Politically Correct, My Ass - by Philip

In addition to the woeful state of sex ballads in contemporary popular music that I mentioned in my last post, I have also been wondering about the curious state of childhood education in America today. First, I should say that I have no idea how I survived my own childhood. Within five minutes of getting home from watching Mary Poppins, my brother and I were jumping off the roof holding umbrellas. We used to hose down our driveway and ride our bikes full-speed toward the house, then slam on the brakes and skid to a halt just inches from our front brick wall. And don’t even ask what happened the day after we saw the “That’s Incredible” episode featuring a man who rode a motorcycle through a tunnel of flames. My melted shoes are probably still buried out behind the shed.



But all of these issues probably have more to do with neglectful parenting (Hi, Mom!) than with national policies governing the care and well-being of our children. Here are some examples of rules that are actually in effect at my daughter’s elementary school:

When I was a kid, we used to play Cowboys and Indians by making guns and bows & arrows out of sticks and chasing each other around the playground wielding them as weapons. At my daughter’s school, if children make a gun shape with any object, including their hands, they are automatically suspended. They also have to call the game “western frontiersmen in unfortunate conflict with Native Americans” and conclude each recess with a group hug and some legalized gambling. Okay, I might have made up that last part.

At my school, we played tag, crack-the-whip and football during recess. At my daughter’s school, they are not allowed to play any game that will cause them to come into physical contact with another student. Seriously.

From the age of six, I used to walk to and from school, crossing several streets including one major roadway. No students are allowed to leave my daughter’s school without being signed out by an adult. Sure, that’s safer, but what about the many students who live within a couple of blocks of school and have parents who are totally in the middle of a Mine Sweeper game and can’t get to school on time? Didn’t think about that, did you, San Francisco Unified School District?

I used to celebrate Columbus Day. My daughters celebrate Indigenous People’s Day. We also, for some reason, never celebrated Gay Pride Day at my elementary school in Louisiana in the 1970s. I’m actually happy about these attempts to increase children’s awareness of issues, but this post is all about pointing out the differences. Mainly, I just wish that I could have asked all of my school friends, “Did you get off on Gay Pride Day?” since that would have been hilarious.

One change that has been inarguably positive is that my kids are getting a much better education about how their bodies work than I did, which was none at all. At my school, the fifth-grade class was banned from submitting articles to the school paper because one of the pieces they wrote included the word “period.” My fourth-grader came home from school a couple months ago and said, “Our puberty teacher said we need to bring a period pack to school. I found the pads and the sanitizing hand gel, but I still need tampons and a heating pack for my uterus.” That is not at all the answer I was expecting when I asked how her day went.

Naturally, my question is whether these changes in how we raise our children are a good or bad thing. It’s great to make kids aware that their teasing, bullying and isolation of others have lasting negative effects. But doesn’t this make it difficult for kids to determine their social pecking order, which constitutes a major tenet of Darwinism? If little dweeby kids grow up with healthy self-esteems and outgoing personalities, then who will want to spend enough time in laboratories to invent the genetically engineered transplant organs that I’m going to need? It’s certainly not going to be those big dumb kids, whom I will need later to entertain me with their UFC bouts and hilarious mug shots.

Of course, I tend to err on the side that evolution has brought us to a more enlightened state now than we were in when I was a kid. However, I can't help but think that skinned knees and bloody noses teach as much about life as Geometry and English Lit. I have certainly gotten more practical use out of knowing, for example, what to do in case a teeny little gasoline fire happens to break out in my driveway, than out of knowing the Pythagorean Theorem. Anyway, I would love to discuss this further, but I have to go to a school meeting to prepare for the celebration of Our Huggable Vegetative Friends Appreciation Day. You may remember it as Arbor Day.

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Of Mikes and Men - by Douglas

So Tuesday I went through my usual pre-American-Idol routine. Crack one near-beer and put another in the freezer. Microwave some cup-a-soup. Give the boy some Benadryl. Imagine my disappointment to see that all the networks had their programming pre-empted by some black dude talking to a bunch of suits. OK, OK, I’m just kidding. They weren’t ALL wearing suits. There were nine of them up front in long black dresses.

You’re right, I shouldn’t make light of such a singularly historic moment. We have a black president and that is something I would not have put money on in my lifetime. In fact I would think any manner of eligible white dude would have beaten the most qualified black guy until me and Walt Disney got our heads thawed and connected to our new android bodies. “Yo Ginsberg! Ruthie G!” our white president would yell from the podium with a crack pipe dangling between his remaining teeth. “Can a brother get a light? A little rock really helps with my…BOOGERNUTS! BOOGERNUTS! BOOGERNUTS!…Tourettes!”

And having spent a good deal of my life in Louisiana I would have bet even less money that they would elect an Indian governor. In his thirties! But that’s who gave the State of the Union rebuttal speech. Sort of. What Bobby Jindal has in his favor is, I know it’s terribly cliché by now, but he sounds white. I mean really white. If you close your eyes he might be the sheriff from Live and Let Die. Folks down south really cotton to that. Even better, if you sound like Rush Limbaugh you'd have a good shot at beating out the incumbent in an election for God. “I guess I got a little caught up touting my work creating the universe and giving life to all eligible voters and whatnot. Maybe I should have joked about Hillary’s thighs a little more," Jehovah might lament in his concession speech.


OK so open your eyes and there’s droopy-eyed Bobby Jindal looking as though he’s thanking the Academy for recognizing his sound mixing efforts on Slumdog Millionaire. And let’s talk about sound for a minute. Are times so hard that we can’t put a second mike on Jindal? I confess that I thought this speech would launch him into national prominence enough to become a serious contender for President in 2012. But it’s hard to get behind a guy who says, “We are Amer-ans. We can oo anythee!” I have seen much made of his Kenneth-the-30-Rock-Page-Aw-Shucks delivery too but having worked several years behind the scenes in TV and radio, I can't forgive equipment failure. To me, his entire career was just rendered regional by a faulty wire. Just one more piece of smooshed Radio Shack roadkill on the highway we call Politics.

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Kids These Days - by Philip

I always promised myself that I would never be one of those dads who gripes at his kids and their friends about how much better things were in the good ol’ days. Thankfully, almost everything actually is better now than when I was a kid, so that makes this job much easier for me. For example, I have an adorable little machine in my car that tells me how to get from my house to any location on the planet; my dad had my mom yelling at him to take the exit that he just drove past. I now have a tiny music player that holds every one of the thousands of songs that I own; as a child, I used to spend hours trying to figure out just where the one song “Pop Music” by M was located on my 8-track tape. And don’t even get me started on the myriad ways that the internet has improved my porn consumption.

But lately, I have been getting more and more annoyed at one aspect of modern society that has been in an absolute nosedive since its heyday in the 70s. I’m talking, of course, about the sex ballad.

What’s a sex ballad? That’s the song that bands in the 70s and 80s used to sing at each of their concerts in order to pick out the local hotties that they were going to "get to know better" that night. Every band that I used to listen to in my childhood had one of these songs. Rod Stewart had “Tonight’s the Night.” Bad Company had, “Feel Like Makin’ Love.” But by far, the highest example of this art form was exemplified by the group Foreigner with their heartbreaking work of staggering genius, “Hot Blooded.”

If you’ve never listened closely to this song, it reads like a sex questionnaire. Take a look at the subtle clues that Lou Gramm gives that he just might be interested in Miss Tube Top in row three:

“You don’t have to read my mind, to know what I have in mind.” (No, Mr. Gramm, we just have to glance at your skin-tight leather pants to figure out that mystery.)

"Are you old enough? Will you be ready when I call your bluff?" ("Seriously, after that incident in Jacksonville, I'm going to need to see some photo ID.")

“If it feels alright, maybe you can stay all night. Shall I leave you my key?” ("Shall I?" Do you hear any singers these days using grammar like that? It brings a tear to the eye.)

Then, just to be sure that he’s getting his message across to the right young “lady,” Gramm adds:

“But you’ve got to give me a sign. Come on girl, some kind of sign.” (This is for the slower women in the audience who haven’t picked up on the song’s hidden message.)

“Is my timing right? Did you save your love for me tonight?” (Translation – "Don’t raise your hand if you’re having a visit from your 'Aunt Flo' or if you already gave it up to your date in the parking lot. Lou Gramm doesn't do sloppy seconds.")

“Now it’s up to you. Can we make a secret rendezvous? Oh, before we do, you’ll have to get away from you know who.” (Bet you’re regretting bringing her to the concert now, Poindexter.)

You have to admit, the boys of Foreigner had this thing down to a science. No matter how you look at it, that is a formidable example of lyrical poetry capable of enticing any small-town girl into a night of romance that will give her painful flashbacks for the rest of her life. But (Crotchety old man alert!) the kids these days with their rapping tunes and the hippity hop music just have no idea how to write this kind of song. Instead of carefully interlacing their lyrics with some lovely romantic overtures, the songs today consist almost entirely of demands for sex. They basically go like this: “I’m a rich singer who likes alcoholic beverages, weaponry, and women with distinguished gluteal profiles – get up here and have sex with me now.”



As an example, let’s take a look at Flo Rida’s song, “Low”:

“Hey, I ain't never seen nuthin’ that'll make me go
This crazy all night spendin’ my dough
Had the million dollar vibe and a body to go
Dem birthday cakes, they stole the show
So sexual, she was flexible,
Professional, drinking X&O
Hold up wait a minute, do I see what I think I whoa
Did I think I seen shorty get low
Ain't the same when it's up that close
Make it rain, I'm making it snow
Work the pole I got the bankroll
I'ma say that I prefer them no clothes
I'm in to that I love women exposed
She threw it back at me I gave her mo'
Cash ain't a problem I know where it go”

Where’s the romance? Where’s the subtlety? Where’s the grammar? Musicians used to have just a single song dedicated to convincing that one special woman to meet them backstage. Nowadays, those young whippersnappers don’t sing about anything but sex! Instead of treating women like the cherished objects of desire that they are, today’s singers just treat them like disposable sex toys that they can use up and throw away. And that’s, umm… bad. They really shouldn’t be traveling all over the world in their private jets, drinking the best champagne that money can buy, surrounded by gorgeous women that cater to their every whim. Instead, they should… uh, they should… actually, that sounds pretty cool. I mean “tight.” Okay, I’ve changed my mind – everything is better today than it was when I was a kid. Except for saggers. I mean, seriously.

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The Oscars - by Douglas

If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s when Hollywood types use the Oscars as a platform for spouting off their political views. So my eyes were rolling like a rotisserie chicken when Kate Winslet walked up to accept her award for best actress. “Here we go again!” I grumbled towards my wife. “Hollywood pushing their Nazi statutory rape agenda on us... AGAIN!”



Lots of other fun stuff happened at the Oscars this year. Here is a sampling:

1. Seeing Mickey Rourke sitting in the Kodak Theater has taught us all a very valuable lesson – Do NOT piss off your plastic surgeon.


2. Sean Penn called me a commie, homo-loving son of a gun. It’s like he sees into my very soul.


3. People keep pointing cameras at Miley Cyrus. On purpose. There are some things I am not meant to understand.


4. I’m shallow. I know that. But Anne Hathaway has some enormous chiclets. I bet corn on the cob runs screaming when she walks into a room.


5. I was amazed at Christian Bale losing so much weight when he starred in The Machinist. But he has nothing on Brad Pitt in Benjamin Button. Dude was straight up scrawny, yo.


6. Danny Boyle has given hope to waterhead babies all over the world.


7. Woody Allen’s movie Vicky Christina Barcelona is about Penelope Cruz cheating on her husband with Scarlett Johansson. Woody…such an aptly named man. I think his next movie will star Jessica Biel as a mud wrestler who falls in love with her arch rival Lucy Liu. Yes, I did say Lucy Liu because she’s Asian.


8. Joaquin Phoenix became a punchline almost as fast as Pee Wee Herman. “Bye! good,” Joaquin.


9. Heath Ledger - nah, I’m leaving that alone.


10. Kate Winslet’s Dad sure can whistle. And that hat! I guess I’d wear a wide-brimmed hat low on my head too if my daughter made a living simulating sex with teenaged boys. I don’t mind so much when his daughter does it though.

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Yes Virginia, There Is A Tiled Kitchen - by Douglas

I…I just never gave up hope. I knew that one day with a little luck, a lot of planning, and most importantly, cash moneys, our kitchen floor would be adorned with honest-to-God tile. Sure, it’s been nine years dealing with peeling linoleum and weird stains that appeared from time to time with no identifiable source. If those stains had taken the shape of the Virgin Mary or, even better, Elvis, maybe we’d still have our despised linoleum.


Our luck running true, the unambitious little patterned sheets gave no indication that they would do anything but devolve into shredded strips of ugly aggravation.

But at long last, that is all behind us and our morning tootsies now traipse across cold, hard porcelain. And not just any porcelain, but perhaps the most thoroughly researched and scrutinized 240 square feet of porcelain in the entire metro area. So what have I learned that I can share with you, future flooring purchasers?

1. Before setting foot in a tile store you should sit down with your spouse and review your wedding vows word by word. If you’re not married, stop now.
   
2. All tile either comes from Italy or is given an Italian name. Practice rolling your R’s.
   
3. You will find no fewer than thirty tiles that will look absolutely stunning in whatever room you are flooring. You could save yourself some stress by buying the first one you agree on.
   
4. You will ignore my third suggestion and therefore will stub your toes on tile samples at least five times a week. Keep a small icepack on hand.
   
5. Buy lottery tickets daily. If any of them hit, you won’t have to deal with the tile thing any more.

Now that I have a tiled kitchen I am unjustifiably proud of myself. It’s just another one of those molehills that other adults climb every day but which seem like K2 to me. If you fall into the K2 category, my ultimate advice is this – buy a home that’s already tiled.

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Fun With Engrish, Part 2 - by Philip

In my last post, I promised to tell you some of the more entertaining language mistakes that I made while living in Japan. But in the interest of humiliating others first, let me begin by telling you about a few of the fun Engrish mistakes that I saw or heard instead. The fun started on my first night in the country. I went straight from the airport to a hotel in Tokyo where there was a sign above the bed that said, “Please feel free to take advantage of the chambermaid.” In my defense, let me just say that if they didn’t really want me to take them up on the offer, they shouldn’t have posted the sign – especially not right over the bed.



It didn’t slow down from there. On my first day at the junior high school where I would be working, I introduced myself to all of the other instructors in the teachers’ room and told them that my family included a sister, a younger brother and a twin brother. In response, the vice-principal said, “Oh, you are a penis.” Surely I had misunderstood him, so I asked him to say it again. He repeated, “You are a penis.” I turned to the young woman next to me, who was also teaching English there, and asked what the vice-principal was trying to say. She said, “Yes, you are a penis.” Now I was really confused, so I pulled out my pocket dictionary and asked her to show me which word they were saying. Thankfully, she showed me the word, “peanut,” which is one way in Japanese to say “twins” because they look as similar as two peanuts in a shell. Thus ended five of the most uncomfortable minutes of my life.



I spent every Friday afternoon in a board of education office with 12 other teachers, so in order to prepare for my arrival, they bought an English-Japanese electronic dictionary for every teacher in the office except for me. The point was to make sure that each of them could communicate with me so that I would feel welcome. I didn’t want to seem rude so I never did mention to them that it might have been a better idea to buy just one dictionary and give it to me.



Despite this fun little curiosity, I have to say that the head of that office, Mr. Furuya, was the greatest boss in the world. It quickly became apparent that he spent the better part of every Friday morning trying to think of something to say to me in English. When I would arrive, the office lady would offer me some tea and then Mr. Furuya would saunter over with his yellow legal pad covered in things that he had written in English and then crossed out. Somewhere on the page was one circled phrase that he would say to me. On my first day there, he came to my desk and said, “To have the tongue of a cat.” I would find out later that this is one way of asking if I was okay drinking hot things, like the tea that they brought me every time I arrived. A few weeks later, Mr. Furuya greeted me by saying, “To remove the astringency.” These are the little things that I miss about Japan.



T-shirts were always a good source of humor as well. One of my favorites said, “Chuckie’s true story of the fire sale.” How does a person even come up with something like that? But my favorite one simply said, “Murderer.” I wonder if the local police began all homicide investigations by questioning him. CDs sometimes had good Engrish as well, including the Frank Sinatra CD I bought that featured the song, “Fry Me To The Moon.” Thankfully, the fun didn’t end when I returned to America. I saw a great t-shirt for sale right here in San Francisco that said in Japanese, “I am a stupid American.” Touché, Japan.



But I promised you some mistakes that I and other ex-pats made in Japanese, so here you go. I was eating at a restaurant in Japan with an American visitor who insisted on doing all of the talking herself even though she didn’t speak a word of Japanese and I was up to at least a 4-year-old’s level by then. She wanted more ice in her drink, so she held up her glass to a terrified waitress and made the noise that she thought ice makes when it falls into a glass: “Chinko, chinko.” That’s the word for, “penis,” which, one assumes, is not what she wanted in her glass. Why do so many of these stories involve the word, “penis?” She later got up to use the bathroom in the restaurant and walked in on a woman in the stall. She wanted to apologize, so she yelled out the only Japanese word that she knew, which was, "Irrashaimase!" She knew this word because all of the workers in the restaurant were yelling it each time someone came in the door. It means, "Welcome."



My personal favorite language mangling happened when my principal asked me to give a speech to all of the students about racism. I hadn’t learned any Japanese yet (other than how to ask for more beer and the location of a bathroom), but I wanted to throw in one Japanese phrase to impress everyone. So I concluded my moving speech about the evils of racism by saying in Japanese, “I am not a white person or a black person. I am a carrot. We are all carrots.” I was trying to say “human being,” which is extremely close to the word for “carrot.” That explained all the laughter. Years later, my fellow teachers would come up to me and say, “Hey, Dyer-sensei, remember when you called us all carrots?” I always resisted the temptation to say, “Yes, but at least I didn’t call you a penis.” Wanna read more?

Fun With Engrish, Part 1 - by Philip

It’s time for me to make a confession that’s been weighing on my mind for a while now: I suck at Japanese. Okay, that probably doesn’t seem like something to be ashamed of, but I spent five years in Japan and could have taken much better advantage of the opportunity to learn the language while I was there. The only kanji characters that I learned how to read were the sumo wrestlers’ names, which were no help at all when asking for directions to the train station. For example, how many times do you get to say, “Little Brocade,” “Young Donkey” or “Morning Victory Dragon” in everyday conversation? Well, I actually try to work them in a lot, but that usually just makes me sound creepy.

Fortunately, I have a good excuse. Wait, I actually have two good excuses. One is that I have never cared about learning Japanese. Being congenitally lazy, all I really wanted to know how to say in Japanese was, “I don’t speak Japanese.” Other than that, I could have gotten by with just pointing and grunting. Most Japanese men communicate like that all the time anyway, so people might have thought that I was really trying to fit in.



My other excuse is that I didn’t start learning Japanese until I was in my twenties. Researchers have shown that people who study a language before the age of 12 learn it in the brain’s language center like native speakers, whereas people who study languages later in life learn it in the part of the brain that makes everything they say sound like they’re imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger. (BTW, before becoming the governor of a state, shouldn’t you have to be able to pronounce the name of that state? I’m pretty sure that I don’t live in a place called “kuh-lee-föhn-ya.”) I have such an extreme American accent that I now punish my daughters (both of whom are American, but studied some Japanese before age 12) by speaking Japanese in front of them. Judging by how they react when I do this, my accent might be even worse than the Governator’s.

But all false humility and teasing of Austrians aside, I did take a Japanese skill test while I was in Japan and just 6-8 weeks later I received a certificate that actually said, “Philip Dyer can speak Japanese at the level of a 5-year-old.” That was one of the proudest days of my life, because I have always assumed that I also speak English at about that same level. If everyone in the world spoke some Esperanto-like universal language at a 5-year-old’s level, we would be so much better off. “Me no want you point nuclear boom boom at me. Me give you favorite Spiderman sticker and you point boom boom other way.” (Note that even 5-year-olds pronounce "nuclear" better than President Bush.) Think of how much we could accomplish if all the people of the world could communicate with anyone they want at that level. More importantly, think of how much more interesting United Nations Security Council meetings would be.

While living in Japan, one of my favorite pastimes was to seek out all of the hilarious attempts at English that could be found in abundance at every restaurant, t-shirt store and junior high school. But, as you can imagine, my kindergarten-level Japanese resulted in quite a number of misunderstandings that my former co-workers probably still laugh about as they recall them over family dinners. Check back for the next posting to see some examples of the really, really stupid things that I said while I was there. Wanna read more?

Should Black History Month Be History? - by Philip

Now that America has elected its first African-American president, an increasing number of people all over this great land of ours are asking the same question: Do we really need Black History Month any more? This sentiment is not just coming from people who voted for David Duke –one or two of whom I see at family reunions– but from lots of mainstream bloggers and Facebook activists. So now that America has become the first majority-white nation in history to elect an African-American as president (Okay, I think I need to say “black” here because no other country could actually elect an African-American, could it?), does that mean that it’s time to abolish this slightly time-honored tradition? Let’s look at the facts.

Item: Now that we have elected an African-American to lead our nation, we are finally able to say that black people can rise to any position that they want – except, of course, a leading role on any TV network other than the CW. Other item: The NAACP has now decided to stop focusing exclusively on America, and to begin advancing colored people worldwide, which clearly means that they believe that they have completed their mission here at home. If they no longer think that American people of color need help advancing, then why should the month of February still care? Final item: McDonald’s recently aired a commercial with an actual, live white person in it, which means that they must have come to the conclusion that all races are now equal. Check and mate. But I suppose that we should take a look at the flip side of this coin. (Hey, there’s another place we don’t have any black people – our currency! I assume this is now in the works.)



In the “con” column of the debate to stop observing Black History Month is the fact that white presidents still outnumber black presidents 43-to-1. Would you bet your life savings on those odds at the racetrack? That’s assuming you still have a life savings. It’s also a con that black and white facilities were kept separate (but totally equal) until 1964. This led to a lot of angered African-Americans yelling at whites to get to the front of the bus so that they could maintain control of all those good seats way at the back. It also freaks me out that up until 1972, the year I turned 4, doctors in Alabama experimented on black people without their knowledge, though this did lead to breakthroughs in how to lie to patients about their condition: "I'm afraid you have a condition called 'bad blood.' Since it's contagious, I'll have to ask you to use the bathroom at the gas station down the street." And, as many people know, the aforementioned David Duke, who was once the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, received 38% of the general vote in the 1991 Louisiana gubernatorial election and 55% of the white vote. As a reminder, 1991 occurred approximately 18 years ago.

It seems clear that no one would think that the “pro” column outweighs the “con” column in this debate, with the possible exception of 55% of Louisiana’s white population. (Hi, Uncle Roy!) So I have to come to the conclusion that we can still benefit from continuing Black History Month. But I would go even further. (Or is it “farther?”) We should move it to January. Not only does it make more sense because that's the month when when observe Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday, but it would also be nice to start out each year with a reminder not to repeat the mistakes of our very recent past. Plus, this would give Black History month an extra 2-3 days, which would help us to learn just that much more about George Washington Carver. Did you know that he didn’t actually invent the peanut? It’s true! But regardless of when or how we observe it, Black History Month is still a relevant and important part of our national heritage. I’m as sure of this as anyone could be who is trying to assuage his white guilt by protesting too much about racism in a blog.

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You, come pleat me - by Douglas

Why do I do it? Why do I let myself be tempted again and again? I know what will happen. I’ll be alone at home one day. “I’ll just get online and check my email,” I tell myself, using my innocent sing-songy internal voice. And I might even believe me. But I know I’ll wind up on that website again, looking for my perfect match. Searching for that one picture, then another and another, to find a few that are pleasing to the eye and make me continue reading to try to find the best fit for me. Or at least just a pair of pants I'd like to get into. “This will end badly. It always does,” harps that irritating little angel on my shoulder. But I brush him off like dandruff. "Your wife is going to kiiillll yooouuuu..." he throws in for good measure as he flies away. I go on clicking like Samuel Morse on uppers, making my selections until, exhausted and full of anticipation, I press the Confirm button and…enter my Amex number. I now owe Eddie Bauer $240.

Seven to ten days later I’ll get the call at work from my wife. “Why?” she’ll ask without a trace of her usual humor or good naturedness. She has asked more than once to play at least an advisory role in my clothing purchases because she has been led down this primrose path so many times she could walk it blindfolded.

In my defense, those little pictures of clothes on the websites often don’t give an accurate impression of what the garment actually looks like. I’ve bought what I thought was a simple button down twill pattern shirt, only to receive a cowboy-style shirt with pearly-metally-buttoned swaggy pockets

and lapels that double as a hang glider for those inevitable cliffside emergencies. And there’s some style I’m not supposed to order again – maybe elkhorn or pinpoint or flannel-lined chukka monkey. I never remember but I somehow buy it every time and I have it on good authority that it makes me look like an end-stage syphillitic. I have to start remembering these things.

Bottom line is I always end up wanting only about half of the order, but I have paid for the entire order, including unrefundable shipping, so I’ve just flushed those semi-hard-earned shipping dollars away. You're probably thinking that I'll at least return the rest of my order for a full refund, right? It's like you don't even know me. I’d rather squat my honey-dipped heinie cheeks onto a freshly-poked mound of pre-menstrual fire ants than to go return something at the mall or mail the clothes back to the retailer. I know it’s irrational…it seems like such a benign little chore…but the thought of it makes me go all wormy.

So my closet gets another bag on the pile of other bags half-full of clothes that I’ve paid for but will never wear. My family seeks shelter behind this pile the moment the tornado siren begins to wail. I should start measuring my four-year old’s height against this pile. “OK champ, here’s how tall you were in October after the end-of-summer breathable square-neck Chino half-turtle sale. Now look at you! You’re all the way up to the fall semi-annual oxford pushup mock-toe outer crew-lace clearance! Daddy’s big man!”

But it’s OK because I have a plan. Somewhere down the line I will get leverage on my wife. For instance, I’m going to do our taxes soon and I’ll just drop a casual, tax-related line like, “We should probably go ahead and donate those unreturned clothes so we can declare it.” If all goes to plan, she’ll launch into how ridiculous it is to write off a fraction of the cost when I should return them for a full refund. Followed by a frothy exclamation point. Then I'll calmly counter with how busy I am doing these impossible taxes so…
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Where Are My Steroids? - by Philip

Here in San Francisco, one of our big front-page stories is about a former teammate of Barry Bonds testifying against him in his ongoing steroid case. Despite the splashy headlines and copious local reporting in which Bonds claimed that he was just taking "flaxseed oil," the reaction in San Francisco seems to be pretty unanimous: Duh! Of course he was taking steroids! You know, allegedly. His head is twice as big now as it was when he played for Pittsburgh, which only happens if you take steroids or stick your thumb in your mouth and blow really hard. But despite Bonds’ bulbous forehead, anger management issues, forearms that would make Olive Oyl swoon and itty bitty peanut testicles (a friend of a friend told me), we San Franciscans were only too happy to look the other way and keep shoveling money at Bonds as long as he kept hitting home runs.

After watching the incredible popularity over the years of our favorite hometown injectee, I have just one question – Where are my steroids? If steroids can help Barry Bonds hit home runs, then surely they can help a web design team hit their launch deadline. If steroids can help Marion Jones run the 100-meter dash in under 11 seconds, then they should be able to help my postal carrier get to my house by 2pm - for once! And don’t even get me started on all the ideas I have for the possible applications of human growth hormones. I could empty out my entire spam folder!

Now before you start whining about the adverse effects of steroids, I can tell you from experience that no one cares. Here in San Francisco, we gladly looked the other way when Barry threw his frequent ‘roid rage tantrums because he hit 71 home runs in a single season. We didn’t pay any attention to his receding hairline and acne because he kept on winning Golden Gloves and MVP awards. And if you look carefully at the footage of Bonds rounding the bases after he broke Hank Aaron's career record by hitting his 756th home run, there is actually a hypodermic needle sticking out of his ass labeled “not steroids.” In fact, that label is one of the centerpieces in Bonds’ defense.

So who cares if Denny in accounting hoists a copy machine over his head every time someone leaves the coffee pot empty and tosses it out of the 23rd-floor window like Chief in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest”? As long as he keeps crunching those numbers at a record pace, we can just get another copier. And also replace that guy’s slightly crushed Nissan Maxima. Likewise, I’m sure no one would mind if Kristy with a “K” in Human Resources juiced up before selecting our new health care plan. Hey, it might even get us some cool new prescription drug options. And wouldn’t you ignore Desmond’s incessant blood transfusions and that loud-ass hyperbaric chamber in his office if it meant that we could launch the online shopping cart upgrade two weeks ahead of schedule? Of course you would!

So drop that righteous indignation, America, and admit that you want some steroids too. While you’re at it, go ahead and admit that you didn’t hate Barry Bonds because he was (allegedly) doing steroids; you hated him because he wasn’t hitting home runs for your team. That’s right – I said it! Unfortunately it’s too late for you to get your own Barry Bonds now because he and A-Rod and the entire 1987 Oakland A’s starting lineup have ruined it for everyone. So if you want a little extra something to help you finish that marketing report, hurry up and get your own stash of steroids before they go off the market completely. Just be sure to ask for “flaxseed oil” and make really obvious quote marks with your fingers. Wanna read more?

Appellation Pre-Destination - by Douglas

An alert reader pointed us to an article theorizing that a person’s name is likely to affect the course of that person’s life. Big ups to Gaines R. for sending that in. I don’t want to give away his identity in case he wishes to remain private so thanks again G. Richardson. Sorry, I should say Dr. Gaines R. of the Wisconsin Richardsons.

The article, from Time magazine, asserts that you are more likely to have troubles (ranging from school discipline to unemployment to incarceration) if you have a less popular name. Johns, Michaels and Davids are walking the street unmolested, fully employed, and with scrapbooks brimming over with high school perfect attendance records and honor roll certificates. Whereas Ernests, Prestons, Malcolms and Tyrells, are more likely to be standing in police lineups with the officer asking them to step forward, poke a finger menacingly in their jacket pocket, while repeating the line, “Gimme all your cash and Marlboros or I‘m gonna send you back to Saudistan in a body bag!”

Now, if there was ever a controlled environment for invented baby names, it’s Hollywood. Lady Liberty may have asked for your tired and poor but Queen Hollywood beckons for your goofy and unpronounceable. And at the risk of shooting fish in a barrel, I offer you this recent clip of the unfortunately monikered Joaquin Phoenix on Late Night With David Letterman.




What a blithering little doofus he has become. But is it his fault? Was he predestined from birth to appear on a late night talk show, preferring to smell his own beard rather than answer the simple questions lobbed at him by David Letterman? I say yes and I offer these predictions for other Hollywood babies who have been encumbered by previously unthinkable appellatives.

Apple Martin, daughter of Gwyneth Paltrow and Coldplay’s Chris Martin, will break away from her partner in the middle of a routine on Dancing With The Children of Stars season 16 and violently dryhump Mario Lopez’s leg.

Bronx Mowgli Wentz, son of Fall Out Boy's Pete Wentz and the currently-though-unlikely-more-attractive-Simpson-sister Ashley Simpson, will use the latest aesthetic cloning techniques to have ears grown over 70 percent of his body.

Prince Michael Jackson, son of Michael Jackson and some fertile donor lady, will die in a tragic fall while attempting carnal relations with his pet giraffe.

I really, really wish I were making up the fact that Dan Cortese named his son Tabooger. As though Dan had the celebrity to pull that off! Poor little Tabooger’s crime will hopefully be the slow, torturous murder of his idiot parents. It will probably just be shoplifting for drug money but a guy can dream.

So, pregnant celebrities be warned! You are about to make a very fateful decision for your child so do NOT screw it up. For example, Tiger Woods, you and your lovely wife should not consider naming your upcoming bundle of joy "One" or "Three", no matter how golf-punny it may be. And please, please, please avoid "Overtheriverandthroughthe." He/she will thank you for it some day. And not from a phone behind prison glass. Wanna read more?

I Blame Microsoft For My Divorce - by Philip

Let me start by saying that yes, ladies, I am single, so please form an orderly line behind Charlize Theron. Unless, of course, you’ve read the previous posts stating that I am unsveltely approaching middle age, in which case I should probably stop trying to turn this into an eHarmony audition. But back to the point, when I say that I blame Microsoft for my divorce, I don’t mean that my ex-wife left me for Bill Gates, though I have no doubt that she would have if given half a chance. What I mean is that Microsoft, as a company, has slowly eroded my tolerance for problems to the point where I just accept all of its annoyances as being part of the deal. That’s exactly what happened in my marriage, and if it weren’t for Microsoft, I might have known better.

Let me give you an example from my marriage. One of the first times my ex and I hosted a dinner party, we made lasagna from scratch. And by “from scratch,” I mean that we boiled the store-bought pasta ourselves. I put down a layer of wavy noodles, she poured on some Ragu (again, we bought the jar of Ragu from scratch), and then I started piling on the cheese. After making sure that there was a nice, thick layer of cholesterol-clogging dairy product in the dish, my ex turned to me and said, “Don’t you think that’s a bit too much cheese?” Now any sane person would have filed for divorce on the spot. I mean, come on, like there’s any such thing as too much cheese! But I just chalked it up to her misunderstanding of the five basic food groups (cheese, beer, Doritos, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and cheese) and accepted this as one of her little quirks that I should just put up with in order to maintain harmony. If only I weren’t already preconditioned by a certain Seattle-based corporation to accept this kind of error in logic, I would have recognized it for the giant red flag that it was. Damn you, Microsoft!

Instead, I soldiered on for years, blissfully unaware that my tolerance for incompatibilities in both my marriage and my hardware drivers had reached Amy Winehouse proportions. For every time that I just shrugged it off when Windows said “Error: The operation completed successfully,” I likewise smiled and said, “Have a good trip!” each time my former spouse left for another one of her weekend “conferences.” While Microsoft was telling me, “Cannot delete file. There is not enough free space. Delete one or more files to free space, and then try again,” my ex would say, “But we need a minivan now that we have two children. Can’t you just get a second job?” If a non-Windows user had heard any of those statements, he would have slapped some sense into me. But I, being a faithful husband and Microsoft consumer just nodded and agreed as if all of this wackiness were absolutely normal. It wasn’t.

With all of these little and not-so-little problems mounting over the years, it should be no surprise that many PCs and marriages come to a crashing halt. When this happens we have the following choices about what to do with our PC or spouse: throw it/her off of a 5-story building (not usually advised), go out and get a newer model (VERY expensive), or try to reboot the computer/marriage. Like most people, my ex and I opted many times for that last choice since it seemed like the best idea at the time. Unfortunately, rebooting a marriage is much harder and more complicated than reinstalling Windows from a boot disk, along with whatever data you’ve bothered to back up. Many IT guys are screaming in disagreement at their computer monitors right now, but the rest of us know better.

Rebooting a marriage can take on many forms: going on a vacation together, moving to a new town, quitting your job to write the great American novel or making some cringe-inducing efforts at regaining lost youth. That last one is almost never a good idea, though it does make for plenty of good water cooler chuckles. For instance, I used to work with a lady of a certain age who would lacquer herself with so much spray-tan that her office chair looked like a crime scene. We called her "The Orange Lady." I have also seen way too many beer guts spilling over the straining waistlines of Speedos worn by older gentlemen at the beach who seem to lack the personal discretion that God gave a kumquat. Attempts at recapturing youthful sex appeal almost always accomplish the exact opposite goal. Even people who pull it off to some degree still end up looking kind of pathetic. Sheryl Crow and Fergie, I am looking in your direction. Mickey Rourke and Meg Ryan, I am trying hard not to look at you at all.

After going through the process of trying many times to get my failing computers and marriage restarted, I ultimately reached the point where one of them became corrupted beyond repair. No, I’m not referring to my Dell Inspiron, though it’s probably next. So what do I do now? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do – I’m going to marry a Mac. When you think about it, a Macintosh has everything I want in both a computer and a spouse: It always tries to anticipate my needs (why, yes, I would like to install the new version of iTunes now); from the minute I get it home, it’s perfectly happy to let me plug my hard drive into it any time I want; and it doesn’t come with a bunch of nasty viruses. It’s the perfect companion! If I can find a woman who fulfills all of these needs, I would be the happiest guy in the world. Until then, I’ll just act like my IT pals and get all of my pleasure from a computer. Wanna read more?

Trillion-Dollar Counterpoint - by Philip

Douglas, you ignorant economist.

Let me start this reply to Douglas’s last post by saying that I actually did once write down everything that I know about economics on a Juicy Fruit wrapper and still had enough room left over to include everything that I know about pleasing a woman. So there! This is why I am confused about the previous post from my twin, who is challenging my belief in a genetic basis for intelligence.

Douglas’s basic premise is that it’s a bad thing to borrow money in order to pay for programs that are designed to stimulate our economy. Wrong! (I love saying that. Here, I’ll do it again… Wrong!) This is the entire premise behind taking out student loans in order to pay for college. But using my logic-challenged twin’s reasoning, only the youngsters who have enough cash up front should ever get a degree. (Note that I'm ignoring the fact that this is pretty much how it works already.) That would force 90% of our young people to work at McDonald’s or to become crack whores, both of which are sounding more and more like viable career paths every day. Sure, a very specific strand of our economy would get a huge boost, but since we will have far fewer doctors because no one can afford med school any more, who will be there to pump us full of antibiotics and perform all of the dialysis that we’re going to need?

Let me state for the record that I am almost as fiscally conservative as my brother and think that carrying a credit card balance should be added to the list of deadly sins right between lust and sloth. (My two favorites!) If you can’t pay for something that you want in cash, then you shouldn’t buy it. However, this rule does not apply to investments that will generate positive revenue or to web sites that cater to gentlemen’s entertainment. While no one knows for sure if the current stimulus package will actually generate enough revenue to pay for itself over time, that is its goal and I am as happy with it as anyone can be about a plan that requires us to borrow a trillion damn dollars.

You knew there was a caveat coming, so here it is: As people who read this blog may know, I am a big believer that the proof is in the pudding. Sure, this is mainly because I have an inordinate appreciation for pudding, but it’s also because I think that one’s beliefs and actions should focus on results. With that in mind, I should reveal that Douglas is definitely the most financially secure member of our family, so it’s hard to argue with his results.

But thankfully I’m a liberal, so I am easily able to perform the mental gymnastics required to turn my less favorable results into smug righteousness. “I could have made more money, but I was too busy volunteering to save the endangered Sonoran titmouse.“ (Pause for Douglas’s giggling.) There is no better argument for being a liberal than the constant assurance that I’m always right. Ahh, sweet smugness, you never let me down.

But seriously, President Obama, don’t preempt House again. It might convince me to start supporting the party that never has news conferences.

Wanna read more?

A Trillion Dollars Is The New Beige - by Douglas

I’m man enough to admit that Obama tweaked me a little by pre-empting House last night. It was therefore with an annoyed ear that I half-listened to his news conference. So it’s entirely possible that I only heard the most irksome half. Now, I’ll preface by saying that what I know about economics you could write on the inside of a Juicy Fruit wrapper. Double spaced. But if there’s anything I do know, it’s that we Americans are the most arrogant bunch of materialists ever to trod the earth. So when our national leaders tell us that we’re going to bail out a trillion here or stimulate a trillion there, we don't even bat an eye. Live in a trailer park with one functioning toilet? You have trillions of dollars. Drive a ’93 Corolla on bald tires to a thankless job? You also have trillions of dollars. We stick out our collective American chests and raise a cocksure eyebrow as we hear how no crisis is too big for our trillions of dollars to solve. Honest to God, I don’t know how other countries can survive without trillions of dollars. Poor Belgium. Poor Trinidad and Tobago.

Y’all correct me where I’m wrong but I don’t think we have trillions of dollars. My understanding is that we already spent all of our money and then some. Didn’t this whole mess start because people bought houses with bad mortgages that they couldn’t afford? Then Bush and Bernanke’s plan was to buy up those same bad mortgages that they also couldn’t afford? And now that we’ve individually spent way more money than we could ever hope to pay back, the government wants to solve our problems by spending way more money than it could ever hope to pay back? This has to be the most troublesome stimulus since the Tonya Harding sex tape.

And hang on another second but isn’t this kind of solution the very reason we all voted for change? Our last President wanted us to fight terrorism by going shopping. For a hopeful second I thought he had trapped some terrorists at the food court but then I realized he was just being another crass, wallet-worshipping American. Now, I’m as patriotic as the next guy but I am NOT going to the damned mall! Hell, my wife can’t even drag me down there and she’s WAY cuter than the president! And didn’t we vote overwhelmingly for change because we all thought the last president was a raging doofus? Wasn’t the new president supposed to tell us not what our country can do for us but what we can do for our country? And is he telling us that what we need to do for our country is spend more money?

OK, OK, one bad roll in the hay doesn’t ruin the honeymoon but our new JFK has some ground to make up. Tell me we need to save some money, not spend it. Tell me the government is going to stop being the punch line in every wasteful spending joke. Tell me we’re going to lead the world by example this time, not with bullying and obfuscation. And please God, tell me I don’t have to go to the damn mall. Wanna read more?

Counter Point: Putting Liberalism To The Test - by Douglas

Philip, you ignorant slut.

I’m no party-line republican. Like most people with ingrained values, a little education, and the sense God gave a dingleberry, I find myself aligned with part of the republican platform and part of the democrat platform. But at the end of the day it’s fair to call me a conservative. That is but one reason that I will not be discussing the personal aspects of my daughter’s social life in this blog. The main reason is, of course, that she would kill me in my sleep.

But I am willing to divulge this much – my daughter does not do drugs, does not have any STDs, and has never, to the best of my recollection, given birth. Also, my daughter is 18, not 15, so whatever we’re doing is working, and we’ve gotten past the rough patch Philip is about to endure. (must…stifle...giggle…) The reason she is not surrounded by wailing, underweight crack babies is not because I left condoms under her pillow in place of her baby teeth. Fortunately for me, it is mostly due to the fact that she was born far more responsible than most adults, including the ones in her home. In fact, we could not determine her gender by the ultrasound because, no matter which angle the technician tried, she wouldn’t open her legs. That’s my girl! But even though we have been extremely lucky with her, we have also been very diligent about drilling common sense into her brains.

When that little voice in her head says she should stop and think about what she’s doing, I want it to sound an awful lot like me. “Hmm…this dark road isn’t the way to the movies. Better get out your icepick,” my voice would calmly whisper. Or maybe, by rote, “He tries for second base, I have to use my mace.” And hopefully we won’t have to move on to, “I wonder which arm Daddy’s gonna saw off first before he buries this guy in five different cities so the police will think a satan-worshipper did this to him?” This little voice can help a girl, and her father, out of a lot of difficult situations. And Lord knows the police are already spread too thin to work a justifiable homicide with five crime scenes. Little punk wants to take advantage of my baby AND waste taxpayer dollars? Not on my watch, Bubba.

And I’m perfectly willing to use negative reinforcement when called for. She’s past the age for corporal punishment but there are other methods for encouraging proper behavior. Ask a teenaged girl if she’d rather lose the big toe off her right foot or not have Facebook for a week. The answer might surprise you. Hell, I purposefully got her hooked on Tetris so taking her cell phone would hurt that much more. I didn’t want to, but she will eventually thank me that I did. Maybe not in so many words but I bet one day I’ll get that phone call that every parent dreams of - “Daddy, it’s me. Some boy just tried to get fresh with your granddaughter. Do you still have that map with the five cities in the shape of a pentagram?” Choking back tears of pride as I grab my shovel I’ll say, “I’ll be right there, honey. I’ll be right there.” Wanna read more?

Putting Liberalism To The Test - by Philip

As you know, America is shifting gears right now from a conservative government to a much more liberal one. The new administration has already extended health care to poor children, started giving money to planned parenthood organizations, and, as I write this, the Senate is debating President Obama’s enormous stimulus package. No, that wasn’t a euphemism, you sick bastard. Okay, what was I talking about again? Oh right, President Obama's big, throbbing stimulus package. Let’s see, massive infrastructure investment – check. Tax cuts to the lower and middle class – check. Free patchouli oil for white guys with dreadlocks – okay, they didn’t go that far yet, but it’s just a matter of time. The point is that the condom is now hitting the road for the democratic party, so we are soon going to start seeing the actual results of these liberal policies.

But the problem that concerns me much more than any of these social programs is that my own liberal policies are about to be put to the test. No, I’m not working on a modernized energy grid or the computerization of our nation’s medical records. The challenge I have is much more daunting – my older daughter just turned 15.

Up until now, it’s been easy for me to toss around party line slogans like, “Of course there should be condom bowls in every school nurse’s office,” or, “If no one has ever died of a marijuana overdose, then why is it against the law when tobacco and alcohol are perfectly legal?” Most people who have moved from Louisiana to California did so because they accidentally said something like this in front of a church deacon. But now that my daughter is at the age where she is being exposed to sex, drugs and –dare I say it– the rock and roll music, I have to ask myself if I still believe in those ideals now that they’re no longer just theoretical.

I do have some evidence that I’m continuing to take a liberal attitude toward child rearing, even though the consequences of mistakes have now gone from skinned knees and hurt feelings to drug addiction and teen pregnancy. A friend of mine recently called me in hysterics to say that her 15-year-old daughter had just had sex with her boyfriend. My initial reaction was, “And...?” That proceeded to, “Wow, I can’t believe that she actually told you about it. How cool is that?” But she wouldn’t hear any of it. My friend and her daughter had an agreement that she would wait a bit longer and the teenager ended up reneging on that promise. Raging hormones tend to override rational thought in kids that age. You know, age 12-95.

While I wasn't at all disturbed to hear about my friend's daughter having sex, I doubt that I would have been so nonchalant if the 15-year-old in that story had been my own daughter. In the interest of full disclosure, I did put off my daughter’s Gardasil shot until just last week, even though I could have set up an appointment years ago. I wasn’t purposefully delaying this HPV and STD-fighting vaccination that requires three shots over a six-month period, but I also didn’t camp out at the doctor's office to be first in line like it was a Jonas Brother's concert.

Now that my daughter has had shot #1, she will be medically cleared to start having sex in a disturbingly short 5 months and 24 days. It would have been 10 years, 5 months and 24 days, but a certain Mr. Andrew Jackson wasn't able to convince the doctor to bend the truth a little. Stupid Hippocratic oath. The point is that, inadvertently or not, I delayed this milestone for my daughter by a bit longer than it might have otherwise happened. I hope.

I bring this same "do as I say" attitude into any conversations about drug use. I do think that some drugs should be legalized, but I strongly discourage my daughter from using any of them, even though she goes to an art school. At that school, smoking marijuana and dropping acid are the only sure-fire ways to bring up your mid-terms by a full grade point. “I like this color scheme, Starshine, but can you tell me why the subject of your painting is an empty Funyuns bag?”

Overall, it seems like I am maintaining my liberal values, but when it comes to my own children, I do try to strike a healthy balance between personal freedom and personal responsibility. Note that this is actually a very conservative viewpoint here in San Francisco where I routinely hear parents scolding their children by saying things like, “Young lady, I told you that bustier doesn't go with your Nehru chaps. Now march back upstairs and change into that adorable little leather corset that I got you for your bat mitzvah, or so help me, you will not be going to the Henderson’s orgy this weekend.” Okay, that actually doesn’t ever happen here in San Francisco, but we do have an image to maintain.

So while it would seem that I am still firmly in the liberal column, it’s good to do a bit of self-reflection every now and again to make sure that my actions still represent my personal values. It’s also good to examine those values and actions to make sure that they are actually generating positive results, rather than spending the last eight years making exclusively gut decisions and never once considering the possibility that I could have made any mistakes. You know, for example.

So while I am very much in favor of the first few pieces of legislation that the Obama administration has proposed, I'm also hoping that they contain milestones and deadlines that can be checked to make sure that they are generating the intended results. Likewise, even though my daughters seem to be healthy, well-adjusted young ladies right now, I’m hoping that I will recognize any warning signs that tell me when it's time to revisit my "curfews are for losers" policy. This is why it was reassuring this morning when my daughter said, “It’s so annoying to be around kids who have strict parents. They’re always looking around like they're all worried that they’re going to make a mistake.” Now if she had said that while injecting heroin, we would need to have a talk.

Wanna read more?

You’re Down With DME - by Douglas

I am in the South. Know how I know? I just prayed with my DME supplier. I realize that many of those words need a good amount of explaining so get a Snickers. I’ll wait….

Let’s start with the DME - it stands for Durable Medical Equipment. It’s essentially any medical equipment made of something sturdy, like good hard plastic, that theoretically lasts a while. (That’s right, my medical conditions are destroying the planet. Suck it, Al Gore.) Please relax, concerned reader, all I’ve got is a little sleep apnea. For that, I use a CPAP machine which stands for something like “Challenging Pushed Air Pump” or “Cool People Aren’t Philip” or some such thing. The point of it is to push air into my throat via a mask while I’m asleep in order to keep my airway open since it seems to want to close at night, leaving me struggling for air and creating noises that turn my beautiful, serene wife into a beast that only Michael Vick could love.

To be fair, my long-suffering wife does tend to sleep better when the ambient decibels are less than the average Gwar concert. She has tried many helpful methods to stop my snoring long enough for her to get back to sleep. Such as pinching my nose til the she hears a loud “POP!”, digging her big toe nail into my leg like a velociraptor with a taste for shinbone, or poking my eyeballs like I was Shemp. All effective, but temporary.

But back to DMEs. I should tell you that one should use quotes around the word “durable” when referring to the CPAP air mask. I’ve had the marriage/life-saving equipment for a mere ten months and I was visiting this DME supplier in order to purchase my third mask. One hundred years from now, landfills will be overflowing with the chipped remains of CPAP masks that are virtually indestructible unless used as directed by a physician.

I will change the last name of my supplier out of respect for the man’s privacy. So let’s call him Mr. Boogerpicker. Specifically, let’s call him P.J. “Joe” Boogerpicker since that is what is on his business card. I’m not one to quibble with business cards but this one struck me as odd. I assumed the “P.J.” part was a nickname he used for shame of his first name, presumably “Persephone” or “Petunia.” Why then would he have another nickname, “Joe”, in quotes on the business card, instead of just P.J.? That’s right, on God’s side of the Mason-Dixon line we can have nicknames for our nicknames! Deal with THAT, Cleveland!

When Mr. Boogerpicker had finished showing me all of the features and nuances of this new mask and I had asked a few informed questions, I presumed our transaction was complete. So you’ll understand my surprise when, as I was preparing to walk out the door, Mr. Boogerpicker asked if I’d mind if he said a quick prayer. There’s really only one viable response here and it’s, “Uh...OK?”

So Mr. Boogerpicker prayed. I’m down with prayer, so technically nothing wrong was happening but it all felt…just…weird. I mean, I buy stuff all the time and nobody prays with me. And (irony alert) thank God for that because that would seriously slow down the line at Piggly Wiggly.

"Our Lord in Heaven, we ask that you forgive our brother for bringing twelve items into the express lane..."

“Dear Heavenly Father, we ask that you cradle Mr. Dyer safe in your holy arms as he rocks out with the Black Keys ‘Rubber Factory’ CD...”

“Dear Lord, we ask that you bless Mr. Dyer as he goes home to eat his value size quarter pounder meal. We pray that he pays attention to the road even as he tries to open the straw and insert it into his beverage and that as he sneaks a few fries out of the bag that he plans on handing to his wife, he will control his vehicle with his free hand...”

Hmmm, maybe we do need a little more prayer. Wanna read more?

25 Things About the Other One - by Douglas

FINE!!!

1. I like my lovin' like I like my Jo. Sloppy.
2. Scared spitless by doodle bugs.
3. I could eat 50 eggs
4. Turned down hacky sack scholarship to Princeton because of the skimpy uniforms. I am not a piece of meat.
5. Recently cut back watching TV to nine hours a day.
6. Can't stand the sound of fingernails on a white board.
7. Spend a disproportionate amount of time wondering what happened to Joan Jett.
8. Can't seem to get as much height as I used to when levitating.
9. Flavor Flav totally stole my idea of wearing a clock around the neck.
10. Will sometimes go a whole day responding to questions only with, "I don't know nothing 'bout birthin' babies!"
11. I'm allergic to Preparation H. Don't ask.
12. The song "Baby Got Back" always makes me cry. Always.
13. I can recite Pi to four digits.
14. I still don't know why my college nickname was "Salad Shooter".
15. I despise TLAs.
16. Standard policy when seeing someone trip is "Point and laugh first, medical attention second".
17. Stick it to the man by making my own damn birdseed.
18. Before doing anything important will usually ask, "How would Rowdy Roddy Piper handle this?"
19. I giggle every time I hear the word "pianist". Oh, and "titmouse".
20. Ironically, too many Red Bulls will make me lactate like a leaky faucet.
21. Sometimes I'm just all, like, "whatever"!
22. I'll often introduce myself at parties as Lady Cherrybean. Of the Delaware Cherrybeans.
23. I know for a fact that microwave ovens are a tool of the devil.
24. When I see a shooting star I always wish for bigger feet. Because you know what they say. ;-)
25. I will run into a burning building to save you. But if I have to choose between you and the Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, things could get awkward. Wanna read more?