhat brain-washed by Tim and his mathematical gobblety-gook, I quickly realized that the orange properties are by far the most valuable, the brown and green groups are worthless piles of sheep dung, and when it comes to whizzing a token at your opponent's face, the thimble inflicts the most damage.[2] The rounded side can cause bruising, while the opposite, open-ended side is good for cuts and abrasions. After playing for a few months, a couple colleagues and I had improved our skills to the point where we were beating Tim as often as he was beating us.

One evening, Tim set up a game for three of us to play against Matt McNally, the 2003 U.S. National Monopoly Champion. This may not sound like a big deal to you, but to us it was like being invited to play a round of golf with Tiger Woods, with possibly a lesser chance of nailing a cocktail waitress afterwards. This is not to say that Mr. McNally isn't smooth with the women, but I think you get my drift.

If Vandenberg is Monopoly's Rain Man, Matt McNally is Obi-Wan Kenobi. A soft-spoken, laid-back guy with slick negotiating skills, McNally is fully capable of using the Jedi mind trick to acquire the properties he wants.

"Mr. McNally," says an opponent. "I'll give you Oriental Avenue and the Electric Company for B & O and Reading Railroads."

"You don't want the railroads," replies McNally, waving a hand in the air.

"I don't want the railroads."

Me and a co-worker Paul with Matt McNally (center)

"These are not the properties you're looking for."

"These are not the properties I'm looking for."

"You'll give me your two yellow properties for Baltic Ave."

"I'll give you my yellow properties for Baltic Avenue."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Ten minutes later, McNally has hotels on the yellow group and his opponent is being strangled to death by Darth Vader.

So we got together with Matt and played a couple games. Sure enough, toward the beginning of our first game, Obi-Wan McNally mind-tricked me into giving him the yellows when he had over 900 bucks to spend on buildings. He proceeded to build hotels like Steve Wynn and Donald Trump on a Twinkie-and-Red-Bull bender. The other two players (Paul and another guy named Matt, but we'll call him "Chuck" to avoid confusion) looked at me like I was a complete moron, which of course I am. Before long, Paul and Chuck went bankrupt, leaving me in a head-to-head matchup with Obi-Wan. The odds were completely in his favor, but that's when Lady Luck decided to intervene. For about twenty minutes, I continually skipped over the yellow group while he hit my greens just about every time around the board. It was pure luck, no question about it. Finally, he rolled a six and landed on one of my green properties, Pacific Avenue I believe, and went bankrupt.

So now I can say I defeated a U.S. Monopoly Champion. It's definitely going on my resume.

Brimming with confidence, I signed up to play in a regional Monopoly Tournament in Redlands, California. The event attracted several Monopoly "pros," including a lawyer named Ken Koury, who is featured in the role of Dastardly Villain in "Under the Boardwalk." Koury is a "win-at-all-costs" type of player who will, without any hesitation at all, bilk a Cub Scout out of Park Place if it suits his purposes. He also seems to think that everyone else who plays the game is a cheater, including our old buddy Tim, who Koury dubbed "The Dark Prince of Monopoly."

Ken Koury's "Stealth Iron," AKA "Exhibit A"

Which brings us to Mr. Koury's place in "pot vs. kettle" lore.

In the Redlands tournament -- I'm not making this up -- he used a custom iron token that he'd painted to match the color of the Monopoly board, rendering it invisible to the naked eye. That way, his opponents would overlook it and forget to ask him for rent when he landed on their property. To me, this smacks of chicanery. Seriously, if your pre-game preparation includes a trip to the Sherwin-Williams store to pick up a can of 6933 Clean Green touch-up paint, you might be going against the spirit of fun and fair play that the folks at Hasbro originally intended.

I can just hear Attorney Koury making his case in Monopoly Court.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let me present Exhibit A, which we will hereafter refer to as 'The Stealth Iron.' According to the Official Monopoly Tournament Rulebook, Article 14, Section C, all players must use one of the tokens included in the tournament game set. Clearly, this rule is in place to maintain the integrity of Monopoly tournaments by banning 'novelty' tokens such as Rocky Raccoon from Beatle-opoly, the milk bottle from the Hello Kitty set, and -- my personal favorite -- the Johnnie Cochran token from the Simpson Edition.[3] The Stealth Iron, however, was originally part of a set that I myself purchased at Tom 's Toy Store in the Glendale Galleria on February 16, 2002. Since the rules do not mention anything at all about altering tokens, I should be allowed to play with my Stealth Iron."

Imagine the havoc that could ensue in future tournaments, if such subterfuge is permitted. Players playing with severed Scottie Dog heads, flattened shoes, and maybe even thimble dust. Mass hysteria!

So anyway, I had a great time playing in the tournament. I placed second in my first round match, while at another table, Koury and his Stealth Iron were bankrupted almost immediately.

Not that I am bragging.

In the second round I was at a table with another tournament regular, a skilled player with a good sense of humor. Early in the game, I acquired all four railroads and built up cash reserves that proved to be insurmountable. Eventually I bankrupted my opponents, and the tournament pro, demonstrating sportsmanship and class that would make the Parker Brothers beam with pride . . .

. . . whizzed his battleship at my face.[4]

***CONGRATULATIONS TO DVSDAVE, WINNER OF THE "UNDER THE BOARDWALK" DVD DRAWING! DAVE, PLEASE E-MAIL ME -- KNUCKLEHEADHUMOR@GMAIL.COM -- WITH YOUR MAILING ADDRESS AND I'LL GET YOUR DVD SENT OUT ASAP.***

[1] After reading this, Tim texted me letting me know the actual rent-per-roll for St. James Place is 38 cents. See what I mean?

[2] Followed closely by the Scottie dog.

[3] Other tokens in Simpson Monopoly include a bloody glove, Judge Ito, Kato Kaelin, a knife, and a Ford Bronco. Also, the Chance deck contains nothing but "Get Out of Jail Free" cards.

[4] Okay, I made that last bit up. He took the defeat graciously.

s

A Note to My Readers

2011-04-20T11:50:00.000-07:00

Hello, everybody.

Thanks for stopping by.

I'm probably being a bit arrogant in assuming that anyone would really notice, but starting next week I'm going to scale back just a bit here on Knucklehead. Instead of posting two or three pieces a week, I'll be going to a weekly format, most likely putting up new material every Monday.

The reasons for this are simple. First of all, I've always tried my best to focus on quality. Yeah, smart-asses, I know, I haven't always succeeded at it, but I don't want to resort to posting half-polished ramblings just because I feel "obligated" to get something new up every couple days. I got into blogging to hopefully hone my writing "skills," but just tossing up a new piece because "it's been three days" isn't exactly leading to greatness. If anything, I fear it might be counter-productive.

Also, I've been re-posting old material far more often that I want to for those same reasons, and I'm starting to feel guilty -- and lazy -- about it. I don't want to take "some time off," though, because one week could lead to two, and before long, this would be a dead blog and I certainly don't want to deprive you all of my brilliance.

Ha! Had you for a minute, didn't I?

So anyway, here's the new plan.

I will be posting an original piece every Monday morning. This will keep me from getting too complacent about it, and also allow me to make sure everything I write is the best it can be. Some of it will still undoubtedly suck, but I can only do so much. No more re-runs, no more half-assed bullshit. Just a reasonable effort at providing decent content.

As always, I'd love your feedback.

Thanks for being here, and keep reading!

Chris

d

The Best and the Worst: People to Be Stranded on an Island With

2011-04-17T20:00:00.000-07:00

In this day and age, with cell phones, GPS navigation, and all sorts of satellite communication, it is very unlikely that any of us will wind up stranded on an island somewhere in the South Pacific. All we'd have to do is call 911 and say something like, "Hey, it's Chris on the Verizon network and I'm on some tropical island located at 41 degrees, 15' 31" north latitude and 95 degrees, 56' 15" west longitude." At which point, the 911 operator would say, "You idiot, that's not an island, you're in Omaha, Nebraska."

If by some strange confluence of events I were to end up stranded on an island, there are certainly a few companions that I'd love to have with me. And of course several that would be among my most horrific nightmares.

So let's take a look at the best and worst people to be stranded with on an island. For the sake of argument, we're going to assume this is a decent-sized hunk of land with a reasonable variety of plant and animal life, not the stereotypical tiny desert island with two palm trees and a hammock.

BEST

1. Donald McKay (1810-1880)

There's nothing really funny or creative about this choice, but since Donald McKay was a 19th century Canadian-born shipbuilder, I'd have to assume our stay on the island wouldn't be very long. We'd spend a couple days gathering up raw materials, and I'd sit back and relax while my new pal Donny whipped up a 75-foot clipper ship.

Good thing, too, because from the looks of him, he's probably a crotchety old fart. I can only imagine what we'd talk about if our stay on the island extended more than a week.

Me: So, Don, how about a game of beach volleyball?

Don: No, thank you.

Me: Do you even know what beach volleyball is?

Don: No.

Me: Let me explain. I hit the ball over the net that someone conveniently set up prior to our arrival, you hit it back, and so on and so forth. If someone misses, the other guy gets a point. First one to fifteen wins. Sounds fun, eh?

Don: No. It doesn't. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go wash my knickers.

Probably best if we just built the ship and got the hell out of there.

2. The Wonder Twins

The superpowers of Zan and Jayna would be very convenient to have around. Zan, as you may know, can convert himself to water in any form, and Jayna is a shape-shifter who can transform into animals -- mythological, or real. Certainly, all I'd need is for Jayna to become a giant sea turtle and Zan a strong oceanic undercurrent, and I could drift home in no time.

But why not have some fun first?

"Wonder Twin powers . . . activate!"

"Form of . . . Sandra Bullock!"

"Form of . . . pitcher of margaritas!"

Or maybe . . .

"Form of . . . Angelina Jolie in a white t-shirt!"

"Form of . . . bucket of water!"

The possibilities are endless.

3. Tina Fey

This one is a tricky proposition. Obviously, if you're going to be stranded on an island, and you're a guy, female companionship is a must. But who would you select? Keep in mind that the "physical activity" would only be part of the equation. Most of your time would be spent in other ways, so having a gorgeous pea-brain would be more frustrating than tantalizing.

Before I continue, let me remind you that for the purposes of this exercise, you are on my side.

In college, my frat buddies and I had a rating system. All women could be scored on a ten-point scale in two categories -- looks and personality. For instance, a hottie with spaghetti for brains might score a 9-3. Nine points for looks, three for personality. For a woman to be considered "relationship material," the general rule of thumb was that she'd need to score around a fourteen total. If she were an eight in looks, you could deal with a six in personality. If she was only a five on the looks scale, but her kindness and sense of humor garnered a nine on the personality charts, that was fine also. Again, this is for relationship purposes. There was nothing at all improper about a one-night stand with a 10-2, or having a 3-8 for a drinking buddy.

Based on that information, the perfect woman to have with me on a deserted island would be Saturday Night Live's Tina Fey. Cute but not stunningly-so, with brains and a sense of humor, Tina would rank around a 7-8 or so.

And that'll get it done.

4. Emeril Lagasse

If I'm going to be on the island for a stretch of years, I'm going to get awfully tired of fish and berries. Seriously, I might be able to trap a woodchuck or something, but there's no way I could prepare and cook the thing in any way that would render it edible.

Bam! Enter Chef Emeril.

I'd do my part of course, catching fish, hunting various animals, and gathering plants and fruits suitable for human consumption. And then Mr. Lagasse could whip up dishes like "Squirrel l'Orange," "Grilled Breast of Seagull with Coconut Sauce," and blackberry tarts for dessert.

Being stuck on an island doesn't mean you shouldn't eat well.

5. Gwen Stefani

Going back to the ratings scale mentioned earlier, No Doubt's singer Gwen Stefani is definitely a 9-plus on the looks scale so anything around a five in personality, and she clears the bar. Plus, she's an excellent singer.

So . . .

If I were stranded on the island with Gwen, she could spend hour after hour performing for me, providing endless enjoyment and pleasure.

The rest of the time, she could sing.

WORST

1. Jeffrey Dahmer

With this freak as an island-mate, any hope of a good night's sleep goes right out the window. Not that there would be windows, but you get the drift. At any given moment, Jeff might slink into my hut, stab me to death, and then to add insult to injury, fry me up for breakfast.

Let's face it, the guy's a psycho. Sure, I might try to reason with him, explain that the two of us working together would give us the best chance of long-term survival and eventual rescue, but sooner or later the conversation would deteriorate into something like this:

Me: So, Jeff, what say we get started on building some sort of water craft?

Dahmer: Water craft? What?

Me: You know, like a raft.

Dahmer: Oh, I don't know about that.

Voices in Dahmer's Head: Kill him! Kill him dead! Eat his liver! I'll get the fava beans!

Dahmer: Heh heh heh heh.

Me: Um, Jeff, what are you doing with that pointy rock?

Generally speaking, your chances for rescue decrease dramatically once you're dead.

2. Joan Rivers

This one might strike you as an odd choice, but let me explain. If there's a woman on the island with me, there's always a chance that I'll get delirious enough, desperate enough, or flat-out horny enough that I'm going to take a run at her, no matter who she is.

I'm not proud of this, but there's no arguing with testosterone.

Worst case scenario, after three years on the island (and the smart money says it wouldn't even take that long), Plastic Joanie and I would give in to our basest desires and do the deed. And with my luck, we'd get rescued the very next day.

No way could I carry on living after that.

3. Gilligan

No-brainer.

Even with six other castaways, one of whom was a professor with multiple graduate degrees, Gilligan managed to screw up rescue attempt after rescue attempt. With just the two of us, all hope would be lost. On top of that, just co-existing with this goober would be enough to inspire thoughts of smearing myself in raccoon blood and plunging into shark-infested waters.

And here's another thought. What if he developed a crush on me? Not that I'm the most desirable guy in the world, but let's look at facts. Gilligan was stranded on an uncharted desert isle for years, and not once did he make a move on Ginger or Mary Ann. Did he have a thing for Navy dudes? Not that I'm judging, of course, but if Gilligan started trying to woo me with moonlight walks or dinner at sunset, it would just be awkward.

He's not my little buddy.

4. Wally, My Elementary School Bus Driver (no photo available)

Wally was overweight, smelled like sweaty asparagus, smoked cheap cigars (how he got away with this on a school bus, I have no idea), and to top it off, he had a giant, never-healing, oozing scab on the back of his bald head. As he drove the bus, all us kids tried not to stare at the massive head wound, but we couldn't help it. It was like the curse of Medusa.

Also, he was mean. He tolerated absolutely zero talking on the bus. On the bus! It's not like we were in the middle of a math test, or sustained silent reading. It was a bus ride to school, we wanted to chat. But the minute someone said, "Hey, don't we have a report due today?" Wally would be all over us, in his mafia-boss baritone:

"YOU KIDS KNOCK OFF THE TALKIN' OR I'LL HAVE YOUSE KICKED OFF POIMANENTLY!"

On an island with no school buses and a limited supply of cigars, there's no telling what the guy would be capable of.

5. Tom Brady

I can't say that there's not an upside to being stranded on an island with Tom Brady, because there is. If he's stranded, there's no way he could play football for the New England Patriots, thereby improving my New York Jets' chances of winning the AFC East.

But here's my main concern.

Realizing that this is of course hypothetical (and unlikely), in the event that a plane full of Hooters girls crashed on our island, there's a good chance that Tom would get most of the action. Come to think of it, setting the bar with Brady is probably over-stating my chances. I mean, really, like he's the only guy I'd lose the battle for Hooters girls with? I'd probably be in the same predicament if I were stranded with Tom Cruise, Tom Hanks, or hell, Tom Brokaw.

But let's stick with Brady, because I can't stand the douchebag. And ladies, the picture here is my way of apologizing for that sexist "ratings scale" stuff. You're welcome.

d

Celebrity Roast: Jim "Suldog" Sullivan

2011-04-12T09:14:00.000-07:00

"Anyone got any fruitcake?"

In a startling development that was long overdue, our good friend Jim Sullivan, aka "Suldog," has decided to discontinue writing his humor blog. To honor our dear friend, I thought it would be appropriate to roast him a little bit here on Knucklehead!

I personally asked several of Jim's long-time readers to write a few words in his dishonor. To a person, they all told me to go screw myself, that their time would be better spent weeding their gardens or scraping the callouses off their feet with one of those rough stone-type thingies that I'm sure has a name which I'm far to lazy to look up. So instead, I had to pay complete strangers four bucks a pop to write about Mr. Suldog. Because that's the kind of guy I am. Cheap.

I'll start the festivities myself, before passing the baton to our fellow roasters.

Jim "Suldog" Sullivan is the nicest Boston Red Sox fan I've ever met. Yes, that's the sports equivalent of "for a fat girl, you don't sweat much," but I have to admit . . . Jim isn't quite the douchebag that most of his Boston compatriots are.

As for his blog, Suldog has a writing style that can be summed up in one word: Interminable. That's interesting in and of itself, because Sully can't sum up anything in just one word, not even his favorite color, which is "A particular shade of blue that is not quite teal, but can't really be described as turquoise either." His philosophy on writing is "why say in 250 words what you can say in 3,000?" If Jim had been hired to write the Pledge of Allegiance, school days would be fourteen hours long. You know how the families of alcoholics go to Al-Anon? Jim's family members go to On-and-On-Anon hoping to find an intervention for his perpetual blathering. When Jim was six years old, his parents let him write the invitations to his birthday party . . . he finished them when he was nine.

Reading a Suldog blog post is like spending an afternoon undergoing oral surgery. In fact, Jim once wrote a five-thousand word, four-part epic on the subject of oral surgery.

Irony, party of one, your table is now ready.

I always enjoyed Jim's stories about softball, though. For years, he played on a team called the Bombers. According to Sully himself, his major contribution to their offensive attack was his uncanny ability to draw walks. Leave it to Jim to find away to succeed by standing in one place not doing anything.

As all his readers know, Jim concluded each post with his catch phrase, "Soon, with more better stuff." What readers don't know, however, is that this line has nothing to do with his writing. It's his standard answer to the question, "Hey Sully, when will you be coming by with the weed?"

All kidding aside, Jim is truly a fantastic writer and although I've never actually met the guy, I consider him a friend. Thanks for the laughs, Suldog, you'll be missed around these parts.

But Boston still sucks.

Next up to the podium, we have the lovely and talented Miss QUIRKYLOON!

How does one roast a wombat?

I mean a fruitcake?

Nah. That won't work either.

How does one roast one Suldog who has been an anchor of my own blog reading for many moons?

With a Howl?

I leave that to him. He howls pretty well. He likes fruitcake (the ONLY person I know in real or cyber life)

He likes the Boston Celtics (not the only person I know who does in real or cyber life).

He plays Bass Guitar. He was in a band. And his top 15 favorite albums did NOT include Aerosmith. And yet? I still like the man.

He holds a special place in heart for ants, mice, Mr. Rogers, and the brunette Power Puff Girl.

What a guy!

So I take a huge slobbering juicy bite with meat tendrils stuck in-between my teeth and sing a song for Sully. Come on everybody clap your hands and sing along.

SING A SONG - The Carpenters (lyrics by Quirkyloon)

I, read his blog
Read out loud
Written strong
Blogged of good things, sometimes bad
Blogged of happy, and sad.

Read, read a blog
Written solid
Made me smile my whole life long
It was always more than good enough
for anyone else to read
Just read, read his blog.

Read, Suldog's blog
Let the world read along
Blogged a lot of baseball things,
He blogged for you and for me.

Read, read his blog
Made it funny
To make us smile a lot.
Don't worry his blog was always good enough
for anyone else to read
Soon, with more better stuff.

Thanks, Quirky! Next up we have Mr. EDDIE BLUELIGHTS!

I first 'met' Jim in BlogLand two years ago and we immediately 'hit it off' as blogging adversaries, and of course we became good friends. Our senses of humour are very similar, although Jim is a little braver than I in his chosen subject matter and the general way he describes things. It was always very refreshing for me to read Jim's unique writing style when he injects copious quantities of amusing verbal diarrhea into his posts, lavishly interwoven with wonderful phrases like "Holy Mary on a Pogo Stick" or "As for giving me awards, you are even braver than the rugbyest rugby player with four missing front teeth, a leg that sticks out at a 30 degree angle, and his gnarled fingers that he can barely operate the remote control with in order to turn the telly over to a showing of American Football".

I ask myself, who else in this universe could possibly come up with stuff like that? . . . . answer, "Nobody!".

Jim is a genuine and nice guy beneath the verbal vitriol he spews out between those new teeth at those brave or foolhardy enough to present him with awards, as I found to my cost on no less than three occasions LOL. . . . . but we all loved jumping into the lion's den it and kept coming back for more.

It wasn't all humour (note Jim, the correct way of spelling it LOL) . . . . Jim wrote a lot about his family and some serious stuff . . . . but he really came into his own when he posted more contentious stuff or when he 'grilling' us LOL.

I loved reading the comments on his posts almost as much as the posts themselves because it is obvious that everyone loved that guy and after a hard day at work Jim's blog was the place to visit to let off steam and have a really good laugh. Jim, a lot of your followers, including me, will miss you tremendously. A song goes through my head as I write. It is Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen and please imagine the words right at the end when ALL of us say:

We will not let you go - let me go
Will not let you go - let me go (never)
Never let you go - let me go
Never let me go - ooo
No, no, no, no, no, no, no -
Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go . . . . . . .

Of course we all hope you will return one day but until then . . . . . thanks for the many laughs and your friendship. I salute you.

Great work, Eddie!

Moving right along, here are a few words from Michelle, at THE SURLY WRITER.

Jim Sullivan? We're talking about Jim Sullivan? Or are we talking about Suldog?

You need to take your pick. I know both men. I know Jim Sullivan, the smart, lovable guy who would give you the shirt off his back to help you out if you were in need, despite him getting a nasty sunburn in the process. Jim Sullivan: a man who posts about those lovely memories concerning his youth, such as the time when he gave HIS MOM a stick of gum and a glass of water as a "breakfast in bed" morning.

Then there's the person who calls himself Suldog. The man who likes those pot-smoking, green leprechaun people called... um... Celtics? That doesn't even make sense? What would a Celt know about basketball? It's not even in their culture. But Suldog is from Boston... and we all know what it means to be from Boston, don't we? It's in the New England territory, which means that it's basically ice up there for 11 months out of the year. Someone suffering from that much of a brain freeze isn't going to have all the cells thawed out to root for a better team, like the Pittsburgh Penguins.

Anyway, I know of a Jim Sullivan and I know of a man named Suldog. They posted great pieces on their humor blog for over six years. Out of those six years, I have had the pleasure to know them for about four years. FOUR YEARS!!! Once you get to know a man that long, he takes on his own identity -- one that I affectionately call MLGF. HE knows what it means, and has mentioned it numerous times on his blog. If you are curious to know what that means, go through his archives. You won't be disappointed from the number of entertaining stories he has there.

Next we have Eva from WRESTLING WITH RETIREMENT, keeping it short and sweet (that's what SHE said).

If you ever have trouble getting to sleep, just read one of Suldog's posts about the Bombers' softball games. Instant ZZZZs! And then there's HIS WIFE. She sounds like a saint, how he ever got lucky enough to hook up with her amazes me. She obviously could've done so much better.

I'm not very good at roasting; hell, I can barely cook, so I'm going to stop there.

Seriously, Suldog, you will be missed. More than once I found myself cracking up over one of your posts. Best to you in whatever path you follow from here!

And now a word from CRICKET!

What to say about my swell pal Suldog as we bid him goodbye, for what I hope will be a sabbatical, not a retirement? We'll miss his unique voice, his way of finding humor in all circumstances, that brightening of the morning when we realized he's put up a new post.

My own blog would not exist without his encouraging me to begin it. I'd be surprised if I'm the only one. And without that, I would not have "met" most of you. I likely wouldn't be here at all. I'd owe him my gratitude if only for that.

So he says he's running on fumes and needs a break? So be it, but his fumes are more than some of us ever have, and funnier. And there it is.

So enjoy your break, Jim, and I sincerely hope it is a break. Gather some new stories, maybe. And I hope to see you again out here, sooner or later, with more better stuff.

That will about finish him off for now! Sully, we'll miss you around here, and hopefully this isn't "goodbye" it's just "see ya later." Be well, and good luck this coming softball season. Remember, just stand there. A walk's as good as a hit.

If anyone else would like to contribute to the roasting of good ol' Sully, have a go at him in the comment section. I'm sure he'll appreciate your thoughts!

d

Pity the Fool

2011-04-08T02:50:00.000-07:00

I've always enjoyed April Fools' Day. When I was a kid, my brother Eric played a great trick on our mom, running up the front sidewalk with catsup dripping down his forearm screaming bloody murder. It looked like his hand had been chewed off by a starving wolverine. By the time Eric got around to yelling "April Fool," our poor mother was apoplectic. He got swatted for the prank, of course, but it was well worth it. To me and our other brother Bobby anyway.

During my teaching career, April Fools' Day was a wonderful opportunity to teach my fifth graders all sorts of handy life skills such as the proper placement of a Whoopie Cushion, the "dollar on a string" trick, and the ever-popular plastic dog poop on the lunch tables. We also worked together to spread the tomfoolery to other classrooms.

One April first, I had about ten of my students come in early. We convinced the custodian (a couple Snickers bars took care of it) to open one of the sixth grade classrooms, and the students and I snuck in and swiped all of the chairs. We left a ransom message on the white board:

IF YOU EVER WANT TO SIT DOWN AGAIN, STAND OUTSIDE ROOM B-7 AND SING THE "I'M A LUMBERJACK AND I'M OKAY" SONG!

Here's the best part. The sixth graders had never heard of the "I'm a Lumberjack and I'm Okay" song. Their teacher, Mr. Linsin, was a good friend of mine and I knew he was a big Monty Python fan. So before his class could come retrieve their chairs, Mr. Linsin had to take about fifteen minutes to teach and rehearse the song. They did a fine job, if we're going to be honest about it. Every last verse. Cracked my class up.

The next year, Linsin exacted his revenge. When my students and I entered our classroom, all the desks had been turned upside down. Even mine. Apparently the custodian was a double agent, his allegiance easily turned by the offer of Snickers and Kit Kats.

Can't blame him, really.

While April Fools' Day is usually filled with good-natured and harmless jocularity, every now and then someone with a tenuous grasp on the concept of "funny" will take things too far.

According to an article in the Victorville (Ca.) Daily Press, a woman -- for privacy's sake we'll refer to her as 24-year old Marlina Flores of Apple Valley -- is currently doing some time in the slammer for making a prank phone call to the San Bernardino County Sheriff's Department saying that she and her two-week-old infant had been kidnapped and thrown in the back of a pickup truck. When the call came over the police radio, deputies immediately dropped their chocolate iced crullers, put down their lattes, and responded.

I'm kidding of course. They finished their donuts, and then responded to the call.

As "24-year old Marlina Flores of Apple Valley" stayed on her cell phone giving the "location" of the "pickup truck" to the dispatcher, deputies patrolled the "area" trying to find the missing "victims." After an hour of searching, the deputies gave up and returned to Dunkin' Donuts for a couple more maple bars.

Ha! I'm just kidding again! Seriously, authorities became suspicious when they couldn't locate the pickup truck and after some investigation, they found "24-year old Marlina Flores of Apple Valley" safe at home with her child. The deputies, following standard San Bernardino County Sheriff's Department procedure, secured the child safely in her crib and returned to the living room where they beat "24-year old Marlina Flores of Apple Valley" senseless with their night sticks and whisked her away to the pokey.

Makes sense, if you think about it. If the authorities go easy on April Felons like this, it would be easy for criminals to "April Fool" their way out of all sorts of crimes. Hell, I'd do it. Every April first, I'd put on a ski mask and waltz right into the local Bank of America and hand the teller a slip of paper saying, "Put a million dollars in this paper bag." One of two things would happen. Either I'd get away with it and you'd never hear from me again or, more likely, a SWAT team would be waiting right outside when I exited the bank with my bag of money. At that point I would of course holler "APRIL FOOL" and we'd all have a good laugh and share a box of Krispy Kremes.

As for "24-year old Marlina Flores of Apple Valley," the first night in jail her cellmate totally got her with the "what's that on your shirt?" gag.

d

Why Can't I Have Some Balls?

2011-04-05T09:07:00.000-07:00

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I'm a huge baseball fan. I've been attending games since I was about six years old, when my folks took me to Shea Stadium for a Mets-Cardinals twi-night double header. In the forty years since that night, I've attended anywhere from 15-75 games per season which, if my math is correct, works out to a whole lot of games. Most of the time, I've had really good seats. Lower tier, down the line, prime location.

And I've never caught a foul ball. Never even got within "Holy crap, it's coming right at us" range.

I know what you're thinking. "What's the big deal, you can buy an official Major League baseball for about eight bucks." Well of course you can, but that's not really the point. It's not the "having," it's the "getting." I own several baseballs, many of which have been autographed by legendary ballplayers like Reggie Jackson, Yogi Berra, and the immortal Russell Earl "Bucky" Dent.

But that's not the same thing as possessing an authentic, right-from-the-field-of-play Major League Baseball artifact. Or a Minor League Baseball artifact, I'm in no position to be picky about it. I go to plenty of California League games to see the High Desert Mavericks and the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes, and even in 4,000-seat stadiums filled to twenty-five percent capacity, I've caught nothing more than undercooked-hot-dog-induced salmonella.

I can almost hear the Baseball Gods laughing at me.

Here's what I'm talking about. Several years ago, I had a season-ticket package for the aforementioned Rancho Cucamonga Quakes, then the Class A affiliate of the San Diego Padres if such details matter to you. My seats were about fifteen rows behind the visitors' dugout. Optimum foul ball territory.

I had tickets to thirty-six games that season. I attended thirty-five, and as I'm sure you've guessed, I came away from each of those games with no balls in my possession. Since I didn't want the tickets for that one remaining game to go to waste, I gave them to a colleague of mine named Linda. She was a sweet lady, early 50's, and she was excited about taking her husband to a ballgame. I was happy to share my tickets with her.

She came to work the next day, ran up to me, and said, "CHRIS! LOOK! I CAUGHT A FOUL BALL!"

Well shove a hot dog up my ass and call me Babe Ruth.

Linda was sitting in my seat and a foul ball fell in her lap. Now, when I say it fell in her lap, I don't mean she picked it up from the aisle when it came to rest, or the ball boy tossed it to her between innings. I mean, it was fouled up onto the roof above the grandstand, rolled down, caromed off the lip of the overhang and fell into her lap. The way she tells it, she wasn't even looking.

She showed me the ball. I was expecting it to be autographed, "To Chris, Ha ha, Baseball Gods."

It wasn't. It just had the official logo of the California League with the signature of the commissioner. Linda offered to give the ball to me. I refused it. Bitterly.

Last season, I was at another Cal League game between the High Desert Mavs and the Inland Empire 66'ers. Some friends of mine, we'll call them the Watsons, own a skybox at Mavericks Stadium (not as luxurious as it sounds -- it's still the low minor leagues), and they invited me and my family to join them for the game. Seven-year old Robby Watson spent the entire game running around the concourse and playing on the grassy hill located in foul territory down the right-field line. He was completely unaware that a baseball game was going on.

He got two foul balls.

One bounced into his hands while he was in line for nachos, the other hit him as he was rolling down the grassy knoll.

This led to a conversation with Robby's grandfather who told me about a game he'd attended in the late 70's.

"I was in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium, and a home run ball came right to me," he remembered. "I still have it. It was hit by the Yankees' right fielder, popular guy, jeez, what was his name . . . "

I sighed. "Reggie Jackson?"

"YEAH! That's the guy!"

Either Grampa was not the biggest baseball fan in the world, or his memory was failing. He was treating the life-altering experience of catching a home run off the bat of the great Mr. October as though he'd picked up a crumpled Whopper box outside the local Burger King.

Baseball Gods, why do you mock me so?

And you thought I was making it up.

Have I not been a loyal fan? I came back after the strike of '94, remember? I chose to turn a blind eye to the steroid scandal of the late 90's and early 00's, didn't I? Doesn't this earn me something? It doesn't have to be a game-winning home run by Derek Jeter. Hell, at this point I'd settle for a stray foul ball popped up by the backup right-fielder for the friggin' Modesto Nuts. Beggars can't be choosers.

So yeah, it's become sort of an obsession. I'm not going to go all bizarro-lunatic about it and take a huge fish net to a Little League game (they don't let you keep the ball anyway, as it turns out). I'm not going to dash like a madman through an empty section of seats at Mavericks Stadium and elbow a little girl out of the way to get one. But I am determined. I will take my glove.

Knowing my luck, here's what's going to happen. I'll be 83 years old, sitting in the $2,000 bleacher seats at Yankee Stadium III. As I take a sip of my $150 Bud Light, I'll get drilled in the chest with a line-drive home run by Ken Griffey IV.

And die.

Know what? I'm fine with that.

Just bury me with my souvenir and put on my gravestone, "HE HAD A BALL".

d

Hello? Who is It?

2011-03-30T17:51:00.000-07:00

My house phone rang at 10 AM.

"Hello?"

"Is this Salon Cutz?" the female voice said.

"Um no, sorry, you have the wrong number."

"What number did I dial?"

"How the hell should I know, I wasn't watching you."

"Huh?"

Click.

When I moved into the house I'm currently living in, I was assigned a phone number that had previously belonged to Salon Cutz hair stylists. I didn't know this at the time, but a never-ending parade of wrong numbers clued me in almost immediately. The phone company never changed the number in their directory.

I tried to rectify the situation by calling the phone company myself, letting them know that their listing for Salon Cutz was incorrect.

For some reason, the douchebag from Verizon didn't believe me.

"I'm checking here, sir, and the number we have for Salon Cutz is 867-5309."

"Yes, I know that," I replied, "but see, that's my number. That's why I called, the listing is wrong."

"That's the listing we have and no one has contacted us to change it."

"I'M contacting you. You need to change the listing, I'm getting wrong numbers all the time."

"I can only change the number if the business owner requests it."

Now I was getting angry. "I'm not asking you to change their phone number, I'm just asking you to fix the listing, changing it to the correct number!"

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, the number we have is correct."

"But it's NOT! That's MY number!"

"Can you verify that?"

Verify it? Like I don't know my own phone number. But I had another idea.

"How about if we hang up, you call 867-5309 and see who answers?"

"Oh, good idea. Okay. I'll call right back."

I hung up the phone and waited.

RING!

"Hello, this is Salon Cutz, can I help you?"

"That's what I thought, is this the owner?"

"Nah, I'm just fuckin' with you, I'm the guy from before."

"Oh. I guess this IS your number, then. We'll go ahead and fix the listing. Sorry for taking your time."

"Thanks, I appreciate it. Bye."

Moron.

To the complete and utter surprise of no one, the problem was not taken care of and to this day, seven years later, the phone book still lists my number as the number for Salon Cutz. I get, on average, five or six calls a week from those in follicular need. For a while there, it was driving me batty.

But then . . .One day, I decided, screw it. If the phone company isn't going to work with me on this, I'm just gonna have some fun.

So I started taking appointments.

RING RING!

"Hello?"

"Is this Salon Cutz?"

"Yes it is, this is Francois speaking, how can I help you?"

"Do you have any appointments open for this Saturday?"

"Let me check." I put down the phone, went to the fridge, and got myself a Diet Coke. "Yes, we do. We have a two o'clock and a three-thirty."

"Two would be fine."

"Your name?"

"Stephanie."

"All right, Stephanie, we have you down for two o'clock on Saturday the 12th, and you'll be taken care of by Chantelle. See you then."

"Thanks, bye."

Okay, before you imagine poor Stephanie driving aimlessly around our fine city and think to yourself, "Man, Chris is a complete JERK," I need to tell you that Salon Cutz still exists, in the same location it's always been. They just changed their phone number. So Stephanie did indeed have an appointment.

It's just that the Salon Cutz people didn't know it.

I don't know how my little jest played out, but I'd guess it went something like this:

"Hello, can I help you ma'am?"

"Yes, I'm Stephanie, I'm here for my appointment with Chantelle."

"Um, we don't have a Chantelle here. Are you sure you're in the right place?"

"This is Salon Cutz, right? I made my appointment on Monday. I spoke with Francois."

"Francois?"

So yeah, I've taken the odd appointment from time to time. I've also been known to quote prices on conditioner, dye kits, styling gel, all sorts of things. And let me tell you, Salon Cutz has VERY reasonable prices.

Okay, maybe I AM a complete jerk.

d

What Ever Happened To . . . Davey Hansen?

2011-03-27T19:46:00.000-07:00

Davey Hansen was raised by devout Lutheran parents who spent hour upon hour schooling their children in upright Christian values. Davey, along with his faithful dog Goliath, spent many a weekend cleaning up neighborhood parks, working with the elderly, and raising money for the underprivileged.

On the rare occasion that Davey misbehaved, like the time he disobeyed his mother and went ice skating on the lake, his parents sat him down, talked nicely to him (with only a moderate-to-high amount of guilt-tripping), and reminded him that he should always do God's work and follow His word.

Being raised in such a controlled family structure, Davey's high school years went pretty much like you'd expect.

He snapped like a wooden stool at a Jenny Craig meeting.

During his childhood, Davey and his friends formed a "no girls allowed" club called "The Jickets." Although they seemed harmless at the time, when they were sixteen or so, this "club" evolved into what could be more accurately described as a "gang." In fact, in the aftermath of what would later be known as "The Incident," Officer Bob determined that the seemingly non-sensical word "Jickets" was actually an acronym for "Juveniles Infiltrating the Christian Kingdom with the Eternal Teachings of Satan."

This explained a lot.

On the morning of April 13, 1977, the Jickets, armed with assault rifles, pipe bombs, and grenades, descended upon Clokey High School in Savannah, Georgia. Despite the warnings of the dog Goliath, who was overheard saying, "I don't know, Davey," Hansen and his gang stormed the school and opened fire on the students and faculty.

When the smoke cleared, 28 students and 14 staff members were dead.

Davey and Jimmy decide who's going to run the Jickets.

As agreed upon prior to their assault, the Jickets returned to their clubhouse, drank Jack Daniels' until they puked, and then engaged in a game of Russian Roulette. Davey Hansen survived, but Jonathan, Teddy, Jimmy, and Mickey all blew their own heads off.

When Davey returned home that evening, his parents John and Elaine were watching the evening news, aghast at what had happened at the high school. When their drunken and disheveled son stumbled through the door, John clicked off the TV.

"Davey. Is there something you'd like to talk about?" he asked.

"Piss off, old man."

"David Hansen!" scolded Elaine. "You are not to talk to your father that way!"

"Whatever," he mumbled, lighting a Marlboro.

"Davey," said John, "we saw what happened at school today. Is something bothering you?"

The Hansen Family in happier times.

"Ya think? Jesus Christ, Dad, you haven't noticed that I've been rebelling against you for the past six years? I'm tired of all the holier-than-Davey bullshit going on around here. I wanted to make a statement, show that the Jickets aren't just a bunch of choirboys. Looks like we did pretty good, huh?"

"First of all, your mother and I would thank you to not take the Lord's name in vain. And Davey, killing innocent people is not the way to prove yourself. It's not your place to pass judgment upon others, only God can do that."

"Then why have you been judging me my whole damn life? Answer THAT!"

Silence hung in the room like smoke in a seedy jazz club.

"Where are the rest of your Jickets now, Davey?"

"Their brains are splattered all over the clubhouse." Davey put out his cigarette on the sole of his Doc Martens.

"Well, you be sure to clean that up in the morning," said Elaine. "Remember, cleanliness is next to Godliness, and doing chores is a way that we show our family that we love them."

"Mom, do us all a favor. Get a friggin' clue."

Later that evening, Officer Bob and Officer Dan stopped by the Hansen residence. Despite John's assurance that his son had Learned a Valuable Lesson, the officers arrested Davey and booked him into the Dick Beals Juvenile Detention Center. On his eighteenth birthday, he was transferred to the Fulton County Prison where he remains to this day.

On the fifth anniversary of the massacre, ABC's Nightline aired a documentary entitled "Jickets: The Tragedy at Clokey High School," recounting the events of that day in 1977.

In a live interview from prison, Davey Hansen said, "I got tired of my whole life being a parable. Every good deed, every mistake, I couldn't do anything without my father tying it into some archaic Bible lesson. I thought that if I did something dramatic, Dad might finally see me for who I am, enter the real world for a change. Didn't work, though. After I blew away my classmates and teachers, he immediately went all Book-of-Job on my ass, like it was suddenly all about him. Screw it. The Jickets had purpose. We had a mission, and we accomplished it."

John Hansen moved on quickly after the incarceration of his son.

Well, Davey's going to burn in Hell now, that's for sure. He made his choices. Thank God for our daughter Sally. She's away at college, studying to be a Pastor. We're so proud of her."

Sally Hansen could not be reached for comment. A call to her dormitory at the University of Florida was answered by her roommate, who chose to remain anonymous. When the Nightline reporter asked to speak with Sally, her roommate replied, "Oh, Sally's not here right now. She's spending the weekend at the Alpha Gamma Mu house. She's always at one party or another. That girl's out of control. She's pretty popular with the frat boys, though."

Goliath declined to be interviewed. His attorney released a short statement from the mutt, which read as follows:

"Oh, Davey."

d

Embarrassing My Daughter

2011-03-24T02:20:00.000-07:00

"What are we gonna do today, Dad?" asked my 15-year old daughter Lindsay.

"Dunno. What do you have in mind?"

"Can you take me to Forever 21? I need some new clothes."

I know what this means. It means, "Can we go to the mall and spend a few hours looking at clothes, and when I can't decide which outfit I like the best, I'll give you the 'You're such a nice father and, admit it, I'm a pretty wonderful daughter too' look, and you'll sigh and make a brief and ultimately futile attempt to make me decide, but in the end we both know you're going to buy me two or possibly three outfits and probably a pair of shoes."

"Well, Linds, uh . . . "

"I have a gift card."

"Oh, okay, great! The mall it is."

We arrived at Forever 21, and the browsing began. As is the case with every female I've known in my entire life, Lindsay entered the store with only the vaguest idea of what exactly she wanted. "A long skirt and top" is how she put it, and if we're going to be honest, this is actually more of a "plan" than most women have when they embark upon a shopping expedition. Normally, it's "wander around aimlessly for a few hours and maybe we'll find something to spend money on. Or maybe we won't. But shopping is fun!"

Men do not see it this way. Men do not "shop." We know what we need to buy before we leave the house, we decide which store will carry this item, we drive there, we go into the store, we remove the item from its display rack/shelf, we take it to the cashier, and with the least amount of conversation possible we make the purchase and return home. In fact, just this morning I went back to the same mall -- don't worry, we'll return to the Lindsay story in a minute -- because I needed a new pair of sneakers. Drove to the mall, went directly to Famous Footwear, quickly decided between the Nikes and the New Balance (Nike won), took them to the counter and bada-bing, bada-boom, I was outta there. The entire event took maybe forty minutes including drive time, and that's only because I stopped by Wetzel's Pretzels on my way out because one does not visit the mall without having a hot Wetzel's Pretzel.

So we browsed the racks at Forever 21. Lindsay rummaged through blouse-and-sweater rack while I checked out the rack on the twenty-something cashier.

Ha! I'm kidding, of course. That would be inappropriate.

Actually, I didn't mind helping Lindsay find a suitable outfit. She gave me a few parameters (long skirt, lots of colors, and a simple top to go with it), and the hunt was on. As we shopped(!), I noticed that the piped-in music had an 80s theme to it. I starting singing along quietly, because you just can't help singing along with Duran Duran, Dexy's Midnight Runners, or Quarterflash.

"Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand . . . "

"DAD!"

"What?"

"You're embarrassing me."

"Oh, I embarrass you? You want to talk about being embarrassed? Remember that time when you were three, and we went out for breakfast?"

"Uh, no Dad, I don't. I was three."

"Well, trust me, when you threw a handful of scrambled eggs at the waitress, it was plenty embarrassing for everyone involved."

"I did that?"

"Why do you think we don't go to IHOP anymore?"

"I'm very sorry. I'll never do it again. If you want, I'll call IHOP tomorrow and apologize, just stop singing."

"You think my singing is embarrassing, how about this? Have you ever seen me do The Knock?"

Heavy sigh. "What's that?"

I demonstrated my classic dance move, where you pretend you're knocking on a door with one hand, then switch to the other, and so on.

As Lindsay looked on helplessly, another teenage girl walked by with her mom. Mom checked out my style and said, "Very nice. I remember when this album came out. I loved Duran Duran."

"I was more of a Police guy myself, but you gotta love the eighties." I looked at Lindsay. She was rubbing her temples with a pained expression on her face. "See, Linds, I'm not the only one who likes this stuff."

"Yeah, that's great."

Lindsay and the other girl then engaged in a complete conversation using the version of American Sign Language that requires only the use of facial expressions.

"Wow, you have one of those parents too?" asked the girl, by way of one raised eyebrow.

"You have no idea," eye-rolled Lindsay.

"You should probably get him out of here as soon as possible," head tilt.

"Sadly, we're not done shopping yet," smirk at the right corner of Lindsay's mouth accompanied by a slight shake of the head.

"Come on, Dad," said Lindsay, taking me by the arm and leading me to another area of the store. Quickly.

I noticed no discernible difference between the section of the store we were now in and the one we'd just left. More racks, more clothes, more shopping.

"Hey Dad, what do you think of this one?"

"Jenny, I got your number, I need to make you mine. Jenny, I got your number, 867-5309 . . ."

"DAD!"

"Huh? What?"

Lindsay held up a knitted pink top that required less yarn than a pot-holder I made in seventh grade Home Economics.

"Not a chance in hell are you wearing that."

"I know, I'm just messing with you."

"Speaking of which, anything new in the boyfriend area?" How's that for a subtle segue?

"Not really. There's this guy in band that I've kinda been hanging out with, though. He plays the tuba."

As every father knows or will someday discover, having a teenage daughter is a terrifying experience. This is because we've all been teenage boys. Between the ages of thirteen and twenty, I was basically a giant hormone in Vans checkerboard slip-ons, so I knew only too well the perilous waters Lindsay would soon be navigating, if she wasn't already. Still, I was happy to hear her say, "he plays the tuba." Boys are boys, of course, but I've never once seen a headline that read:

POLICE DISCOVER YAMAHA TUBA IN RAID OF RAPIST-MURDERER'S APARTMENT

"Are you guys a thing, or just friends?" I asked.

"I don't know. Just friends right now, I guess."

"You guess? What does that mean?"

"It means we're just friends, okay? Hey, look at that mannequin, there's the outfit I want!"

It was pretty nice. A multi-colored skirt that looked like Jackson Pollock designed it (that's not a bad thing, I love his work), and a beige-and-green striped sweater. Ankle-length skirt, high neckline on the sweater, two key selling points as far as fathers are concerned.

She emerged from the dressing room.

"What do you think, Dad?"

" . . . and if I stared to long, I'd prob'ly break down and cry. Oh, oh, sweet child o' mine."

"DAD! WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP SINGING!"

Stitch Update

2011-03-23T14:06:00.000-07:00

Last week, I shared the story of Stitch, an adorable puppy that Theresa and I agreed to take care of while he recovered from injuries sustained in a UFC Animal Kingdom Edition bout with an angry coyote. The coyote won the match by majority decision, even though he cheated by using an ACME bear trap. We knew from the get-go we probably wouldn't be able to keep Stitch permanently, as adorable and friendly as he is. We've got two high-maintenance mutts at our house already, and we just don't have the patience to train a new one.

That was our thinking, anyway.

After fostering Stitch for a couple weeks, though, and watching him heal up from his leg injuries (damn coyote), the decision became tougher. Our brains knew that we'd have to give him up, but our hearts kept saying, "Aw, wookit da widdle puppy!" He romped around the living room playing with his stuffed hedgehog, he pestered the hell out of our rat terrier Newton (and if you've kept up on my never-ending frustration with that particular disgrace to canine society, you'll know how much I enjoyed seeing Stitch chase him around the house), and generally assimilated himself into our family. Sure, he piddled on the carpet from time to time (thank heaven for SpotBot -- if you're a pet owner or have small kids, invest now), and dropped the occasional doggy-deuce on the kitchen floor, but he's a puppy. They do that. And hell, Newton pisses on things whenever he wants, and he's the dog-age equivalent of Betty White.

After much deliberating, we decided that it would be best to let the city put Stitch up for adoption. Theresa took him back yesterday with the strict instructions, "If he doesn't get adopted and they're thinking about giving him the needle, call us. We'll take him at that point." So don't fret about the possibility of Stitch having to visit the Youth in Asia. Not gonna happen.

Because today he was adopted by a loving family. We don't know who they are, but I'm going to assume they have a nice home, a couple kids, and a large back yard with a lush lawn and lots of trees to whiz on. Naturally they're going to spoil Stitch with all kinds of dog toys -- a rubber bone, tennis balls, maybe a fuzzy stuffed duck -- and feed him nothing but Iams dog food and table scraps. They're going to make him the happiest little pup on the planet.

They'd better. Or else I'm gonna hunt them down and kill them.

That's my Stitch we're talking about.

d

I'll Wreck Your Ferrari, and Your Little Dog Too!

2011-03-21T11:51:00.000-07:00

Douchebag.

One of the clearest signs that you're getting older is when you're watching a TV show or a movie and you realize that maybe the protagonist isn't such a good guy, or perhaps the villain isn't as bad as the film-makers wanted you to believe. Your perspective has completely changed. For example, even in the comic strips, I'm starting to find myself rooting for poor old Mr. Wilson to take a garden hoe upside Dennis the Menace's obnoxious blond head. And don't even get me started on the little shits in The Family Circus.

Just the other night, I was flipping through the channels and came across the classic '80s film Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I was in college when this movie was originally released, and at the time I thought Ferris was, in the words of Principal Rooney's annoying secretary, "a righteous dude." He blew off high school, out-witted the authorities, had a smoking hot girlfriend, and went joy-riding in a 1961 Ferrari GT California. Ferris Bueller was a demi-god.

But watching the movie twenty-five years later, I couldn't help but notice that he's not a demi-god at all. If anything, he's a demi-prick.

First of all, he ditches high school which in and of itself isn't a huge deal. According to his records, he had been absent nine times. While I'd never call this an exemplary attendance record, nine absences over an entire school year isn't horrible either. It's certainly no reason for a principal to abandon the school grounds and commit a B and E on the kid's home, but that's an issue for another time.

Ferris's truancy is the least of the problems. It's his treatment of his "friend" Cameron Frye that I find unacceptable. First of all, on the Big Ditch Day, Cameron is sick in bed. Instead of leaving the poor guy alone or, God forbid, taking him a thermos of chicken soup, Ferris nags the hell out Cameron until he agrees to pick Ferris up and do his bidding. What's Ferris's motivation?

Cameron has a car, and Ferris doesn't. He's using his sick friend as a personal chauffeur.

Asshole.

But we're just getting started. According to Ferris, Cameron's "piece of shit" car isn't good enough to take to school to pick up Ferris's girlfriend Sloan, who he managed to get excused by forcing Cameron to call the school, pretend to be Sloan's father, and tell Principal Rooney that a family member had died. So now Ferris decides that they need to secure a different form of transportation. The logical solution? Steal Cameron's father's Ferrari.

Cameron literally begs Ferris not to do this. He suggests renting a limo, a nice stretch job with a TV and a bar. But no, Ferris is hell-bent on joy-riding in the Ferrari. Cameron tries to explain that his father will go absolutely bat-shit (and really, what father WOULDN'T? I'd go ballistic if my kids pulled something like this and I drive a Chrysler, not a friggin' Ferrari). Cameron goes on to say that the Ferrari is his father's "love, it is his passion." Bueller's response?

"It is his fault he didn't lock the garage."

That's right, Ferris, if someone doesn't lock their garage, or maybe their front door, going in and stealing their property is perfectly okay.

Of course Bueller ends up trashing the Ferrari and leaves it to Cameron to take the heat. I'm hoping to someday see Ferris Bueller II, the story of a lawsuit that costs Ferris hundreds of thousands of dollars and maybe a prison sentence.

Okay, so Ferris Bueller is an example of a movie "hero" who is, upon further examination, a bad guy. Next, we're going to talk about one of the most notorious movie villains ever, and I think you're going to agree with me in saying that this person has gotten the bummiest of bum raps ever.

I'm speaking of course about the Wicked Witch of the West.

"I don't want any trouble, I'd just like my sister's shoes."

Granted, the image she presents doesn't do her any favors. Her green complexion, evil-sounding cackle and band of horrifying flying monkeys make it easy to jump to the conclusion that the witch's intentions are less than pure, but let's take a look at her plight as presented in the classic film The Wizard of Oz. She arrives in Munchkinland to discover that her dear sister has been crushed to death by a flying house. Clearly, losing one's sibling to such a grisly event would be a traumatic experience for anyone, with the possible exception of Emilio Estevez.

I'm kidding of course. No one wants Charlie dead. Banished to the South Pole, maybe, but not dead.

Not only has the Wicked Witch of the West's sister been killed, the friggin' Munchkins are singing a damn song about it. "Ding, dong, the witch is dead!" That's just cold. Okay, maybe the W.W. of the East had made life miserable for the Munchkins (though the movie presents no evidence of this), but couldn't we at least show a bit of compassion and tone down the celebrating?

And then they present the murderer with all sorts of honors and treat her like a hero. I realize of course that Dorothy Gale did not intend to land the house on the witch, and maybe the word "murderer" is a little strong. But I certainly think the Witch family has a decent wrongful death case against Auntie Em and Uncle Henry for failing to secure the home with a reasonably reliable foundation. We didn't see any other houses zipping through the air, did we?

Which brings us to the case of the ruby slippers.

The Wicked Witch of the West arrives at the scene of her sister's death, and all she wants to do is retrieve a pair of valuable ruby slippers that have been in the Witch family for decades. Before she gets to them, however, the slippers are magically stolen by Glinda the "Good" Witch who in my opinion is the real villain of this whole story. Glinda zaps the slippers onto the feet of Dorothy, who is now guilty of receiving stolen property.

If she were evil, she'd have cut Dorothy's feet off.

Frustrated, angry, and still in mourning, W.W. of the West asks Dorothy, very politely given the circumstances, to give her the ruby slippers. Dorothy, in fact, agrees to turn them over but when the Witch reaches down to take them off Dorothy's feet, it turns out that Glinda has cast a spell on them (the slippers). The Witch is, at this point, understandably pissed.

For the next couple hours, the Witch follows Dorothy and her friends, again, for no reason other than the retrieval of her family's property. At one point, she makes another peaceful request in the form of a smoke message in the sky:

SURRENDER, DOROTHY.

As in, "Surrender my family's ruby slippers, so we can all go on our merry way."

Does Dorothy listen? No she does not. So now W.W. of the West is left with no choice but to escalate the situation, enlisting the help of her aforementioned band of horrifying flying monkeys. The Witch eventually loses the battle to a bucket of water (this has to be the most inconvenient weakness of any "villain" in movie history, by the way) and never does get the ruby slippers back.

So now two innocent Witches are dead and the nefarious Glinda and Dorothy live happily ever after, unpunished for their crimes of manslaughter, theft, receipt of stolen property, and homicide.

They probably took the next day off, and drove back to Kansas in a stolen 1961 Ferrari GT California.

d

Allow Me to Vent

2011-03-18T23:49:00.000-07:00

Pee on his leg, kid. He deserves it.

I'm in a foul mood today.

It doesn't happen often. I like to think that I'm a pretty easy-going, happy-go-lucky kinda guy. Even when things go wrong, I can usually roll with it. Nineteen days out of twenty, I take on the day in the best of spirits, bright and chipper, ready to meet whatever challenges lie ahead with a positive attitude.

Today, however, is that twentieth day.

So instead of writing something relevant like, oh, going into the actual reason that today sucks, and perhaps using that process to come to a solution that might ease my spirits, well, screw it. I'm just going to bitch about random crap that pisses me off.

We'll kick this off with people who use the phrase "usually always" as in, "I don't know, Dave, my brother is usually always on time." Let me explain something here Mr. Hemingway, the words "usually" and "always" have two completely different meanings and one cannot modify the other. Maybe I'm not exactly William Strunk Jr. myself, but come on, either your brother is "usually" on time or he is "always" on time. He can't be both. "Sometimes my sister is never happy." "Most of the time he always never pays back his loans." See the confusion?

And while we're on the subject of language, I could enthusiastically disembowel those mindless twits who use the word "literally" when they mean the opposite. "I ate so much last night that I literally exploded." Is that right? You literally EXPLODED? Wow, I bet the rest of the folks at the Hometown Buffet were aghast, what, with being caught in the resulting barrage of bodily shrapnel and all. No, you FIGURATIVELY exploded. It's a metaphor, and you're a dumbass. Literally.

Same goes for anyone who says they "could care less." Again, that's the opposite of what they mean. I'm going to go slow on this one, so bear with me. Okay, suppose someone tells you that Pete from down the block thinks you're an asshole. Since Pete himself is a royal douchebag, his opinion doesn't mean anything. Coming from Pete, "Hey, you're an asshole" might even be considered a compliment. So if you don't care at all, you care nothing, zero, nada, zilch, then you COULDN'T care less. You could not care less than nothing, zero, etc., etc. If you "COULD care less," That would mean you would have to care, to at least some degree, that Pete thinks you're an asshole which we've already determined that you don't.

Got that?

Moving on, what about those mental midgets on Wheel of Fortune who continue to buy vowels after they've already figured out the answer to the puzzle. Um, dipshit, you don't have to fill in every single letter, and by the way those vowels cost money. But by all means, go ahead and dump another 250 bucks down the crapper for that superfluous A, E, I, O, or U.

ROMEO AND JUL_ET"

Uh, Pat, I'd like to buy an I please."

Smack the shit out of him, Pat, I beg you.

The other day I was reminded of just how clueless some parents are. I've seen this before, but I was at a nearby theme park and a mom had her four year-old on a leash. Yeah, I know, they call it a "safety harness" but they're not fooling anyone. It's a leash! Hello, Mrs. Cleaver? If your kid doesn't know enough to stay close to you, and for some reason holding her hand is out of the question, maybe you shouldn't take her to crowded parks to begin with. If my parents did that to me when I was a kid, I'd have pissed on a tree, dry-humped the neighbor's leg and bitten the mailman. You want a dog, Mommy, you got one! Of course, when daughter-on-a-leash grows into a teenager and Mom catches her tied to the bedposts by her sado-masochistic boyfriend Snake, Mom will go on endlessly about how "society" damages our nation's youth.

Excuse me, sir, but I can't see the sign. 'Cause I'm BLIND!

This next one doesn't really make me mad, but it's still friggin' stupid. I was at the drive thru ATM the other day and I noticed that the buttons were in Braille. I'll say that again in case you missed it. I was at the drive thru ATM and the buttons were in Braille. I'm all for the Americans with Disabilities Act, but what the hell? If a blind guy is driving his car, he's going to have bigger things to worry about than accessing his cash in an expedient manner. They also have a sign at McDonald's: BRAILLE MENUS AVAILABLE. Great, but who is the sign for, the dog? It's like making an announcement over the P.A. system at the airport, "Will all deaf passengers please report to Gate 34." Find another medium for that message, folks.

Damn, this is better than therapy and much more cost-effective. I'm feeling more upbeat already. Thanks for letting me vent, I appreciate your support. I don't know what came over me today.

I'm usually always in a better frame of mind.

But you could probably care less.

d

Stitch

2011-03-15T14:15:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in my office at work trying to make a key decision -- what did I want for lunch, Subway or KFC? -- when I received a picture/text message from Theresa:

GUESS WHAT?

Theresa works closely with our city's animal control department, and judging from the cone of shame on this mutt's head, I assumed that I was looking at a crippled puppy that Theresa mistakenly thought she was going bring into our home.

Munson

Let me remind you that Theresa and I already own two dogs, and I'm not a dog-lover in the first place. I am, at best, a dog-putter-up-with. We live with my cocker spaniel Munson (the good dog) and Theresa's rat terrier Newton (the total pain in the ass), and this dynamic duo is more than enough for any household. Munson is actually not so bad, if you ignore his tendency to emit blasts of noxious butt fumes that may soon replace pepper spray as the LAPD's primary crowd-dispersal method. He obeys commands like "go outside," "get off the bed," and "get in the car." He does his business outside. Theresa will tell you that Munson will, on occasion, barf on the carpet but I don't hold that against him. It's tough to plan for vomit.

Newton

Newton, on the other hand, is an embarrassment to the canine world and a complete annoyance to the human one. He obeys commands when he feels like it, it takes an act of God (or a swift kick in the ass) to get him off my pillow, and his propensity to squirt wherever he pleases has forced us to put a diaper on him when he's in the house.

For a full description of my relationship with Newt, click here.

At this point, the last thing we need is another dog in the house. So I responded to Theresa's text, making my point quite clearly:

NOT A CHANCE.

She replied:

TOO LATE. IT'S HAPPENING.

The hell it is, I thought. Believing I could better make my point over the phone, I dialed her number.

"Hello?"

"We're not getting another dog."

"Isn't he adorable?"

"We're not getting another dog."

"He needs a home."

"Okay, I'll make you a deal. Get rid of Newton and we can keep the puppy."

"Aw, we can't get rid of Newton, he's family."

"Whatever."

"Okay, okay, here's the thing," said Theresa. "The puppy got attacked by a coyote or a pit bull or something and they need someone to watch him at night and on weekends until he heals. Can we adopt him temporarily?"

I can be reasonable. "Yeah, we can do that. But -- let there be no mistake about this, T -- WE ARE NOT KEEPING HIM."

"I know, I know."

Theresa brought the puppy home that night. He was in pretty bad shape. All four legs had been, well, "eaten" isn't the right word but it's the first one that comes to mind. He had tubes sticking out of the wounds for drainage, several stitches, and of course he was wearing the plastic cone to keep him from messing with his injuries. He looked like a doggie-martini.

"Here," said Theresa as she handed the pup to me. "I need you to hold him while I put ointment on his legs."

So I held him.

Mistake.

When Theresa touched his leg, the little guy whimpered in pain. He started licking my hand, as if to say, "Please, my new friend, make my legs stop hurting."

After we put the ointment on his legs and gave him his pills, Theresa put him on a blanket by the fireplace. At this point, Newton and Munson noticed there was a new kid in town. Munson sniffed him carefully, and after determining there was no danger, went on about his business. Newton, on the other hand, kept climbing on Theresa, trying to take her attention away from this threat to his status as "most spoiled dog on the planet."

We gave the puppy a bowl of food and he ate like a prisoner. Poor guy had been through a lot. He really was mangled, you could even see the bone in one of his hind legs. What was that stupid coyote doing, picking on a tiny puppy? I hope the little guy got a few good bites in, anyway. Man, look at all those stitches.

Stitches?

"Hey, T," I said. "I have the perfect name for this guy. Let's call him Stitch."

"We can't name him."

I picked him up off his blanket and held him on my shoulder. He licked my cheek. "Sure we can. Why not?"

"Because as soon as he's healthy, some family is going to adopt him," Theresa said. "We're not keeping him."

"Darn right we're not keeping him," I said, suddenly less sure about it.

The next morning, Theresa took Stitch back to animal control. I called a few times to see how he was doing. Early in the afternoon, my phone rang. It was Theresa.

"Hey," I said. "How's Stitch?"

"That's why I called. It's not looking so good. All his stitches popped out and now he's back in surgery. It's not looking good. Just thought you should know."

Damn.

For the next few days it was touch and go, but Stitch was able to pull through. Theresa brought him home for the weekend, and we've had him the last couple nights as well. He seems to be healing nicely. If all goes according to plan, the animal control department will be able to find him a new home next week.

Because we don't need another dog at our house.

Do we?

d