Do I Amuse You?

It's an option.

If traffic is coming, you fucking wait until your light changes to green.

It's not a stop sign.

We're not taking turns.

And when you do pull out, like I wish your father had in 1977, you don't do it slower than Steven Wright on a bottle of Lunesta and four pints of Sangria during a Congressional filibuster. You hit that accelerator like Marty McFly and rocket to 88 MPH. Asshole.

After coming very close today to plowing into a jackass that pulled out in front of me way too late, while I was foolishly zooming down the right-turn only lane assuming everyone going straight or left would continue to do so, I decided that (a) they’re not accidents, they’re mistakes and (b) we should start including the driver’s name(s) and hometowns in the morning traffic reports when these mistakes happen. Perhaps removing the anonymity people enjoy behind the wheel will make them think twice before making a move they fully know is unreasonable and so often prickish.

Today’s delay is courtesy of Tony le Tigre of the 700 block of Narcissist Row in Westchester Hills. Tony decided he needed to be in the right lane when it was already occupied and didn’t feel like waiting his turn. You can reach Tony on his cell at 202-555-PUNK or drop him an email at selfentitledbastard@alwaysgottabefirst.com and thank him personally for providing you with a cardiac workout and some extra driving time this morning.

Our traffic nightmares in the morning and evening rush are partly due to too many vehicles on highways that weren’t meant to support the volume, or that were poorly designed from the outright. But I contend most of our real delays are due to the mistakes that are entirely avoidable if people had respect for the laws of traffic and more importantly the laws of physics, they paid attention and they waited their mothertrucking turn!

I’m not the best driver by any means, and I really try to count to 10 and not react in any vehicular way like following, tailgating, braking, beeping or even flipping off drivers who f’ up. I wish others would follow suit. We all take it personally of course because the behavior is simultaneously selfish and risky. And when there are kids in the car, yours or mine, it’s really hard not to lose it.

There are times when someone is in a legitimate hurry (getting a pregnant woman to the hospital when the contractions are down to five minutes apart, rushing to your child’s school when all you’ve been told is “they’ve been injured”), but most times it’s because the other driver is an ass. When that’s the case, and they cut you off or cause an accident, I can guarantee it’s not the first time they were an ass and it won’t be the last.

So instead of worrying about them myself, or feeling any need to react emotionally, I’d rather just hear about them on the radio or read about them in the paper (list them right after the crime log).

Sorry I was late to work today, boss. Apparently Paris Hyatt couldn’t be bothered with all those distracting lights, signs and signals yet still felt confident enough in her multitasking proficiency to text her boyfriend as she flew through the intersection of Inconsiderate & Brainless. Actually, she only made it into the intersection before colliding with the truck that had the actual right of way. I’ll be sure to send a flowery eCard to wtfwereyouthinking@heynumberone.com when she’s feeling a little better.

I know my rant is harsh but I have very little patience with those who know better and choose to risk the lives of others all for a few seconds or a better place in line. And half the time it’s to get to work. Who wants to be there earlier? Please, after you.

My teenage daughter (nearly an adult now) and I make the best of our time together. We have found a lot of fun things to do, like going to the Maryland Science Center, the Renaissance Festival, and the Walters Art Gallery. Seeing Spam-a-lot was just the best (you can probably imagine what it means to a geek like me having a daughter who loves Python). We tried the movie thing for as long as we could, but it just didn’t work for me: (http://morucci.blogspot.com/2007/06/movie-groaning-experience.html). So we usually just grab a meal together on a weekend. But our time together isn't always event-based; sometimes it’s the routine chores of life, including clothes shopping.

My daughter had a $50 gift card for Abercrombie & Fitch. If you ask anyone where the kids shop for clothing, this store will be the number-one response. And with a generous amount like that, she should be able to add a few nice items to her wardrobe.

It was a first-time shopping experience for me. Personally, I love faded t-shirts, weathered baseball-style caps, fleece and rustic jeans. It’s all comfortable, practical, and usually easy on the wallet. So I thought I might find something for myself too when we went in. What I didn’t realize is the hefty premium A&F charges for the privilege bestowed upon you to brandish their logo (it’s on practically everything they sell). Maybe it’s not an automatic privilege; maybe you have to pledge first with the frat boys that greet you as you enter the store. I’m just kidding. No one greeted me.

Web site prices for the items I listed above are $29.50 (t-shirts), $24.50 (weather caps), $79.50 (fleece) and $79.50 (jeans, $89.50 for destroyed). So apparently cotton has become a luxury fabric.

The store itself was a trip back to all of my favorite John Williams 80s movies, only this time the pretty rich kids are the cashiers. (I am still the nerd.) And even though I know technically they’re there to help me, I still felt like I stumbled into a party I wasn’t invited to. But no one kicked my ass, or stole my girlfriend, or wrecked my dad’s sports car, or threw me into the pool.

You can’t miss your local Abercrombie & Fitch. It’s the store you thought was a night club, only it’s 2:00 in the afternoon and it’s on the second floor of the mall. If the bump-bump-bump of their techno pop remixes doesn’t kick off your migraine, the permeating smell from of one of their two colognes (41 – jeez, I’m even older than their freakin’ cologne, or Fierce – it just reeks of preppy jocks pantsing nerds) will.

Needless to say, I wanted out and fast. But she had a $50 gift card to burn and the math wasn’t on our side. She could get a t-shirt or a cap, but not both. Or she could put a down payment on a hoodie or a pair of jeans, but I’m pretty sure lay away isn’t something one requests here. I could throw in $30 but that felt like paying the devil his due, and I wasn’t at the crossroads and I hadn’t brought my guitar.

After a lot of searching, we found a cute sweater (without a logo) for $30 on the closeout shelf, a shelf that screamed: “here are some clothes that are sooooo last year, and now they’re half-price for you poor kids”. The shelf is up high, in the back of the maze, and items are just thrown in a pile instead of folded and faced. Hell, I’m not proud. I’ll look through their leftovers and they can hit me with a spotlight.

So we grabbed the sweater and one other close-out item (tank top, pair of socks, scarf, Satan’s gavel, I don’t know) and it rang up just north of $50. The kids at the register were nice, and, of course, pretty. But it's not their fault - according to their web site: "Want to be an A&F model? Start by working in our stores." So we had two small items that could have fit in a zip-loc bag. They handed me a two-panel billboard with handles.

OK, now I’m pissed. This is ridiculous. I’m not embarrassed that I shopped at A&F. I’m embarrassed that I’m supposed to let everyone in the mall know I just shopped at A&F, even if they’re two stories down and 100 yards away. And I don’t consider myself a prude or a homophobe, but do I have to carry a bag with this dude on it?

Observe, my choices are:
[Bag Side A] a wet, young male body complete with an erect nipple, or
[Bag Side B] his soaked khakis clinging to his crotch.



I checked out their web site and it was just as uncomfortable as the store experience. The photos for a few of the sections (Mens, Womens and Photo Gallery) are provocative shots of young models. Look, just because they’re 18 on paper doesn’t mean much when they look 18 or younger. I’m sure Old Man Herbert from Family Guy would looove this site. My daughter offered a good perspective – if they’re advertising clothes, where are the actual clothes and why is everyone naked?

I understand I’m not their quoted target audience of 18-22. However, I’d argue that their target audience wishes they were 18-22 – I see a lot more middle- and high-school rather than college students in their gear.

Even their Google search web site description is pretentious: “The highest quality, casual, All-American lifestyle clothing for aspirational men and women.”

Aspirational? Really? Aspirations are high achievements for which one strives. Clothing is aspirational? Really? I wouldn’t call becoming a walking billboard-follower-conformist who gains self-esteem through mimicking the styles or actions of others, and judging or persecuting those who don’t, a high achievement. Ask your kids what it’s like when you’re not in with the in kids. "Kids will be kids" my ass. People are people, regardless of the age, and everyone is accountable for their words and their actions.

The career pitch on their web site talks about diversity and inclusion (http://www.abercrombie.com/anf/hr/jobs/careers.html) – yet their customers, in my cynical and myopic perspective, are all about conformity and exclusion. I’m not claiming A&F is the evil empire. I’m sure their employees are quite cool. And if you can sell simple products competitively at a premium, enjoy it. While you can.

As for their customers: look if you have money, I’m happy for you – there’s nothing wrong with having money. If you’re into fashion and clothing, that’s totally cool. If A&F is your favorite brand, enjoy it. Just don’t be a Stepford kid: someone who feels he/she has to dress a certain way and judges others who don’t. Be aware of the marketing game and understand that clothes, styles, logos, looks and many of your friends are all temporary.

A&F, at least turn that damn music down. You’re a clothing store, not a club. Except you are a club, I know. But you’re not a night club. Look, I have a headache and all I want is an Orange Julius.

I think the world should be tobacco free. For the smoker who reads even this far, I’m impressed. Before you get all bent out of shape, rolling your eyes, furrowing your brow, shaking your head and saying the following: “Man, here we go again. Militant ex-smokers who can’t leave us the f’ alone. It’s my right to smoke. I’m only harming myself. I’ll quit if and when I’m ready. I know it’s bad for me but it’s my choice. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. My uncle smoked for 60 years and never got cancer.” Save it. I used to say the same things, and I felt pretty stupid because it was so easy to rationalize and lie to myself. I finally did quit. I feel stronger about this subject than nearly any other, and if you have the courage to read this without a bunch of arguments cocked and ready, maybe you’ll find an ounce of motivation to stop smoking.

Warning: This is a really long blog and it's not my usual "hope I make you laugh" fare. I have a lot to say on this subject. I’m not pulling punches on this one and realize you’re tired of militant ex-smokers telling you what to do, so I may just piss you off, but I’m just as tired of hearing smokers commiserate on how alienated they are, and how tough it is to continue to enjoy their annoying, obnoxious, harmful, disgusting addiction anywhere within two miles of another human being.

Ingesting arsenic is only harming yourself. Smoking is shared by everyone and everything around you. And if you do end up with cancer, you haven’t only harmed yourself and you know it. You’ve hurt everyone around you who cares even just a little about you, and hurt those who do love you tremendously. And you do it to yourself every day, and you can prevent it. That’s what an honest smoker knows. That’s what I realized, and even when I realized it, it took me six more years to follow through.

How did I quit? I guilted the hell out of myself until I finally had the courage to walk away from it. I imagined a doctor telling me that I had lung cancer and six months to live. When thinking about the obvious question coming from my son, “Dad? Why did you do this to yourself?” Answering “because it’s my right” just didn’t cut it. And I became angry. I was angry with myself for not seeing the obvious: I don’t need cigarettes. The tobacco companies aren’t my friends. I’m setting a horrible example for my kids. Every excuse that came out of my mouth was hypocrisy.

Enough about me. Let’s talk about you, Mr. Chesterfield.

There is no real positive benefit to smoking, nor is there a valid argument to allow people to smoke around others who don’t. And smoking is a physical act that involves an area or space, and not just the smoker and his or her device. So the privilege to smoke a cigarette may be a personal freedom, but the physical act of smoking is not. Therefore, it is not a personal “freedom” or personal “right” that requires protection. Smoke-free areas have nothing to do with allowing people to smoke or not smoke; it has everything to do with regulating the air and space around those people, which doesn’t belong to any one person or group.

Yes, mine is a free country. But that doesn’t mean smokers can claim satisfying their addiction in places non-smokers frequent as a personal right or freedom; the simple counter argument is breathing smoke-free air in those same places (anywhere there is shared airspace on this lovely planet) is the non-smoker's right. They cancel each other out.

And even enclosed areas or establishments that are deemed “smoking” rarely contain only smokers. There are non-smoking employees or visitors. And even if the employees or visitors or regulars are smokers, they’re still breathing in secondhand smoke unnecessarily.

I am an ex-smoker, which means I am a recovered nicotine addict and have been both a smoker and non-smoker. As a smoker, I rationalized my addiction like everyone else:

• It’s a stress-reliever
• It curbs my appetite
• I enjoy it
• There’s nothing better after a good meal or after sex
• I have an affinity to tobacco farmers in North Carolina and Virginia – they have the right to produce a legal crop
• It’s my personal right
• This is a free country

It’s a stress-reliever
It does work as a stress-reliever, but honestly that’s usually the relief you feel from satisfying your nic fit, not reducing your blood pressure or heart rate (actually does the opposite). I’d like to carry a spray bottle and mist the smokers I have to pass through when entering a building or a bar, which would definitely relieve some of my stress, but it’s not my right. There are plenty of ways to relieve stress which doesn’t involve nicotine, smoking or unhealthy choices. If it was the only way to relieve stress, you might have an argument.

In school, I learned that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. It’s actually the furthest a smoker will go before they are allowed to light up. If it’s a car, it’s to the crack in the window; if it’s a house, it’s to the first step of the porch, deck or garage; if it’s a smoke-free building, that would be as your face breaks the plane of the entrance/exit, balcony, or bathroom (after hours). If you can’t smoke in the building, could you at least walk a few more feet? Good lord, how bad is it that you have to light up before you even get out the GD door? When I see smokers leaving a building to fire up a stogie, I picture a two year-old being dragged by his mother through the aisles of a toy store, feet sliding, hand limp, tears pouring down his face, not getting the toy he wants. Did you ever consider at least it’s exercise, and to walk a few more feet or meters?

It curbs my appetite
There may be some truth to this. But I don’t believe smokers are any less obese than non-smokers. And we all know the only way to a healthy body is proper diet and exercise. And though I know there are a few smokers that also jog, most only get their exercise from walking in and out of their office nine times a day to grab a smoke. They’re not the diehards at Gold’s Gym.

I enjoy it
I really did love my cigarettes. I loved the taste, and the curl it would make before sliding down into my chest. I loved the instant gratification. I loved the rituals, the smell of a fresh pack, slapping down a box on the heel of my hand to pack the tobacco in so the cigarettes would last even longer. Addictions truly can be fun. Do I miss it now? Honestly, yes. But I found better rituals that I enjoy just as much, and they aren’t killing me.

There’s nothing better after a good meal or sex
Actually, dessert is much better after a good meal, and you can taste even more once your taste buds reawaken and your olfactory sense is back in working order. As for sex, if you’re doing it right, there’s nothing than can top it; not even a cigarette. If you have the energy to light one up after sex, you have energy to go again - much better.

I have an affinity to tobacco farmers in North Carolina and Virginia – they have the right to produce a legal crop
In all business there is risk. If your company produces tobacco or tobacco-based products, you know there’s a risk your industry may suffer if more people quit or die (fewer customers), or you actually decide to stop producing harmful products. As long as there’s a legal business and a market, enjoy your jobs. But it might be a good idea to find some other uses for tobacco besides producing cigarettes. Why do you think RJ Reynolds bought Nabisco? It wasn’t just for the Nilla® Wafers. It’s to have completely separate products to fall back upon – just make sure there are no trans fats in your cookies.

Something I hear a lot in my line of work (software) is: “It’s not like we’re curing cancer.” I say it myself a great deal. What we mean is, it’s just a job and it’s not always fulfilling or seemingly that important. What we do isn’t necessarily noble. If you work for big tobacco, you could say the same thing, but it would be in poor taste. In fact, your products actually promote cancer. Hooray! Disease!

It’s my personal right
Really? Why? I agree that it isn’t up to the government to tell you what you can and cannot do to yourself. If you are an adult, our government shouldn’t have to tell you that your behavior is risky or try to mandate it. Don’t want to wear a condom, or a motorcycle helmet, or protect your lungs, it’s your right to ignore common sense. But when your behavior affects others, it’s no longer your personal freedom. There are others involved when it comes to smoking. You have the right to smoke, just not where others can be affected. So build a self-enclosed chamber (not an automobile), where you can smoke to your heart’s content (which, if your heart could speak, would be never). Once you’re around others, you can’t do it.

Forget about the laws of our government. Let’s try the laws of physics: a gas will fill the volume of its container. The air we all breathe is within our atmosphere. Yes, it’s one huge ass container, but every time you light up, even outdoors, and there are others around, they breathe it in, too. And they smell it. And it’s nasty. And even though the government shouldn’t have to regulate common sense, try to remember that when you light up, and you are hurting yourself, and slowly changing the cells in your body that will at the least result in some form of disease and quite possibly form into a tumor and kill you, there are others that will be affected by your illness or death. Primarily your loved ones, who never wanted you to die. And your fellow citizens who are footing the health care bills and research to help save your sorry ass, or at least provide you hospice in your final hours.

Oh, and how many breaks a day do you take at work? I know you believe it’s your right to smoke, but is it your right to cut out an hour a day of productivity? If you add an hour to your schedule every day, and don’t socialize when you come back into the office after each break, and avoid surfing the net as much as everyone around you, then of course I’m not speaking to you. And how is it possible anyway that any employer today allows nicotine fix breaks? If you need your nicotine, wear a patch or chew the gum. You aren't entitled to an outdoor break every hour on the hour any more than I am.

It’s a free country
Why is it that every time someone does something that pisses someone else off, they say “It’s a free country.”? I’m not vain enough to think that soldiers died for my right to die; maybe to state an opinion without fear of government intervention or retribution.

Here’s what happened when I did quit
How many colds do you get a year? How many do you smoke through? How long do they last? Once you quit, the cilia that was burned off of your throat and in your nose, and was kept off with every cigarette, grows back almost immediately. And it once again protects you from germs and irritants. Since I quit, I now get fewer colds, and when I do catch one, it’s gone in a few days.
I didn’t realize my taste buds would regenerate and I would experience flavor, smells and taste again.

When I get into an elevator with someone who just had a cigarette, it’s overwhelming. I don’t say this to be dramatic, but it is true. I had no idea when I got onto an elevator after a cigarette what others were experiencing. I’m still embarrassed. Do you know how strong and permeating the smell of burning tobacco is? When I’m driving, even with my windows closed, I know if someone in the car in front of me is smoking (not because of the cigarette butt that is thoughtlessly flicked out the window). The tobacco actually wafts back to the cars behind you. Ask other non-smokers and they’ll confirm this.

And what about flicking your cigs? Let’s talk about the careless littering. Biodegradable or not, cigarette butts (especially lit ones -- see Cigarette Fire Deaths or States Target Cigarette Fire Risks or Cigarettes Causing Fires) should not be tossed out the window onto the streets and into the fields, or mashed on the road or sidewalk. It’s burning! It’s dangerous! And it’s your garbage and you are responsible for it. You car has an ashtray, why don’t you use it? Because it’s disgusting and smells when it’s full? Hmm…

I’m no longer contributing to an industry that should have been eradicated centuries ago. And I’m saving money. Why do you think cigarettes are so expensive? Because they can be. You will pay anything, and sacrifice other things, to get them. You may not lose your job and sell your house like a cocaine addict, but you’ll drive around for an hour, walk through snow, stand in the rain, and bum them from strangers. What else have you ever asked for from a stranger? “Hey buddy, can I have a piece of your sandwich? I’m really hungry and I don’t have any food on me. I'll get you next time.”

I’m no longer hurting others around me, other than the feelings of some smokers right now. Even when I did smoke, I wouldn’t smoke in the house with my children. And I wouldn’t smoke in the car with them in there either. If you do, you’re either in complete denial about the effects of secondhand smoke or a complete asshole. Probably both. There is nothing to excuse you for putting your children (or anyone else for that matter) through that. Their right to breathe freely trumps any freedoms to which you think you are entitled.

I’m no longer hurting myself, nor increasing the chances those that love me may not have me around as long as they’d like. I knew with every puff that I was hurting myself and needlessly harming my body. It was a constant teeter-totter of guilt and relief. I rationalized it away. I said stupid things like, “Why quit smoking? I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.” You know what? If I get hit by a bus tomorrow it’s because I’m an idiot – it’s still my fault for not stopping, looking and listening before I crossed the street.

“There are people who live to their 80s without catching lung cancer.” Well, you don’t catch cancer from someone else. It isn’t an infection or a virus. It is in simple terms, abnormal cells gone out of control. And they destroy normal cells. Ingesting carcinogens on an hourly basis, like the nicotine and 200 other substances in cigarette smoke, bring about unwanted cell transformations (the DNA in your cells is literally altered), creating those abnormal, cancerous cells. Do you really want to risk that? What would you do if you found out it has already started and you still had a chance to stop it?

And for those octogenarians who somehow do survive decades of smoking, what is their quality of life? They hack, they’re strapped to oxygen tanks, they sound miserable (with or without the sporty electronic larynx) and look even worse: their skin, nails and teeth (if they still have them) are disgusting. And though they technically may not have lung cancer, they usually have an assortment of other diseases like emphysema, heart disease, gum disease or another form of cancer besides lung like pancreatic, liver, bladder, mouth, throat, or tongue, or even melanoma. So forget about wagering your chances at health lotto on your Great Aunt Hackina.

I’m not a liar anymore. I don’t rationalize or tell myself lies to make me feel better about continuing my addiction. When I quit I was very proud of myself; but as time went on, I became incredibly angry with myself for taking so long to do it. I only wish I had quit sooner. I quit in 1996 but I had smoked for 20 years. I’m still at risk for all the crap I sucked into my body. I still hope I quit in time. And that’s the point of this blog. Not to argue about your personal freedoms. It’s to offer my perspective, as a former smoker, that you’ve said many of these things to yourself already and somehow haven’t quit, or haven’t given it a serious enough try. You’re hurting yourself and others around you, especially the ones who care about you. If you quit smoking, you won’t be offended by anything in this rant. If you continue, then it’s still worth the risk of you being mad at me, or offended, or dismissing me as a self-righteous a*hole. I can live with that.

I thought of someone besides myself. At first, I quit for me when I was ready and because it was the right time. But part of my reasoning was because I became responsible for others, and how selfish it was of me to ignore that. You don’t have to be a parent to be responsible for others, or to realize that your health, well-being and life has a great effect on others, no matter your age, relation or situation.

So non-smokers will nod their heads, ex-smokers with a little more emphasis and smokers will agree and say, yeah, I should quit, or take offense, or most likely dismiss this rant as drivel from a militant ex-smoker. You’ve heard it all before. Can’t we just leave you alone? Well if you stop smoking around us, we’ll leave you alone. I just hope this motivates you somehow, even subconsciously, to smoke less, or at least think of others when you do light up or toss a lit butt out the car window.

And for my smoking friends and family, I have a right to express my opinions in my blog and don’t write all these things just to prove a point or my side of the argument. It’s because quitting smoking (and not starting again) was the hardest freaking thing I ever did, and I wish I had sought some motivation before 1996. This is straight talk that I know most don’t want to hear, though you’ve said most of these things to yourselves for years. You and I both know that. Quitting is the best thing I ever did!!!! I want you to quit because you will be so happy you did, and we all get to enjoy sharing time on this planet with you for even longer. No one regrets quitting. Find me one person who said “Damn, I wish I hadn’t quit smoking so soon. That was so stupid! Hand me a lighter...”

So how did I start? It was 1976 and I was only 13. I snuck into my mom’s car one night when my parents were out. I found a half-smoked cigarette in her ashtray and lit it up. I puffed on it a couple times and thought, this is kind of boring. Then I inhaled. Tears streamed down my face as I coughed deep and hard for minutes that felt like hours. The taste was absolutely disgusting and the experience was anything but pleasant. It was painful. But I wanted to be cool. I wanted to experience this thing all the cooler kids or "sophisticated" adults were doing.

It wasn’t a right of passage, it was me feeding into my own insecurities and thought that a five-foot two-inch kid would appear bigger and tougher and stronger by smoking. Even though my body did everything it could to tell me this should not be, I persisted. I tried it again a few days later. And then with friends. The resistance and hacking eventually subsided and I started to enjoy it. Then I started to need it. Then I was 33 and a 20-year smoking veteran, wondering what if I got the diagnosis today, and my kids came to see me in a hospital with tubes and ventilators, and I had three months to live, asking me “What about us?” Well I finally wised up and said no more. How long will it take you?

Nothing riveting this week. I found an exercise in a comedy writing book aptly titled "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Comedy Writing" by James Mendrinos. Find 20 nouns in a magazine and write something funny about each. I started this a while ago and keep changing them. It ain't Letterman's Top 10, but there are twice as many and it's certainly fun to do. Hope you like 'em!

• membership - cliques you pay to join
• jeep - most reliable vehicle made by the government made unreliable by Chrysler. Four wheels, steel cage, rough ride, canvas doors and plastic windows - hasn't changed in 50 years. How do you f' that up?
• brakes - something we use to let other drivers know we don't like being tailgated - genius strategy, eh?
• drafting - something we do to let other drivers know they're not moving fast enough - come on!
• cell phone - I'm still amazed that's what we (Americans) call mobile phones - we didn't call the old one a trans-Atlantic-twisted-copper-wire-cable phone
• beaches - (1) what I call my posse of women; (2) favorite movie I watch with the girls
• dolphin - wish I could breathe through the top of my head; then it would be functional not to have hair there instead of just dead sexy
• holiday - another reason to bitch, binge, gorge, wallow in singlehood and make fun of those who do celebrate (especially those in festive attire)
• season - I love the change of seasons - that's what people who still have to suffer through winter say
• flurry - looks like the real stuff but doesn't stick to the roads, yet still causes the same panic
• stress - (1) a condition caused by work, family, friends, money or whenever your daughter says "Daddy, I need tell you something..."; (2) a condition experienced by the seams of anything worn by William Shatner
• commute - fancy word for schlep
• consumer - fancy word for glutton
• market - fancy word for bidness
• continental breakfast - really fancy term for free stale bagels and coffee that's turned to molasses by the time you get your lazy ass out of bed
• HBO - high-brow soft porn (they call them documentaries)
• Cinemax - low-brow soft porn (no pretending in the genre or titles, just in the actual sexual contact); the correct answer on the SATs would be: National Geographic is to Playboy as HBO is to Cinemax
• wrangler - one step up in jeans from dungarees (AKA my old Sears toughskins)
• SUV - vehicle for soccer moms who are too cool for minivans - here's a little secret: it's still a minivan and you're still not cool, just more dangerous with that weapon of mass demolition you're driving while popping your own meth cocktail to keep up with the Joneses
• fuel economy - when I was a kid, cars got 12 miles to the gallon. When gasoline finally broke $1 per gallon (during the first gas crisis), the country went to Hell. We swore never again! Today gas is over $3 per gallon and SUVs get…never mind

I know the story is three days old. And anyone who has ever liked, or actually still likes, the game of baseball has an opinion. I still like baseball. I still love the Baltimore Orioles. And I always have an opinion.

I don't enjoy nine seasons in a row under .500, or long losing streaks, but I'm used to it. And I love the underdog, both in this case and in cartoon form. So I've got nothing to complain about.

The Orioles fired manager Sam Perlozzo on Monday. I am not a walking library of baseball stats, or an expert in any sense of the word when it comes to sports. I am just a fan. But I've never understood the firing of a manager in mid-season for a slumping team. I understand you can't fire the owner, nor the players under contract. Some people feel someone should take the fall, but I don't agree one person is ever responsible for the actions of so many, and firing that one person offers a warped sense of satisfaction to those who want something to happen, even if that something is indirect and ultimately futile.

The manager doesn’t swing the bat, doesn’t pitch the ball, doesn’t drop routine fly balls, doesn’t forget to call off other players, doesn’t draft players or negotiate contracts, doesn’t sit his fat ass upon millions of dollars he refuses to spend on talent or pretend as an owner to understand or even care about the game in which he insists on meddling, and he doesn’t inspire adult, professional athletes to do what they were hired to do.

Firing the manager of the team is like keying your CFO's car when your company's stock plummets. It has zero impact on performance but it probably felt good for a minute if you're an a*hole.

I used to love going to the movies. Watching a flick with my friends and a bucket full of popcorn on a gigantic screen in surround sound was one of the best, and relatively cheapest, things to do. Maybe it’s my age (43) but I really think everything about the whole movie-going experience has changed, and for the worst. Read this in the voice of Grandpa Simpson. I know that’s how it sounds to me.

Stadium seating and TXH Surround Sound® is wonderful but what the Hell happened to the patrons? Of the last ten movies I’ve seen in the theatre (yes, the French spelling means I’m sophisticated), and they’ve all been in the past year, none have been without someone there to piss on my parade. I am a magnet for the self-indulgent; people who continually outdo each other in ways to distract me for approximately 90 to 120 minutes.

If I go to see a family-friendly flick like Shrek 1, 2 or 3 or Happy Feet, the more kids the merrier. I love hearing their excitement and laughter. I do not expect a quiet, experience; it’s a party. When I go to see an intense adult flick like Disturbia, I don’t expect to see infants and three year-olds. I understand every parent deserves a break, but putting your kids through the Turkish prison, ball-suspension torture sequence in Midnight Express because you couldn’t find a sitter is freaking ridiculous.

Just two days ago there were three women who came into the theatre after the movie already started (in the row directly behind me of course) and spoke to each other throughout the movie (about the movie!) at conversational volume. So did the couple to the left of me. Then there was the dude checking his blackberry every 10 minutes-it really can’t wait two hours?! And a text-messager in front of me. The theatre is nice and dark and I get white trails in my eyes because of the nuclear glow of a cell phone. I know this is the information age and people can now handle simultaneous streams of input, but I can’t. Not during my stories!

I love the reclining seats in the stadium-style theatres, but that just forces my head into my knees with a side of whiplash when the back of my chair gets kicked every time Lurch re-crosses his legs.

Oh I used to turn around and give them the stare but apparently I’m not very threatening and it just encourages more kicking or talking or texting.

I went to see Hot Fuzz and we were the only people in the theatre. And it was a really nice theatre with individual trays and leather seats. By the time the previews ended and the movie started, there were only eight of us! – all within six feet of each other. Why do you all have to sit next to me, in front of me and behind me? You could have your own section! Why didn’t I move? Once I sit I don’t like to change my seat – call it a neurosis; maybe I’m just that damn lazy. The woman two seats down had a big bag of Doritos®, which she ate two at a time. And she’s the only adult I’ve ever seen who actually chews each bite 32 times. Lucky me. It was like Girls Gone Wild Kingdom. At least she didn’t bray.

Then there are the plot-guessers. I do this when I watch TV so I know how annoying it is, but I don’t do it at the theatre. “Oh it was him. I know he killed her. He knew the code, he was the only one who was at the campus that morning, and he was totally screwing her sister. And he's a Latin professor who drives a Lexus with two worn tires. Can we go now? This was too easy.”

Or the plot-spoilers. Every time I go to see a sci-fi flick, there’s a kid within earshot who’s seen it three times already. And he can’t wait to tell his friend what’s about to happen next. “He dies here.” “He’s really a ghost.” “That's his dad but he doesn't know it yet.”

And my favorite, the play-by-play announcer. “Oh, she didn't like that. She’s getting in the car. She’s slamming the door. She’s driving away. He's running after her! She's getting away...” Excuse me, we're watching this as you are. We don't need audio captioning!

But it isn’t just the young patrons. I take my daughter to afternoon matinees and it’s like a Matlock convention. Just like me, retired folk love the matinee prices (I think they’re only $9.50 now) and they can be home for dinner by 4:00. Problem is, many of them can’t see or hear very well, so they ask their spouse or caretaker for help. Actually, they yell for it.

Grandpa Moses: “What did she say?!!”
Nurse Ratchett: “She said 'I don’t take it up the ass,' Stan.”
Grandpa Moses: “The what?!”
Nurse Ratchett: “The ass, Stan!”
Grandpa Moses: “Oh…shame.”

Regal Entertainment Group, who kindly brought “The Twenty” to my local theatre –

TANGENT: Really? Ticket prices are now $12.50 and everything on the concession menu is eight bucks and I have to sit through advertisements?! Which you get paid for?! If you dropped the ticket price, or even reduced the size of the small soda to two liters, I’d support you, but jeez!

– is testing out a Guest Response System. Movie-goers can alert management of any disturbances with an in-theatre paging device. If they picked me, I’d be buzzing in on that f'ing clicker like Rush Limbaugh on his morphine drip. The theatre would be empty and I could enjoy my movie without ring tones, the blackberry glow, conversations, cud-chewing/lip-smacking/bag-diving gluttons, plot guessers, pivotal moment-spoilers, Marv Albert, or seat-kickers.

Guess I should just stay home next time, huh?

I do have to admit my favorite part of going to the movies is the “In Case of Emergency” clip they run before every movie. It’s about 30 years old and has tons of lines and black spots and a really crappy soundtrack (like an old driver’s ed film). The voiceover says:

“In case of emergency, please walk, do not run, to the nearest emergency exit.” [PAUSE A BEAT] “This notice required by law.”

Cracks me up every time. Why do you tell us this notice is required by law? Couldn’t we just for a moment pretend that you care about your patrons, your fellow human beings?

“We actually don’t care if y’all die in a fire, flood or stampede. We left 20 minutes ago. But we had to tell you. It’s the law.”

Last week, a friend of mine, Dan, scared the bejesus out of me when we he walked past me on the stairs at work. Why? He didn’t jump out or yell or trip me or anything like that. He simply said hello. The reason it scared me? Because I don’t look up when I’m on the stairs. I stare at my feet. Not because I’m so uncoordinated I may lose the stairway rhythm and stumble (that happens no matter where I’m looking). It’s because I’m totally self-conscious on public staircases. Not of my own lack of balance; it’s from the asses in front of me.

Think about it. Although the mechanical design of a staircase is sound for getting people from one story to the next (it’s better than ramps everywhere), the social design is entirely flawed. If you walk one stair behind the person in front of you, you’re essentially spooning and will get elbowed, slapped or called into the HR office for invading personal space. Plus you really don’t want to know what they had for breakfast through deduction. So we allow at least two, usually three, stairs between ourselves and the next person. However, at three stairs apart, when you look forward, you’re staring into the ass of a stranger; or worse, a colleague. Male or female, it’s just as frightening. So I stare at my feet to avoid seeing the ass of someone else consume my field of view. I’m sure I appear ridiculous or antisocial to others, but that’s OK.

I can’t look forward. It’s like having a conversation with someone who has a lazy eye. I try to play it cool and repeat in my head “stare at the bridge of their nose, stare at the bridge!” That way they feel like it’s genuine eye contact and I may not even notice their involuntary meandering. Instead I panic – I become captivated by the wandering eye and follow its every move like Emmitt Smith on the dance floor.

Hopefully you’ll be self-conscious the next time you hit the stairs at work or the mall so I don’t have to face my neuroses alone.

[Postscript: An Afterword]
Not sure if you care, but there are reasons for my self-consciousness on stairways that I thought I’d explain. When I walk behind a woman (a stranger), I notice when her pace quickens, or her back tightens, or she clutches her purse closer to her body. It kills me. I want to say, “Excuse me… I won’t touch you, rob you, rape you, or hurt you in any way.” But I don’t say anything and I certainly don’t take it personally because I understand. It’s the way of the world and you have to be cautious, aware of your surroundings at all times and keep your guard up.

And even if not threatened, I don’t want a woman to assume I’m staring at her ass. Or when facing each other, anything but her face. You know the old joke a woman says to a man: “Turn around. Now, what color are my eyes?” So when I talk to a woman, I look at her eyes, take note of the color just in case I’m ever pop-quizzed and fight the urge to look anywhere else – not because of a sexual deviancy, but because when someone says don’t look here, what’s the first thing you do? Yes, I overthink everything and constantly put myself into these ridiculous predicaments that are entirely self-created. Woody Allen ain’t got nothin’ on me.

And I’ve got to be one of the most non-threatening people on the planet. I’m not quite 5’6” and don’t have a swagger in my step, or an imaginary board up my bum. But I learned this because I am the cut point in any line. Anywhere there is a long line (waiting to board a plane, waiting to pee at an outdoor concert, or waiting to see Randy, Paula and Simon), I am the person that people walk in front of (and usually clip with their purse or elbow) when there is no gap in a line they need to cut through in a perpendicular fashion. No apologies or a “pardon me”. It’s almost like I’m not there. And they are never worried about my retaliation, which they somehow know just isn’t coming.

I’m not complaining about being viewed as threatening or entirely non-threatening; I just wish y’all would be consistent, that’s all.

Next week: Pranking people who insist on reading their BlackBerries while walking.

Oh, they’re [brown] [blue] [green] [hazel] [amber] [Thriller yellow] [bloodshot].

OK, it’s been a while so I apologize. I’ve had writer’s block and nothing seemed that funny to me. Today, my buddy Don suggested a rant (you’re a savior!), and I knew what he meant immediately. First, we’re not talking about the “spontaneous” stadium event where people create a human wave of bodies that crest in unison, yet never in synch with an actual defensive play or point scored. That wave I hate. Truly. However, I do enjoy when a second wave is started, and it ends up canceling out the first, just like a giant physics experiment. People, it’s not original, clever, cute or remotely fun. Look, if you’re going to start something in public, why the wave? Why don’t you call out a racist, or a homophobe, or a misogynist? “Hey. That shit ain’t funny and neither are you. If your IQ 22 cousin-parents were here instead of the Monster Truck Klan Rally Revival, I’d bitch-slap them for the horrible job they did raising you. I guess since they’re not here I’ll just have to just bitch-slap you.” Wa-pow!

No, the wave Don was speaking of is the “much obliged” wave you get when letting someone in on the crowded highway. You know, the way it used to be when folks would thank you properly for the favor. You see a motorist in the left lane that’s about to end, and their license plate is out of state, and there are no gaps to be found in their need to merge right. So you slow down and let them gracefully slide on over. The courteous thing for them to do is wave their hand in front of their rearview mirror, acknowledging your random act of kindness. But it rarely (if ever) happens these days. Why is that? If someone does you a solid, at least acknowledge the gesture.

Even the asshole who isn’t from out of state, who flies up the left lane, whipping in at the last minute to be as far ahead in line as physically possible before being run into a ditch – and feels so self-important and entitled that he deserves to be in front of everyone else. Even that guy used to throw up a wave, as if you meant to let him in. It would almost make you laugh. Almost. (Secretly, I would hope for the photon lasers lying dormant in my eyes to finally energize and blast the hell out of the back of his Acura Integra, or Ford Windstar, but the probability of that happening is pretty remote. About as remote as ExxonMobil, ShellTexaco and AmocoBP giving back the unregulated profits they’ve stolen from all of us, and will continue to do so until we find a way to travel that doesn’t require fossil fuels. Ironically, they didn’t have the courtesy of administering petroleum jelly, which they have in sheer abundance, before drilling us, the US consumers.)

Look, whether you’ve been given the gap or you force one, toss a wave. It won’t kill you and it may prevent the back of your vehicle from being laser-torched, or rammed, or accidentally bumped, or given a really nasty look from the driver behind you.

I just returned from my first spring training trip. I went to Florida with my buddy Frank to see my favorite team, the Baltimore Orioles. With the World Baseball Classic in full swing, eleven starters were off representing their native countries. At first I was frustrated, but that passed before we even made it to our first game. Besides, it’s more fun witnessing new talent so you can say – “I remember when…” When we landed in Ft. Lauderdale, waiting for our baggage, I heard the voice of one of my baseball idols, Brooks Robinson. Frank called his name out; he turned to us and smiled, firmly shook our hands, and then went on his way. We didn’t ask for autographs. We didn’t ask for pictures. We just wanted to introduce ourselves and shake the hand of a legend. What a way to start a week of baseball!

At one of the games, I saw a t-shirt with a picture of a worn baseball and a caption that said “Life begins when the season starts.” New beginnings, everyone’s in first place, and spring means new life for so many reasons. This slogan could apply to any sport for your typical sports fan, but it just felt perfect at spring training in Florida, where the sun was out, the grass was green, and we had just left winter behind in Baltimore, even if just for a few days.

But why do I love baseball? First, I need something to tide me over until football. I never played football. I was too delicate. But I played baseball. Not well, but I loved it. I played little league for years, and my parents were at every game. And my parents weren’t the sort that insisted I be the best, or had fantasies of scholarships, or lived their own dreams vicariously through me. They loved to watch me have fun. And even make a few good plays.

Everyone who plays baseball or softball has a few moments they’ll never forget. A solid hit where there is no recoil or vibration from the bat. It’s so smooth you almost don’t feel it, except for the launch of the ball off the end of the bat. Or that one amazing catch. My best year was when I was 12 and played outfield, but was slightly off in my timing and judgment so I would make a last second adjustment and catch a fly ball with a stretch and a roll. I was unstoppable – just for a season. My plays looked outstanding, and it was all due to delayed timing. But hearing cheers and helping your team was the best. Especially after plenty of seasons in the outfield chanting to myself softly “don’t hit it to me, don’t hit it to me, don’t hit it to me” because missing that pop fly as another run scores is, well, just the opposite.

But playing is only part of my love of the game. My dad would take me to Pirates games when I was a boy, and it is by far one of my fondest memories. Baseball games weren’t televised regularly back in the day, and we lived hours from Pittsburgh. But my dad would get tickets and take me whenever he could. Plus I saw my all-time favorite player in person at Three Rivers Stadium – Roberto Clemente. You should read about him. He was an outstanding player, and an incredible man.

Sports fans sound like name-droppers, but when we say a player’s name in awe, it’s not just about stats (and never about money). It’s about true amazement at one’s hand-eye coordination and ability to perform in such a competitive and pure sport. Baseball fans are patient. For many, people it’s a slow-moving, boring game. For true fans it’s witnessing strategy, skill, drama and the anticipation of the next big play, or perfect pitching performance.

So I love playing the sport, and watching the sport. I have my fondest memories with my father watching me play, and taking in a game together. And although my son Sean is all grown up and isn’t a big baseball fan right now, he played when he was younger for the same reasons I did. My wife and I went to all his games and practices just like my folks. I also took him to his first major league game with my buddy Greg when he was only four or five years old (Sean, not Greg). I remember his excitement the days leading up to the game, the day of the game, and the days that followed. I also remember taking him a few years later to a Baltimore-Seattle game and witnessing his first bench-clearing brawl. As much as I tire of retaliatory pitching, a 20-minute slugfest really is something to behold.

My daughter Megan played softball for the same reasons Sean and I played baseball: for the fun of the game. When it no longer became fun [insert stories of team stacking, prima donnas and relentless parents here], she tired of it. Same went for Sean and I.

I also enjoy going to minor league games. Actually, I prefer them. We have a single-A affiliate of the Orioles about 45 minutes from our home, the Frederick Keys, and they’re wonderful. 2005 Carolina League Champions! Just like at spring training, the stadiums are small and intimate. You really feel up close, all seats are great and the players are approachable. With minor league ball, you’re witnessing players that are in the beginning of the system. They’re in it for the love of the game. They make next to nothing financially, so all hold full-time jobs during the off season. In fact, many players are housed by local residents like visiting exchange students in high school. They’re all looking to move up the system, or head straight to the big leagues (the show). And fans are right there with them, hoping to see them achieve their dream.

I’m not a sportswriter. I can’t recite stats, or records, or recall what year anyone did anything. I can’t explain every rule, describe every pitch or guess what moves the manager is about to make. But I just love this game. And everyone has a baseball story.

I’ll close with just one more. When I was a boy, my cousin Peter and I were visiting a few of our other cousins in Montreal, Quebec, back in the early 1970s. I was probably seven or eight years old. My Uncle John was friends with a player on a minor league team (he may have even been a Montreal Expo). We were headed to a game with our uncle to meet his friend and our car overheated on the way. We found an orange plastic cone on the road side, trudged into the woods and found a stream, then brought back water several times until the radiator was filled (after it cooled of course). Eventually we got back on the road but were hours late and missed nearly all of the game. But my uncle was able to find his friend and introduce him to two young fans who were thrilled beyond words. I may not remember his name, but I will never forget the moment. The minor league stadium was huge to this little boy, and the player larger than life. Meeting Brooks last week took me back to Montreal, and the Pirates games with my dad. I may be 42 now, but the feeling is no different. Baseball makes me feel like a boy and a son and a father and a player and a fan. Awestruck, I shook the hand of Brooks Robinson who looked me in the eye and smiled back at me because I was grinning like an idiot and he knew I simply love this game.

Simple concept: if your cell phone rings, chirps, raps, sings, farts or vibrates and you’re already in a conversation with someone, don’t interrupt it to start a new one on your phone. Looking at your hip, glancing down at your phone, or pulling it up to your eyes, when speaking or being spoken to, is simply rude. “I have to take this” is the biggest lie since “I meant to call you.” There is only one reason to check your phone in a conversation: you are a licensed therapist and it’s one of your more unstable patients. Talking someone down from a building rooftop is an acceptable interruption. OK, maybe one other exception but it better be legit: potential hookup. Otherwise, ignore your damn cell phone. It shouldn’t control your attention the way crack does for Whitney.

You have voicemail for a reason. Use it. I challenge you to think of a time when you’ve had to answer your phone the moment it rings. Even if it’s an emergency, chances are you don’t know if they should cut the blue wire or the red one, MacGyver. Have you ever checked your voicemail five minutes after a call and said, “Damn. If only I had answered it when it rang. Now it’s too late.”? No, you haven’t. Yes, it’s a pain to call your voicemail, punch in your pin, listen to a message and return a call. But it isn’t rude. Sometimes, it's not about you.

So the next time someone looks at their phone during your conversation, give them a little slap. “Hey! Eyes up here. We’re talking.” It will be a firm but effective reminder that they’re already talking to someone; the other person can wait.

When we cut the cord (phone cord) and went wireless worldwide, it was supposed to provide freedom. Who knew we’d have to cut the cord again, this time the wireless umbilical cord so many cell phone users are attached to?

Bear with me, this is a long one! So much anger, so little time…

Convenience may be the mother of invention, but greed is the mother of all human evils. Over the years, ticket prices for live events have become astronomical. In the 1970s, concert tickets used to be under $10. Today they are in the hundreds, and that’s face value!

In the olden days, to purchase tickets, you would visit the venue’s box office during normal business hours, or on a Saturday. If you really, really wanted them, you’d camp out the night before. Eventually you could purchase tickets by phone using a credit card, or at remote locations, as well as the box office. A small fee per ticket or per order was charged for this convenience. Eventually the ticket mafia was formed and took over all phone ticket sales, as well as all the satellite locations. Yous got to use our machines now, capiche? On the East Coast, the first ticket mafia was Ticketron. Eventually the head of Ticketron was whacked and a bigger, even more evil ticket mafia came in and took over the country. That evil, unregulated cash whore was none other than TicketMaster.

Today, nearly all ticket transactions are done online through TicketMaster, who charges ever-increasing and ridiculous “convenience” charges. If you work for TicketMaster, that makes you a cash whore too. There is nothing redeeming about your company. Please quit. Perhaps you can move to Virginia or the Carolinas and grow tobacco, convincing yourself someone’s gonna do it, why not you?

And if convenience charges aren’t bad enough, ticket brokers and eBay entrepreneurs have now guaranteed that nearly every live event where tickets are sold electronically (concert, play, musical, opera, even sporting events except for maybe single-A minor league baseball) will be sold out within a matter of minutes, often seconds. Of course they are available online within an hour at ticket broker sites and eBay at fair market prices (twice the price or more), eventually quadruple or greater as the date of the event draws nearer.

Tickets have become commodities, and fans the traders (more like victims).

I believe in free enterprise, but not when it prices so many people out of the market. If you can afford $300 tickets, good for you. Most can’t. There has to be a way for people to purchase tickets to events at face value, without a phone bank, mainframe and staffers. Typing in obfuscated (look it up) words at TicketMaster’s site clearly isn’t working.

The only satisfaction I find from this nightmare is when a broker or eBay entrepreneur is stuck with overpriced tickets that they cannot sell and they take a big loss. Serves your greedy ass right. You’re not an entrepreneur or financial genius; you’re an extortionist.

So here’s an idea. My volunteer staffers and I will start booking all available appointments at the local open MRI facilities. When someone calls for an appointment, the receptionist can transfer the call to Medical Appointment Brokers (my new business venture). When we get the call, we’ll just screen on occupation, side businesses and the money-for-nothing factor. If you’re not a broker or eBay scalper, no worries. You get whatever is available for free (no convenience or facility charge). Otherwise, what do you need an MRI for? Concussion? Aneurysm? Tumor? Well, our pricing structure is based on how badly you need the appointment, and if you deserve to live.

Same idea for heart trouble. When MAB gets a demon-spawn ticket broker on the phone, the one-sided conversation would go something like this: “Heart trouble, huh? Boy, that could be serious. Well, as the receptionist told you, all available appointments have been taken, but I’d be happy to broker an appointment for you. For $150 you can see an intern… No, that’s a high school intern. He’s got his magnifying glass and Chemistry set. And he’s a mathlete! For $600, you can see a nurse. Registered?...um, sure [handgun owner maybe] For $1795 you can see a first-year resident. For $6800 you can see a cardiologist. Board certified? Yeah, that’ll be $12,765. Lab tests? Hold on. I was reading from the red book. Those are prices for standard services. That only includes a stethoscope and a tongue depressor, with a free prostate exam. If you want an EKG or X-Rays, you’re talking premium services. That’s the blue book. Hold on…”

You get the idea.

Remember the day when people would camp out all night and buy up to their eight-ticket limit? People would respect the line. You could make a food or beer run for your new comrades, and leave your lawnchair and sleeping bag in safe hands while strangers held your spot. I was OK with those days, because they were diehard fans buying for themselves and their friends. The most they would ask for is gas money or a sandwich. My friend Frank suggested box offices should hold some actual tickets that people have to purchase in person so it’s possible to get tickets at face value, just like the good old days, even if it’s the day before the event. This may work for a while, but I imagine the brokers will soon have runners (much like drug dealers do), scooping up all the on-site tickets.

The solution? Once again make it illegal (and I don’t know when it actually became legal) to scalp tickets in person, online or through the USPS. If it isn’t so easy for companies to legally scalp at enormous profits, maybe it will diminish. eBay has to fall back in line too. Once people are prevented from ripping other people off just because they got to the tickets first, we can go back to crushing TicketMaster and its ilk. You want to charge me $5 for the lot (not per ticket) for booking my tickets, fine. Anything else is bullshit.

I recently purchased two tickets to see Jerry Seinfeld in Baltimore as a present for my wife’s birthday. Face value, they were $75 each. Then another $15 each for convenience. I got the tickets by winning the fastest fingers contest at TicketMaster.com the second the tickets went on sale. The event was sold out in less than four minutes. I could have purchased four tickets, and knew I could sell the other two for at least double what I paid, probably higher. But I didn’t. Why not? It’s such a smart, entrepreneurial move. You know it’s a hot commodity, and will sell quickly, at a great inflated value on eBay. Why not? Because I have a soul and a conscience, and I’m not a hypocrite, at least in this one instance.

Oprah Winfrey has signed a three-year contract with XM Satellite Radio worth $55 million. She has personally committed to only 30 minutes of air time per week (and that’s with Gayle King).

And you know damn well a year doesn’t mean 52 weeks in celebrity contracts, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. 52 weeks per year x 3 years = 156 weeks. With only 30 minutes a week, that’s 78 total Oprah broadcast hours. $55,000,000/78 hours = $705,128.21/hour.

Now I know this deal also includes Oprah’s friends, like Bob Greene, Dr. Oz, Gayle King and the rest of the gang, so it’s not really her personal hourly rate – it’s what Harpo Inc. is taking in. And it will have more than 30 minutes of programming per week; probably several hours each day, with rebroadcasts all day long. But if Harpo Inc.’s distribution of funds is like the rest of corporate America, it’s mostly going into the executive’s pockets, Ms. O’s, and not the rest of the friends.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Oprah. I remember when she came to Baltimore in the 1970s on a local magazine program called People Are Talking. She’s quite charming and very generous with her money, and maybe some, most or all of this $55 million is going to charity. But I do have to question the egO. So many one-named stars: Oprah, Cher, Regis, the Donald. Don’t you just want to say: “Hey, get Over yourselves!”

In the Frequently Asked Questions About Oprah on oprah.com (is it OK that I didn’t capitalize her name here in this one instance?), the answer to FAQ 4 of 5 (Where was Oprah born?), you get the following diatribe: “Oprah has left an indelible mark on the face of television. Coming from humble beginnings in rural Mississippi, she has risen to become one of the most powerful figures in the world. Get the facts about her career, her company, her achievements and her mission here.” Jesus! “Mississippi” would have sufficed. “Kosciusko, Mississippi” if you want to be specific.

And then there’s O, The Oprah Magazine. I’m Ok with her being in print, and she is an icon and a brand and all that, but do you think she might put someone else on the cover besides herself just once? Is that asking too much? Would circulation numbers really plummet? Would readers across America just die? To me, it’s a little Over the top. OK, way Over the top.

My first attempt at a philosophical question at the age of 12. Why? Probably because I didn’t feel like cutting the lawn. When I was 12, we had no ride mower and a really, really big yard. Sure I got some killer biceps for a 12-year-old but at what cost? Admittedly, this one is way out there, but what the hell.

At 42, I ask the question again: Does the grass scream when you cut it? Partly philosophical; mostly a dig against vegans. Not because I have a problem with people who respect animal life and prefer to eat healthy. People with that sort of discipline have my utmost admiration. If it’s part of your faith, I mean no offense. If you’re all preachy or judgmental, we got a problem. I embrace the food chain. It’s a part of life. If you can stick with one branch of it, that’s wonderful. I cannot.

And why the term vegan? A vegetarian eats no meat (beef, pork, poultry, seafood), so that leaves mostly fruits and vegetables – seems pretty straightforward. A strict vegetarian consumes no dairy or egg products either, and often uses no animal products or byproducts (like leather). Again, kudos to you fine people. So then a vegan must be an über strict vegetarian. I think it’s really a strict vegetarian, only it sounds cooler, or maybe a little cultish. It definitely gets a quick reaction.

So a large part of the vegan diet is fruit, vegetable or legume. It’s also a respect for life and sparing animals from pain. But how do we really know that plants don’t feel any pain, or have a consciousness? No central nervous system is one argument. But all living things may not need nerves to feel. Or perhaps plants have nerves, just not as we (animals) know them. And there has been evidence that plants react to stress (e.g. trees bending towards the river when a forest fire begins to spread, well before the flames arrive). My point is just because you cannot see or hear a response from the grass, doesn’t mean there isn’t one when you run over it with twin mulching blades.

But, Mike. Grass grows back! Well a starfish will regenerate a severed limb, but I don’t quite imagine it enjoys the experience. My thumbnails will grow back, but I prefer them attached.

Maybe it’s really the pronunciation of the word vegan. It’s commonly pronounced vē∙gun, which is nails on a chalkboard for me. It’s just a derivative of vegetarian, so call it vĕ∙jun and maybe I won’t be so preachy myself. I know you’re expecting a closer that has something to do with steak, or stake. No meat jokes today.

Besides a total guilty pleasure, and the fact it’s reality TV, which is too low brow for most, it’s just right for me. It’s a show people will admit to landing on when flipping through stations. I’m not proud; I schedule it. It’s pure entertainment.

The age range for contestants is 16 to 28; that means most aren’t very mature and there’s lots of drama. Put a camera in front of someone who’s just gotten shot down (often deservedly so) and they dig the hole deeper. Exit speeches from no-talent egomaniacs are great fun. Brilliant!

The auditions take place in major cities across the US. Tens of thousands of hopefuls show up, most on a whim. When you see the interviews, you’ll hear “this is my life’s dream.” Come on: life’s dream? You heard about this two days ago, you’ve never sung a lick in front of anyone, you’re most likely tone deaf, but you’re so self-obsessed you convince yourself that you can be on TV just because you’re you. I say this because I’m totally self-obsessed, and I’ve headed to auditions in New York on a total whim, completely unprepared but convinced there was something special about me that the casting director, or intern, would see in me. They didn't. Yet.

People love to hate Simon Cowell. I love Simon Cowell. He can be mean (which I find entertaining), but usually he’s just honest and direct. If you really aren’t very good, and you don’t find out from anyone with an objective opinion (meaning, not your mom) before you head to the auditions, you get what’s coming to you. And I laugh. Hard.

However, there are also people with true talent. And they have found the courage to finally pursue something big. Waiting for hours in the heat or the rain just for a shot. Face it, most people in their late teens or early 20s are still unsure of themselves. Even with a voice and an ear for music, they've convinced themselves it's impractical. It takes courage to get up in front of people. And getting in front of three celebrity judges, wearing a wireless mic, surrounded by TV cameras, singing a cappella has got to be frightening.

But I root for those with talent, and a shot at something huge. As the show progresses and they weed out the wanna-bes, I really get hooked. I get caught up in the contestants’ lives, and pull for most of them. Some of them are narcissists (who often get put in their place) and others are pure and genuine. The human interest stories abound (music teachers, single parents, former foster children, small-town folks). Once the show gets down to the final 12, they’ve all got a great chance at continuing with a music career regardless of the contest outcome, and they get to work with huge songwriters like Elton John or Barry Manilow. It's nice to see someone do a major song justice, with the songwriter watching along with several million viewers.

At 42, I’m hoping for a Senior American Idol, but I won’t hold my breath. Off you go.

I have a new rule. You don’t talk about your kids and I won’t talk about mine. Why? Because nobody cares about them, not like you do. No one wants to hear about how your kid is doing in school, or sports, or dance class, or Mensa, or the precociousness and judgment training every single, bloody day. Your kids are awesome but even they would be embarrassed by how much you talk about them. Giving them more than what you had is admirablel; living vicariously through them is just sad.

I think the ranting trigger for me is seeing all of those bumper stickers: "My kid is an honor roll student at the school they attend based on their zip+4 and local laws, not by choice." Hey, what if my kid needs tutoring? How do you think they feel when they read that? You're not thinking about them. I know sometimes we put the stickers on our cars because they beg us to, and who can look at a seven-year-old and not just melt and plaster the car with their accolades? But there are plenty of parents who plant the stickers like flags because they really believe their kid is more special than the other kids, and the world should know it. They're competitive - and for what reason? These are the same parents on the sidelines of the kids' sports fields that ruin it for everyone else because they are just way too into it. The type of parents who push their way to the front of a line so their kid can experience whatever event is occurring, ahead of the other kids, without waiting their turn, pretending not to know the semi-straight line of youngsters is meant to be followed, and they usually block the sight line of a dozen toddlers - a lot like aggressive drivers feel the need to be first in all driving situations.

Everyone's kids are special. And they all deserve accolades, and praise, and warmth. Just take it down a notch, and skip the trophies just for playing, because when they grow up and have to go out into the world, maybe everyone won't treat them like they're super-special, or entitled, and they might feel a little resentful. Yes, and maybe they'll find therapy helpful and decide to write a blog, but it's better than "Mommy, Dearest", don't you think?

So talk about your kid when they really deserve a bumper sticker, like:

• Your son won the lottery and paid off your house. He actually wired the money from a three-day rum fest in Barbados after marrying Paul "Pee Wee Herman" Reubens, Heather Graham and a monkey all in a civil cermony before local authorities caught on, and he only got two of them annulled by Monday.
• Your daughter designed a comfort-fitting chastity belt, and is paying her way through college with 113 scholarships she was awarded for having the best essays on 113 different subjects, and none of them were about soccer.
• Your middle-schooler pantsed three kids on the honor roll this week, just because they had it coming.
• Your baby has the missing ingredient for the AIDS vaccine in her tears, the cure for all forms of cancer in her saliva, and non-narcotic happy juice in her sweat glands that also fades wrinkles. Oh, and she hates beets.

Otherwise, get a hobby and keep the stories to every other day. Problems? Everyone’s got them. Meds? They all take them, some even with prescriptions. Sex? Doesn’t ever happen; kids just say it’s happening on all those questionnaires they’re handed to feel cool. (Humor me on this one. I have to cling to something to get me through the teen years and I'm just not ready to be a grand-pappy).

Hey, you wanna know what my daughter said at breakfast? Didn’t think so.

Just shift the perspective from me to we. Seriously! Boasting about being an American is easy and is totally overdone. But if you aren’t thinking about your fellow countrymen (and women), why say it at all?

By the way, every time I’m cut off when driving, I guarantee there’s an American flag sticker on the back of the offender’s vehicle – this is not what they mean whey they say risking your life for your fellow Americans. These people don’t feel patriotism. They don’t look out for their neighbor; their compatriot. In fact, they go around their neighbor to get just a little further ahead down the road because apparently they’re more American, more important, in more of a hurry, or just more selfish.

The whole idea of nationalism is a sense of community or common consciousness, not bragging rights. Try not to forget that when you’re singing the only Lee Greenwood song that you know.

And unless your ancestors are Native Americans, you’re an immigrant fuck like the rest of us. So lighten up when you meet a foreigner you xenophobic NIMBY because you’re one too, maybe just a few generations removed. And you don’t get to shut the gate behind you just because your whole family’s here now.

Yeah, this opinion will garner all kinds of fans. Hey, my opinion. Feel free to disagree. It’s your right, American or otherwise.

Do you have friends with whom you just don’t have anything in common anymore? You know who I mean. Someone who rehashes the same stories every single time you see them because there hasn’t been anything new to talk about since they canceled Cheers. Someone who still teases you about your most embarrassing moment that happened when you were 15. “Dude! Remember that time when you thought you were the only one home. And your sister forgot her keys. And Gina Delrenato came back with her. And you hadn’t locked the door. And you had your mom’s Air Supply album blasting… Hey, everybody. Come here. You gotta hear this!”

What’s up with that? Who would want to constantly be reminded of the worst moment of their adolescent life? Thirty years later?

We need a way to break up with friends. I don’t mean a girlfriend, boyfriend or significant other. I mean a same-gender, nothing-left-in-common, constant-reminder-of-why-you-hated-high school albatross. We need a way to tell these people: Friend, you need to move on. Why do you still call me? I tolerated you in high school. I didn’t even like you; it was more like pity. You are a time warp. You’re looking for someone to hang with at the mall and I’ve got surgery in the morning. You’re still an exemption on your parents’ 1040, and it has no impact on your own taxes. I just don’t think we can see each other anymore. I break with thee. Get a life. A real life.

I hear it a lot. Why you gotta be like that? Why are you so mean? Well, I wasn’t always mean. It’s an evolution; or de-evolution. I don’t like to write a lot about myself because it’s like speaking about yourself in the third person, which I really hate. Mike is arrogant like that. I do like to share my thoughts, but not all about me. But blogs are all about personal thoughts, and sometimes personal stories. This is my personal story.

So why do I gotta be like that? I’m gonna go with humor is my defense mechanism. I’m pretty quick with my words. It’s not that I don’t think before I speak. I just don’t censor the flow. I love to speak whatever comes to mind because it’s honest, and sometimes it’s funny. The words are also sharp, and sometimes cruel. Why? Well, many reasons.

Growing up, I was, to be honest here, fairly unattractive. I knew it. Wasn’t my fault. It just was. I wasn’t Quasimodo. Children didn’t turn in terror, but I never got the double-take. Not once.

I was 5’1” until I was 13. Then I had my growth spurt. Made it all the way up to 5’5”. I weighed 112 pounds in high school. So I wasn’t much of an intimidator. Couldn’t fight and had no interest in pretending that I could. Guys picked on me because I was an easy target, in both appearance and size. But, if I could keep them laughing, I wouldn’t get my ass kicked. I wasn’t a wimp either. Everyone has their pain threshold. I learned the bigger guys lacked self-confidence, too. So mine began to grow, not when it came to girls, but with my wit. See, these same guys who thought they could kick my ass, would start out with the insults. I learned I was quicker. And if I completely humiliated them the further the back and forth went, the less confident they became. And they ended up walking away. Usually. I wasn’t wearing Kevlar, just verbal confidence. No one wants to look stupid in front of everyone else. It’s like kryptonite for bullies.

That kind of defensiveness doesn’t turn off. People aren’t looking to kick my ass today. In the world of karma, my past insults mean I’ve got it coming back to me three-fold. And I welcome it. The difference is I’m no longer insecure, it’s almost always in fun and it’s usually coming from people who like me.

But everyone was self-conscious growing up right? Absolutely. But it was more than getting picked on, or picked last in every pick-your-team situation. I also had to deal with the humiliation of rejection from girls.

We’ve established I was a short dude. I had curly/wiry hair that had no real style. Mom told me I should let it grow naturally into an afro. When I was a kid, the only image I had of a white guy with an afro was from the show Room 222 (see picture above).

I guess I thought it would turn red too, so I ended up blow-drying it straight, trying to look like everyone else. Trust me, it didn’t. I also had braces for four years, nearly all of high school (and we’re talking the metal clamp style that surrounds the entire tooth…Jaws from the Bond flicks…original railroad tracks) that also pushed out already oversized lips. I had the prerequisite glasses (can’t see more than six inches past my nose). Oh yeah, and because of a tube in my ear, I had to wear a bathing cap whenever I went in the water. I also couldn’t swim. Took lessons twice but they never really took. Take a breath. Compose yourself. Then I’ll continue.

So, I think we’ve established why I had zero self-esteem.

I still made friends. I wasn’t a total introvert. Actually, I loved to make people laugh. And self-deprecating humor prevents real embarrassment. If I made fun of myself before someone else got the chance, I had the upper hand. And I was laughing with you at me, instead of just you at me. Do it long enough and you start to get pretty good stripping other people down.

I had plenty of friends, and many were female. Not girlfriends; friends that were girls. They would say “Oh, I like you as a friend. You’re like a brother to me.” Looking back, if I was like a brother I would have pounded on them constantly, ignored everything they said, and embarrassed them at every opportunity. But they didn’t really mean as a sibling. They meant not interested. Until I got to college, I rarely put myself out there because I was a realist and I was petrified of rejection. So on that rare occasion I would mistake kindness or laughter as a potential romantic reaction, once in a great while I would pursue it, timidly, with disastrous results.

Jeannie Z
Jeannie Z was my first foray into dating, or attempting to communicate romantically with the opposite sex. 8th Grade. Middle School. I was 13 years old. With the description above, you should have a fairly humorous picture of me in your mind. When I get a scanner, I’ll post real pictures through the years. It’s great fun.

Jeannie was a sweetheart and a friend. We talked, we joked, we had the same teachers, and living near each other, we also rode the same bus, often together. We really were friends. One Friday afternoon we were having a very pleasant conversation on the bus ride home and in a moment of insanity I went for it. Not physically. With low self-esteem comes absolute fear of physical contact with anything other than a pillow. I regretted it as soon as the words left my big-ass braces-enhanced lips, but I asked her to go with me – the 1970s teen version of going steady. She froze, then asked to have the weekend to think about it. I was dying inside. The weekend was going to totally suck.

But it passed and I found myself sitting in homeroom on Monday morning, freaking. I pretended to forget about everything but didn’t play off cool very well, so I became engrossed with the desk, or my papers, or the clock or something. I wouldn’t look at Jeannie. There’s no freakin’ way I was looking at Jeannie. Would she let me down easy? Would she make it quick and painless? Would she toy with the idea for a day, then dump me? Well it wouldn’t be a great story if she was kind, would it? Our seats were in a squared U with my seat directly across the room from hers. When I finally got the courage to look up, I saw she was talking with three of her friends, all girls. All were giggling. All were looking at me. Great! Charlie Brown was Hugh Hefner compared to me. This went on for probably two minutes but it felt like years.

I’m now completely flushed and horrified. I’m never putting myself out there again. It gets better. One of the girls she’s talking to walks across the room and stops right in front of my desk. I don’t remember her name, but she was the shortest girl in the entire school. Let’s call her Witchie Poo. I lift my head and without missing a beat, Witchie Poo says “Jeannie says no!” She laughs out loud. Jeannie and her friends laugh out loud. In my head, the entire world is laughing out loud. She goes back to the coven and I’m shell shocked. Why I’m not a misogynist to this day escapes me. I guess I’m a romantic at heart and didn’t assume all women are like Jeannie. Of course others would be; luckily most would not.

I’m not going to bore you with more stories. Let’s just say I dated very few girls through high school; any I did were either friends or bored of me quickly. Plus, little self confidence isn’t very appealing. I wouldn’t have dated me in high school. I smoked too. Loser.

I get to college. I fill out a little bit. I lose the blow dryer and let the curly hair grow naturally, not into a gimongous afro but more like a rock star (think Roger Daltrey). I lose the glasses and get some contacts. I'm by no means a stud, but I finally build some confidence. College was good. Knowledge is good - Faber University Motto. I'm rambling again. So it wasn't all bad but it took forever to get there.

Looking back, hey, what can you do? Learn from it. Laugh at it. Or be bitter. I'll take a little of all three. I’ve lost a lot of my hair and it ain’t coming back. I’ll never be 6’ tall. I won’t even be 5’7”. I could wear boots but I’d look like a kid clomping around in Dad's shoes or Mom's heels. Yep, sounds like another blog story...

But the defensiveness never leaves you. And the pre-emptive strikes of sarcasm, cynicism and humor continue on. These days they’re good natured, and not meant to cut to the quick. Unless you truly are an ass, or evil, or think you’re entitled to something and others are not simply because you’re you. Then you get what you deserve, though you may not be in the room when I slam you. I’m kind of a coward like that. Oh yeah, I talk about people when they’re not in the room, but if you’re reading this I can guarantee it’s not you.

This particular blog will grow over time. I apologize if it's not funny to you. It's cathartic jotting down my pet peeves.

Using the wrong word

• Schizophrenic. Why does everyone use the word schizophrenic when they mean multiple personalities? Roses are red, violets are blue, I am schizophrenic and so am I. Schizophrenia is “a psychotic disorder characterized by loss of contact with the environment.” It might even include hallucinations and delusions, but it’s not Sybil! (Who’s Sybil? Look it up.)
• Literally, Figuratively, Virtually and Ironically – misuse of all; would literally take too much time to list examples. Those of you who can appreciate this don’t need the countless examples. You have your own.

Made-up Words

• Athleticism. I believe it’s a made-up word that means athletic display, but I swear Al Michaels used this word once on Monday Night Football when he was struggling for filler and it just slipped out. Now it’s part of every sportscaster’s lexicon. That and “brilliant display of grit, determination, heart, etc.” I Googled the word and found out Edith Wharton used the term in her novel The Age of Innocence published in 1920. So it’s not Al’s fault, but it still sounds made up to me.
• Irregardless. Regard means consideration. Regardless means without consideration. Irregardless means you’re a fricking moron.
• Preventative. It’s really preventive, like preventive maintenance. The reason it’s actually a word? Because Americans toss in extra syllables all the time so the word becomes a “variant”. On the other hand, argumentative is the word and argumentive is the variant (which no one uses). Sometimes I really hate the English language.
• Supposably. Supposably there’s no “b” in supposedly.
• Warshington. Supposably, there’s no “r” in Washington either. Actually, there are many words where people add r’s that don’t exist (perserverance, sherbert, prostrate when they mean prostate) and drop r’s that they shouldn’t (defibulator, Febuary, libary, vetinarian, and prostate when they mean prostrate).
• Heighth. As in, how tall? There’s length, width and heighth. No, it’s height. If you’re dyslexic than “heigth” is acceptable, as would be “aks”, like “Aks me about our specials.” Otherwise, you’re not a very good listener.

One-Trick Ponies (Words with one use– try to use them in another context)

• Striations. Grooves or scratches, used in forensics to match bullets to a gun. You hear it three times per CSI episode (any CSI). So how about: “I miss my old LPs but the striations would wear after time." Just doesn't work.
• Veritable. Only used with plethora, also a one-use-only word. “There is a veritable plethora of candy corn available at half price on November 1st.”

Words that simply annoy me

• McMansion. You can’t afford one of those either, so quit talking about them.
• [Insert Anything Here] Whisperer. The movie was The Horse Whisperer. People still replace Horse with something else and think it’s funny. It’s not. Perhaps you should consult an Idiot Whisperer.