I was thinking a lot about the 80s this week. A lot of memories were triggered when we were moving recently. I ran across some of those "collectors" drink glasses from Burger King. You know, the glasses that you could buy at Burger King with scenes from Star Wars printed on them. I also ran across a glass from Showbiz Pizza. If you don’t remember Showbiz Pizza, then you are truly deprived. It was the original place to eat crummy pizza, play video games, drink root beer and listen to a band of mechanized animals sing bad cover versions of moldy oldies. Showbiz Pizza was the best place in town to have your birthday party. Heck, I’d still love to go back there and have my own birthday party.

So as a tribute to the 80s—perhaps the greatest decade ever—here is a little gem of a column from January 16, 2006:

It was very, very late. I couldn’t sleep, so I was lying in bed watching the television that I had mounted on the wall especially for nights like these. I had watched several back-to-back episodes of "I Love the 80s" on VH-1, and I just couldn’t stop.

The entire decade seemed to flash before my eyes, and I could remember clear details and things I had forgotten. Suddenly all these repressed memories became clear.

The 1980s were a happy and carefree time. There was nothing to worry about except nuclear war with the Soviets, the state of California falling into the ocean, and the remote possibility of catching AIDS from a toilet seat. It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times.

I can remember exactly where I was when John Lennon was shot, when Reagan was shot, and when we had our first space shuttle tragedy.

But I remember the good things the most. Let’s take a trip down memory lane.

In 1980 I was nine years old. The best things in my life were the Atari 2600, Atari 2600 and the Atari 2600. I can remember that everyone I know had an Atari. But there would always be one or two kids who owned an Intellivision, which they said was vastly superior. Those kids grew up to become Macintosh users.

I also enjoyed eating at Showbiz Pizza, because they had lots of games and a stage full of mechanical animals that would sing to you on your birthday. I remember that on one occasion, my parents ordered some kind of nasty vegetarian pizza that was covered in corn and bell peppers. I still haven’t forgiven them for ruining my Friday night at Showbiz.

When I was a child, I thought that my reason for existence was to watch Star Wars. In fact, I got swats once because I decided to draw pictures of Star Wars characters instead of doing my spelling test. In the 80s, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi both came out in theaters, and this was a good thing. The former film had a pretty dismal ending, when Han Solo was frozen in a block of carbonite. I wish I had access to that kind of technology. Wouldn’t it be cool, if we caught Bin Laden and froze him in a block of carbonite?

In the fifth grade, one of my classes got a computer—a Radio Shack TRS-80. The future had arrived. I spent that year writing computer programs in BASIC. The code for my programs went something like this:

10 PRINT "So-and-so is a goober"

20 GOTO 10

Yes, I was a real geek.

Later, there was Rubik’s Cube. I don’t think I ever solved that stupid thing. But I became very good at taking it apart.

Then there was the music. Some of it was good. Some of it was dreadful. I remember that I secretly liked Duran Duran, though I was terrified to admit it. My older cousin caught me with a Duran Duran tape once, and I was very ashamed.

The 80s were also a time when you could get away with carrying wallets made of nylon with Velcro closures. You could buy these wallets at the state fair for $2 each, complete with a screened-on image of your favorite 80s metal band. My favorite was the band Ratt. While I’m spilling the beans, I’ll also admit that I attended a Bon Jovi concert, and I saw Dokken in concert three times. Oh, the humanity!

Speaking of music, I think that every high school had a guy who would sit in the parking lot with his car doors open and play his music really loud for everyone to hear. An 80s model Camaro was perfect for this Neanderthal activity, because you could install large speakers in the hatch. The guys who engaged in this activity usually hung around town for a few years after graduation, hitting on the high school girls and supplying beer for parties.

After all these years I’m still haunted by the image of my senior portrait—I was wearing a sweater with a gold chain hanging on the outside, and I was sporting a sweet mullet. I used to make fun of the senior pictures from the 60s and 70s that were displayed in the hall at school. Now I’m tortured by the thought of being the butt of someone else’s joke. If anyone from my hometown reads this, could you please go to the high school and remove my photo from any public display? There will be a handsome reward.

One final thought for the week: I would like to bring back the 80s phrase, "rad to the neoshad." Whenever you see something interesting or cool, just say that it is "rad to the neoshad." Let’s see if we can spread this phrase around and make it popular again, okay?

I often wonder if the designers of products actually use the products themselves. Some things are so poorly designed, that I’m amazed nobody actually stood up and said, "Hey, this isn’t working. We should fix it before we sell it."

Case in point: Modern vehicles have all sorts of bells and whistles, such as power windows, power seats and anti-lock brakes. Some even have wipers on the headlights and GPS navigation. Then why do so many vehicles have such crummy cup holders?

The worst offender I’ve owned was a 1997 Toyota RAV-4. That vehicle didn’t have any visible cup holders at all. If I remember correctly, there was some sort of lame cup holder that could be used when the center console was opened. But it was really awkward to use while driving, because the driver and passenger actually had to reach behind themselves to pick up their drinks.

When I owned that vehicle, I ended up cramming my drink between the seat and the emergency brake handle. But that was risky, because a large Styrofoam cup could easily break or spill during a quick stop or turn. I even tried one of those awful cup holders from the days of old. You know, the cheap plastic cup holder that hangs over the door. Those cup holders work okay for small drinks, but they do not possess the structural strength to handle a 44 ounce soft drink. What’s worse is the fact that they look so tacky in a modern vehicle.

And how about the cup holders in pickups? I don’t believe I ever seen one of these devices that makes sense.

Most modern trucks have a cup holder that is hidden in the dash next to the radio. First, you have to find the stupid thing, then pull it out from the dash to use it. The worst part about this design is that the mechanism is never designed to pull out far enough from the dash for adequate clearance.

Maybe this design works okay for holding a canned soft drink, but it absolutely stinks for holding anything larger. A typical cup has to be tipped slightly sideways in order to fit against the dash. Even worse is the fact that there is never enough clearance between the two drink slots to actually hold two drinks. So when two people are in the truck, both of their drinks will be crammed together. If one of the people has brought along a large cup, then the other person may not be able to fit their drink in the cup holder at all.

Some cup holders on trucks also have little flaps inside of them that are supposed to help support your drink, but they don’t seem to be very effective.

I think that worst cup holders are the ones that pull out from the dash, and allow the drinks to just sort of hang there, supported by another piece underneath.

The solution is to either buy a cheap accessory cup holder like I mentioned earlier, or buy one of those "clutter catchers" that sits on the floor between the seats. These devices work okay as long as you don’t put in a large drink and then make an emergency stop—otherwise you might get wet feet.

Another problem with the clutter catcher is that it really does end up filled with clutter. Since this device is usually purchased by people who drive old cars and pickups, it usually gets filled up with all sorts of junk—pens, receipts, extra fuses, screws, a tire pressure gauge, a spare quart of oil, and maybe even something that broke off the vehicle. The clutter catcher will often have a sticky spot left from a spill, and there are often a few pennies or loose hairs that have become stuck in this area.

I have owned numerous clutter catchers over the years, and I know first-hand that the design has changed very little. It contains two cup holders, which are nicely sized, properly spaced, and provide excellent support for large drinks. On the right side, there are three coin slots. This feature poses another problem—it would make better sense to have four coin slots. If that feature were added, then I wouldn’t have to decide which coin denomination was going to be left out. I typically fill the three slots with just "silver" coins, and throw the pennies in the ash tray. But inevitably, all the coins end up in the ash tray. The center section of the clutter catcher is made to hold either CDs or cassettes. But in reality, neither CDs nor cassettes end up in this area. This is because any vehicle with a clutter catcher installed is also not likely to have a working CD or cassette player.

In an odd way, I find it somewhat comforting that the clutter catcher never changes. It’s always available in the same four colors—black, dark blue, dark red and nasty brown. Of course, the blue and the red are never an exact match for your interior, so black is a good choice. You can never have enough black shoes or black clutter catchers.

The Ford Explorer’s designers got the cup holder design right—almost. The cup holders are placed in easy reach of the driver and passenger in the center console area. Though they are not placed side-by-side, they are logically staggered so that there is no question as to which drink belongs to which person. This is great for avoiding those really awkward gross-out moments, when you realize that you just drank after your buddy.

The only problem with the Explorer’s cup holders is that each one has a different diameter. If two people have the same size drink, one of them is not going to fit well. Ford also provided a couple of rubber inserts. I guess that these were provided for the sake of cleanliness. When you need to clean the cup holder, just take out the insert and wash it. The only problem here is that the sleeve sometimes sticks to the bottom of the cup. Since I suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I’m paranoid that someone will accidentally walk off with my cup holder insert, or that it may end up getting thrown away after getting stuck on bottom of a Styrofoam cup. What drives me crazy is when my wife removes the insert and allows it to get lost inside the vehicle. Rather than finding and replacing the insert, she continues to use the cup holder, inevitably spilling something—which makes for a difficult clean up.

My point to all of this rambling is this: If mankind is capable of designing such complex vehicles—like a car that parallel parks itself—then why can’t we design a perfect cup holder? The world may never know.

Years ago, I remember someone at church making a prayer request because they were buying a car. I remember thinking at the time that the act of purchasing a car didn’t seem important enough to make a prayer request in church. I filed that memory away and didn’t think about it again, until last week.

Due to my miserly ways, my wife and I have been sharing one "good" vehicle for over three years. When I say "good" vehicle, I’m referring to a vehicle that has several characteristics. "Good" is a relative term here. Our "good" vehicle is a 2000 model, has no mechanical problems and is loaded with every option.

Our other vehicle is a 1965 model. I personally like this car better than the "good" one. I’ve had it for years; it’s reliable, runs great, and I enjoy tinkering with it when the weather is nice.

But last week, my wife went somewhere in our "good" vehicle when the weather got unexpectedly bad. I had no choice but to drive the old car to work. This would have been okay, except that the car has no heater. To be more specific, the heater takes in heat directly from the engine compartment—where there happens to be a nasty exhaust leak. So when using the heater, I have to leave a window down to avoid asphyxiation. To make matters worse, the fan that blows the heat doesn’t work, so there is not enough air flow to defrost the windshield.

So there I was, driving to work while trying to wipe the fog from the inside of the windshield, and having to stop every couple of miles to scrape the outside of the windshield. It was during this drive that I realized it was time to buy another "good" car.

This would be the first time that I made a conscious decision to go out and search for a practical car. In the past, I had always bought cars on a whim just because I happened across a good deal, or something that interested me.

So I decided to look for a car about 10 years old that I could buy for about $3,000-$4,000 cash. With so many used cars out there, it should be a piece of cake, I thought.

First off, I spent a few days doing research on the Internet—trying to get an idea of what I should look for. I picked out a few models that would suit my needs, researched prices and began my search. My wife gave me a few parameters—don’t buy anything blue or bright red; don’t buy anything older than mid-1990s; don’t buy anything with a V6 or V8; don’t buy a two-door; don’t buy anything with a stick; and most important, don’t buy anything that smells like a dog or has cigarette burns on the interior.

I remember as a kid that my dad would always find good used cars in the classifieds. I didn’t have any such luck. There just weren’t too many of the cars I was interested in, and when I called they were usually sold already. A lot of the ads I saw were from dealers, so I braced myself for the fact that I was going to have to brave the used car lots. Oh, the horror.

Even worse, I realized that I was going to have to test drive lots of cars and shake hands with lots of people. In other words, I was going to be exposing myself to lots of germs.

I reasoned that since there were so many used cars on the market, and since it has become so easy to trade in an old car and finance a new one, that big dealerships might have a bunch of trade-ins that they might sell cheap. So I tried that strategy first.

I basically met two types of salesmen. First, there was the good salesman, who would tell me that basically everything that got traded in recently turned out to be junk. The good salesman understood that I wasn’t going to go over my budget, and would offer to take my name and number in case they "ran across something."

The bad salesman would try a different approach. First, they would start off by showing me cars with no prices marked on them. When I would ask about the price, I would find out that they were showing me cars that were out of my budget. Then they would ask, "Are you sure you don’t want to finance?"

One dealer had advertised a 2000 Ford Focus under "manager’s specials" for $3,998. It was described as very clean, with only 70k miles. I called to see if they still had the car—and also to make sure it wasn’t blue or bright red. For some reason, the sales manager couldn’t remember exactly what color it was, but assured me it "wasn’t one of those ugly colors." He also told me it had an automatic transmission.

When I arrived at the lot, they had to look for the car. The "clean" car they had advertised turned out to be filthy. The interior stank and there was dog hair stuck to the seats. There were a few cigarette burns, lots of trash and other sticky substances that I didn’t care to identify. The engine compartment was dirty—everything under the hood was either rusty or covered in oil. There were scratches on the body, as well as multiple door dings and some hail damage. The windshield was cracked. It also turned out that the car had a five-speed manual transmission. Reluctantly, I agreed to drive it, since I had driven across town to see it. The car wouldn’t stay running long enough to put it in gear.

My dad made the comment that even though the car had only 70k miles, it seemed as though the previous owner had put all of those miles on the car driving from their house to 7-11.

After I got out of the vehicle, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to bring my container of hand sanitizer. I was beginning to panic, not knowing what kind of germs were now lurking on my hands. I tried to make a polite exit, but the salesman—obviously an inexperienced kid who had his name written on a generic business card—insisted on showing me a couple of other cars on the lot.

The car he proceeded to show me was blue, had a V6, and had cigarette burns all over the seats. Before I could say no, he had run off to get the keys. I stood there for a moment, then chased after him to tell him not to bother.

"My wife will never go for this car," I told him.

"If it’s a good car and the price is right, what can she say about it?" was his reply.

This guy had obviously never been married. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or to envy his ignorance. Regardless, it was time to move on.

The rest of the day was filled with disappointment. It seemed like every car lot was identical—the same selection of sad, tired, overpriced cars that had come through an auto auction. If a car was really nice, it turned out to be sitting on one of those "bad credit" car lots—where they prey on people who really can’t afford what they are selling. If a car was priced really low, closer inspection would usually reveal a lot of body filler and new paint—a sure sign of a rebuilt wreck.

Finally, I found a lot with decent looking cars that were reasonably priced—not too high, not too low. The salesman didn’t try and steer me toward any particular car. In fact, he advised to me avoid several higher priced cars on the lot because of problems he was aware of. In fact, he really didn’t seem to care if I bought a car from him or not.

I found a car I liked and started looking for faults that I couldn’t live with. I went home and looked up the value on the Internet. One resource indicated that the car was priced too high; another indicated it was priced too low. I took this as a sign that it was priced just about right. I looked up all sorts of information about the car—reviews, specifications and typical problems. I felt pretty wise at this point, so I went back the next day and drove it more. I drove the car to a large parking lot away from the car lot so I could look it over really well. Then I drove to Starbuck’s, just to make sure that a grande coffee would fit in the cup holder. I even asked the dealer for a CARFAX report, just to be safe.

I was very happy that my search was over. It was getting dark outside, and I was tired. I got in the car to drive home. The dash lights didn’t work. Neither did the turn signals. For some reason, I thought back years ago, to the woman who made the prayer request before going car shopping, and I wondered how she did.

I’m afraid that, at the tender age of 22 months, my son is displaying the traits of a common criminal. I don’t know where I went wrong—he was such a good kid, from the time he began sleeping through the night until recently, when he began engaging in delinquent behavior.

There was a time when he was content to just lay in one spot, kicking and waving his arms, sometimes laughing (when he wasn’t screaming). Then, gradually, things began to change.

Looking back, I can now trace the roots of his behavior to the time when he first learned to roll over. Soon, rolling over turned into an army crawl. Eventually, the child took the next step in his plan of Household Domination—he learned to crawl on all fours. At first, it was cute. Then terror set in, because we soon realized that nothing in the house was safe.

Up to this time, our house was typical of a childless couple—lots of expensive, breakable things lying around. We soon realized that nothing was safe, and paranoia set in. Everything around the house suddenly became a life-threatening hazard. First, it was the cats. Though they once held the status of children in the house, they were now treated as lepers, and their household rights became increasingly cut back. The litter box and cat food was quarantined to a section of the house that required access via several gates and a pet door. They were also shut out of the bedrooms.

During the day, our son was a prisoner in the living room, held captive by two gates. It seemed cruel, but it was for his own good. Next, we began the process of eliminating every possible hazard from that area. Our furniture, which we didn’t give much thought to before, now looked ominous. Anything that could cause choking, falling, crushing or electrical shock had to be removed immediately. By the time we were finished, there was little more than a sofa, a chair and a television—and we were reluctant to leave those in the room. Of course, all the pathways to the area behind the television were strategically blocked. (see footnote)

Everything was fine for a while. But the first deviant act was about to take place—unplugging electrical cords. Few things will make a parent blow a gasket faster than the sight of a baby near an electrical device. I’m surprised my wife didn’t ask me to cut the power to all the unnecessary outlets, remove them and fill in the holes.

Things only got worse after the little guy started walking. Now he was completely mobile, and soon learned to climb. I guess he was just bored, and trying to explore his new ability. He started climbing on the couch, which was terrifying because of the prospect that he might fall off. Then he started plotting his escape from the living room. He would climb halfway up the gate, and just stand there, taunting me. We knew the gates were obsolete when he successfully climbed over one. Now the whole house had to be baby-proofed. Everything had to be moved or put away. The bottom shelves of bookcases were emptied, everything breakable was put away (if it wasn’t already broken), and anything that a child might perceive as "fun" was taken out. As a concession, we gave him an old cell phone to play with. It occupied him for awhile, but somehow he knew that it didn’t work.

Then he began torturing me. Somehow, a child is born with the ability to understand which button on the remote turns the television off. The kid knows that it drives the parents crazy, so he exploits this weakness.

I could bore you all day with examples of my son’s methods torture, but you get the idea. But now, he has started swiping things from me, and when I ask for it back, he just runs away at a very high speed, until he finds a place to ditch the evidence.

Let’s just hope that he grows out of his deviant ways, for the sake of the whole town.

Footnote: I remember as child, for some reason the area "behind the television" was presented to me as an area of certain death. I remember getting yelled at for even thinking of going behind the TV. Looking back, I don’t know what the big deal was, since I had enough sense to avoid the electrical outlets. It’s not like I was going to sneak back there with tools, remove back cover and stick my hand inside. I guess it’s just one of those paranoid quirks of parents, to come up with the logic that death lies behind the television. But, I also remember that televisions in the 1970s looked a lot more treacherous from behind than today’s models.

From January 22, 2007

There is something that has been eating away at me for awhile now. Why are there no "rules of the road" for pedestrian traffic? When you are driving your car, you stay on the right side of the road. So why don’t we have the same rule when we are on foot?

For example, when I’m walking through a crowded mall, and someone is approaching me in the opposite direction, my instinct is to move over to the right. But for some reason, the person approaching doesn’t always think as clearly and logically as me. That person will often dart over to their left, which would be my right, which would throw them right in my path.

What that person should do instead is move over to their right, which would be my left, which would avoid a collision. But perhaps that is asking too much of the common man.

Since the person usually ends up in my path, I’m forced to take evasive action and step left, which puts the other person on my right. But since the other person is not as quick-thinking as me, he or she steps back into my path instead of staying the course until we pass.

With all of this confusion, we act out a sort of lane-changing ballet in the course of a couple of seconds. If the evasive action goes smoothly, both parties are able to pass without too many lane changes. If it’s a close call, and the mall is crowded, I might end up brushing up against the other person. Yuck. Few things are as icky as the experience of brushing up against a stranger in a crowded place. Personal space must be respected at all costs, in my opinion.

So, in conclusion, is it too much to ask for people to stay in their own lane? Can we also develop some additional guidelines for foot traffic?

I would personally like to see some guidelines for opening doors. Since the 1960s, we men have been taught to stop holding doors open for women. But, since I’m so old-fashioned and noble, I will still hold a door open for a woman, even if she looks like a man. Actually, I’ll hold the door open for men as well, but don’t get the wrong idea. I digress. I’m talking about rules. If we are supposed to hold the door open for others, then what are the guidelines?

If I’m going through a door, and there is someone right behind me, it’s obvious that I should hold it open. If a person is 10 feet behind me, I’ll hold it open. But what if that person is still 20 or 30 feet from the doorway? We start to get into some gray area here. Is it rude to close the door, or is it more rude to hold it open and force that person to walk faster? And if I hold the door open for this person who is still 20 feet away, am I being rude to the building owner for disrupting the climate control?

At any rate, I hope to at least get a "thank you" from the person for whom I’m holding the door. Speaking of this, what should be the guideline for thanking a person when there is more than one door? Many buildings have multiple doors that are in close proximity to each other. If I’m following someone into a building, do I have to thank them for each door that they open, or just the first one? If I’m the door holder, and the person following doesn’t thank me for opening the first door, do I have to hold any more doors open for them?

And what about the proper response to "thank you"? Everyone knows that the proper response is "you’re welcome." So why do some people respond with "uh-huh" or "mmm-hmmm"? To me, those responses are pretty lame, and don’t mean the same as "you’re welcome." When you say "you’re welcome," you are saying that you appreciate the other person’s courtesy. When you just say "uh-huh," you are saying "yes, I heard you say thank you, and I sort of acknowledge it, but I don’t really care."

There is also the phrase "excuse me." This is a phrase that most polite people use when they get in someone’s way. In the case of my earlier example, where two people nearly collide into each other, the proper etiquette for the person who caused the near collision would be to say "excuse me." In turn, the person who was not at fault (that would be me, of course) would say "excuse me," with an added emphasis on the "me." This response basically says "hey, you nearly ran over me, but you acknowledged it, so it’s okay."

But the phrase "excuse me" can easily be abused. In my younger and wilder days, if someone said "excuse me," I would say "that’s okay, I didn’t smell anything." But now, I’m above such childish and crude humor.

The phrase can also be abused in other ways. Some people use it as an offensive mechanism. If someone is unknowingly getting in the way, a rude person might say "EXCUSE ME" in a very annoyed tone. That’s the equivalent of honking rudely at a driver who accidentally got in your way. That’s just not nice. And maybe—though I’m taking the risk of sounding too moralistic—what we should really concentrate on is just being nice to each other.

So that’s what I’m going to focus on—just being nice. And If I’ve offended anyone by anything written in paragraph 12, then EXCUSE ME!

From January 15, 2007

Do you ever wonder about those fancy titles after people’s names?

I never paid much attention to fancy titles—until recently.

My wife and I were driving along in the car one day, having a conversation about random things.

"What does it mean when someone puts the word ‘esquire’ after their name?" she asked.

That was an interesting question, I thought, even though it was out of the blue. It was something I had wondered myself, though not in depth. Whenever I saw the word "esquire," I briefly wondered about its meaning, decided it was a fancy title that only rich people understand, and quickly forgot about it. But for some reason my wife was really bent on discovering what it meant.

"I’m going to start putting that after my name," she said.

I laughed, since she was always making jokes. But what I didn’t realize at the time is that she was serious. I figured it out later when I watched her writing a check at the mall. At the bottom, she signed it "Tonya Fasgold, Esq."

Embarrassed, I whispered to her, begging to have the mysterious word scratched out before the cashier saw it. But I ended up starting a minor clash.

"I don’t know why you always have to make such a big deal out of everything," she snapped.

Fine. You can be "esquire," I thought ... whatever that means.

I still thought she was crazy. You can’t just give yourself a title, especially if you don’t know what it means.

I was obviously too uncultured to understand the meaning of the word. I knew that there was a magazine titled Esquire, which I had never read. I knew that there was a Fender guitar called an Esquire, which I could never afford.

But I did see the movie Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, where one of the protagonists liked to refer to himself as "Bill S. Preston, Esq." Maybe I wasn’t so uncultured after all.

I decided to look the word up in the dictionary, but by the time I got home, I completely forgot about it. Not that it mattered—I didn’t have a dictionary anyway.

Months went by, and I never thought about the word, except for the embarrassing moments when my wife would spontaneously decide to add the title to her signature. It usually happened when I went to the bank to deposit checks. I would always make her mad because I would get on to her for forgetting to endorse the checks. So, to pay me back for reminding her, she would send me to the bank with checks that were endorsed by "Tonya Fasgold, Esq."

Finally, after all of this torment, we happened to run across a dictionary, and Tonya remembered to look up the title that she had bestowed up herself. According to the dictionary, "esquire" means:

1. A man or boy who is a member of the gentry in England ranking directly below a knight.

2. Abbr. Esq. Used as an honorific usually in its abbreviated form, especially after the name of an attorney or a consular officer: Jane Doe, Esq.; John Doe, Esq.

3. In medieval times, a candidate for knighthood who served a knight as an attendant and a shield bearer.

4. Archaic An English country gentleman; a squire.

That definition didn’t really help much, other than explain why our attorney had the title on his business card. But a quick Internet search turned up a good definition from infoplease.com:

"an unofficial title of respect, having no precise significance, sometimes placed, esq. in its abbreviated form, after a man’s surname in formal written address: in the U.S., usually applied to lawyers, women as well as men; in Britain, applied to a commoner considered to have gained the social position of a gentleman."

So, I guess my wife was right. If the title has "no precise significance" and can be applied to commoners, then we can all be esquires. Heck, I might even start to use the title myself. Maybe people will start to give me the respect that goes with the title, never knowing that I gave it to myself.

I wonder, do I have to be knighted by the queen to become "Sir"?

From January 8 ,2007

Mission: Christmas Shopping

Primary Objectives:

-Infiltrate the mall parking lot with minimum casualties

-Purchase gifts

-Reach extraction point

Secondary Objectives:

-Do not exceed budget

-Resist temptation to look at pictures of models in store windows

-Avoid germs

Opportunity Objectives:

-Sneak away from family and infiltrate GameStop

-Find clean restroom

-Reach Starbucks

Bonus Objectives:

-Be first in line at Starbucks, beating the lady who would order several complicated coffee drinks.

After Action Report:

D-Day minus 1: During the Christmas campaign, my squad was assigned to infiltrate shopping mall located in the northwest quadrant of OKC, near the intersection of N.W. Expressway and Pennsylvania.

Bravo team was a rag-tag duo with my wife, Sgt. Tonya, acting as NCO in my absence. Though she was a veteran shopper, at times she had difficulty controlling the men under her command. More specifically, she sometimes had trouble controlling the lone soldier in her unit—our son, Pvt. Benjamin, who obviously lied about his age by 16 years in order to enlist. Though I took no action to remove Benjamin from the mission roster, I questioned the logic behind including him. Benjamin lacked proper training, and was prone to impulsive and irrational behavior. I was afraid that Benjamin’s actions would compromise Bravo team’s ability to accomplish its mission.

For the purposes of the mission, I had voluntarily suspended my leadership of Bravo team, opting instead to act on my own as the lone member of Charlie team. My job was to drive Bravo team to the insertion point atop the parking garage. On most days, it would have been a simple milk run, but during the Christmas campaign, the parking lot was a hot zone of enemy SUVs and compact car escorts. Fortunately, we achieved surprise and went unnoticed as the rent-a-cop MPs directed us straight to the insertion point. Along the way, our vehicle was continually cut-off or nearly rammed by enemy vehicles. It took every bit of restraint I had to keep from opening fire.

At the insertion point, I left all my equipment in the trunk except for my wallet and field jacket. I was planning to scout out the area and mark the locations of all the restrooms. However, I had a disagreement with the commander of Bravo team over this arrangement. For some reason, she felt that I should remain attached to Bravo, regardless of the fact that I would have been more effective on my own. Attached to Bravo, I would be nothing but a pack mule, and I would have the unpleasant duty of standing ready to hold Sgt. Tonya’s bag whenever she asked.

For some reason, the sergeant seemed to actually be enjoying the mission, while I couldn’t wait to be done. It was unsettling to be among such a large crowd, and I feared that I was becoming a victim of germ warfare. I tucked my hands inside my field jacket in order to avoid touching anything. I held my breath as people passed too close, hoping to avoid any airborne germs that might be floating in their personal space.

At one checkpoint, there were some vendors who were assaulting people with hand lotion samples. I avoided them on several passes by circling wide and hugging the store fronts—this camouflaged my presence and allowed me to move about at will.

We managed to infiltrate the mess hall, which was crowded and overpriced. I believe the food may have been poisoned. Afterwards, I took up position in Starbucks, where I was forced to wait in line behind an enemy soccer mom who ordered several double lattes. It took all of my willpower and training to avoid calling in an air strike on the position.

Finally, all the primary objectives were secured, and Bravo team was ready for extraction.

Somehow my squad made it back, though our debit card was not so lucky. It was shot up pretty bad, but I managed to carry it all the way through the hot zone and to the extraction point. We are still counting the casualties though, and it will likely take several weeks to record their names in the check book register.

From December 18, 2006

Here’s a column from the Dave’s Waves archive. It’s about when I put on some extra pounds:

I would like to dedicate this week’s column to anyone who no longer fits into his or her clothes. If you’ve ever made five trips through a buffet line, slipped into a Long John Silver’s-induced coma, or thought it was a good idea to eat that burrito named "The Bomb," then this one’s for you:

One thing in life is certain, besides death, taxes and standing in line. It is certain that as you age, your waistline will increase.

Most of us are in denial of this inevitable fact, so we try to squeeze ourselves into our old clothes to the point that we become miserable.

When my wife was pregnant, she had to eat more because she was "eating for two." Following that logic, I also started eating more—my excuse was that I was eating for three.

For years, I wore pants with a 32-inch waist. Thirty-two seemed like a good compromise when the 30-inch waistband became too uncomfortable.

It’s unfair, really. I’ve worn size 9 1/2 in shoes since I was around 14 years old. So why can’t I still wear jeans with a 30-inch waist?

At some point, everyone has to make a choice: lose weight or buy bigger clothes.

When I was in my teens and early twenties, I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and in any quantity I wanted.

Those were the good old days. There was nothing wrong with eating a huge breakfast at Denny’s at 3:00 a.m., then going straight to bed until noon. There was nothing wrong with pizza for breakfast, an entire batch of chocolate oatmeal cookies for lunch, or a steak before bedtime. Indeed, those were the good old days.

I first realized that age was catching up to my eating habits a few summers ago. I was living in Colorado, and I had purchased several cases of Flavor Ice at Costco.

Some people are alcoholics; some are chain smokers. I, on the other hand, can’t say "just say no" to Flavor Ice. It’s not unusual for me to eat 3-4 in a row—sometimes more.

So anyway, several summers ago, the Flavor Ice fetish magically turned my pants from 32 inches to 34 inches around the waist. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

One day my wife pointed out that I was getting too fat, and would have to cut back on Flavor Ice. Though she was right, her observation did cause a blip on my hypocrisy radar. If I had said the same thing to her, I would have been in very, very bad trouble.

Fast forward to the present time. The 34-inch pants had been getting tighter, and tighter, and tighter.

I tried to get by for a while by leaving them unbuttoned, but soon it was clear that I would have to jump up to the next size.

So, like any fashion-conscious 30-something geek, I headed for Super Target to buy some new pants. (Side note: You see kids, there comes a time in your life when you will no longer pay shopping mall prices—and purchasing your wardrobe at Wal-Mart or Target becomes a viable option.)

But a new problem emerged: It was obvious that I was too fat for size 34, but too skinny for size 36.

Apparently, the people making the pants can only count by two’s. Why are there no pants on the rack with a 35-inch waist?

I was tired of being miserable in the 34-inch waist. Those pants were so tight that I felt like the fat Elvis, the fat Jim Morrison, Jaba the Hut, Patrick from Spongebob, and Andy Milonakis all rolled into one.

In the end, I opted not to lose the weight—at least not right away. Instead, I bought pants with a 36-inch waist.

Now I’m walking around with pants that are too big. They keep sliding down and they’re making me look like a really big dork. One day my jean shorts came down a couple of inches, and my boxer shorts were showing. If I had been wearing a sideways ball cap and a few chains, I would have looked like a white rapper.

So I’m faced with a new dilemma. I can either buy a belt, or try and eat more so that I can eventually fit into my new pants. Hopefully, I’ll get back into those 34’s someday. But if not, there’s still a bright side:

There are usually plenty of pants size 38 and up on the sale rack.

From December 11, 2006

Some weeks are easy, and some are just nuts. The past few have been crazy, and I knew that I’d reached my limit when I came home one evening, took off my socks, and threw them in the trash. It took about 30 seconds to realize what I had done, and then I went through the trash to make sure I hadn’t thrown anything else important in there.

Recently, after a long weekend of work—burning the candle at both ends—I stopped at Wal-Mart to grab a few things I needed before heading home. I paid for my stuff and walked out of the store—without my stuff. Of course, I didn’t realize that I’d left my sack at the register until hours later. I felt like a real doofus when I called the store to ask about my stuff. Call it Murphy’s Law.

Speaking of Murphy’s Law, I’ve discovered that there are several apparently universal truths and laws of physics that are always standing in the way of progress. Some things never fail to happen:

-If you have extra money coming in on a particular month, then an unforeseen expense will also occur in the same month. The expense will always be slightly higher than the extra money.

-Old men complain about having plenty of hair growing out of their nose and ears, but not enough on their head. Along those lines, grass will grow up through every little crack in the driveway, but will not grow to fill in a bare spot of ground in your backyard.

-Babies are either hungry, gassy, dirty, wet or sleepy. They are rarely content to just lie there and let you get something done.

-Some people say that death "comes in three’s." The same is true for retail—customers come in three’s. You will either have no customers at all, or too many to handle.

-A cat will lie on top of anything new that you bring into your house. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as the cat has never seen it before.

-I have taught guitar lessons since 1988. In that time, I’ve found that people will suddenly quit showing up for their lesson. After a few weeks, I write them off. As soon as I fill their time slot, they will show back up expecting a lesson.

-If you are in business for yourself, there are a small percentage of your customers who are actually going to cost you money, rather than make you money. Learn to recognize them and get rid of them ASAP.

-A squirrel sitting along the side of the road will remain motionless until your vehicle gets close. At that very moment, the squirrel will suddenly decide to cross the road. Splat!

-Automatic transmission fluid will always find a way out of the transmission and on to the driveway.

-A female cell phone user will always use up her free minutes, regardless of the number of minutes included on her plan. This same rule also applies to all teenagers, both male and female

-Water leaks and plumbing disasters always happen on Sundays, holidays, or in the middle of the night. If you own a rent house, chances are high that the tenant will let the pipes freeze up. If this happens, you probably won’t find out until several days later—or after the tenant moves out in the middle of night.

-Tires go flat only when you are in a hurry to get somewhere.

-If you’re over 30, that group of teenagers standing over there is laughing at you.

-Speaking of teenagers, their music is always garbage, while the music you listened to as a teenager is great.

-And one final truth: If you leave your car windows down, it is guaranteed to rain.

From December 4, 2006

Don’t you just love standing in line? I don’t. I know it’s necessary, and nobody likes to do it, but it’s just one of those things you have to do.

Okay, so I have to stand in line. That’s fine. But here’s a typical scenario that drives me absolutely crazy:

I walk into a convenience store to pay for my gas purchase. There’s somebody at the register serving a customer, but where the line begins is unclear.

In addition to the customer already being served, there may be somebody standing at the sandwich counter. I ask myself, "Is this person next in line, or are they just waiting on their sandwich to be heated up?"

There may also be a couple of guys standing around with their coffee—having a conversation about wheat, cattle or deer season—and it’s not really clear if they’re in line or just standing in close proximity to the line.

There is also another person dangerously close to the register holding a newspaper. Is this person buying a paper, or just skimming the headlines? Are they or aren’t they in line? I also sneak a quick glance to see if they are buying my paper, or the competition.

So I kind of just stand back, keeping an eye on these people in case one of them gives me the "go ahead, I’m just waiting on so-and-so nod." I also keep my money or my checkbook out, so everyone knows my intentions.

For emphasis, I sometimes use the money as a prop, straightening it all out, putting it in order from the largest bill to the smallest, and making sure it all faces the same direction. If I have a checkbook, I repeatedly slap it into the palm of one hand. Any of these acts can be used as a subtle way of saying, "I’m here, I have money, and I need to pay as quickly as possible so I can get the heck out of here."

Another technique is to continually look over the cashier’s head, scanning whatever menu or signage might be behind the counter. This reinforces the fact that I am there for the sole purpose of conducting business—not standing around.

But here’s what usually happens to me. I’m standing there, money in hand, waiting a polite distance from everyone else. While I’m waiting for the "go ahead, I’m just waiting on so-and-so nod" from the people standing around, somebody else walks in and gets in line right behind the customer being served.

For some reason, this person automatically knows that the guy at the sandwich counter is just waiting on his ham-egg-sausage-bacon-cheese heart attack biscuit to get out of the microwave. For now, the biscuit is paid for, though he may pay for it again a few years down the road.

The guy who has just cut in front of me also knows that the two guys talking about wheat, cattle and deer season have already paid for their coffee, and they spend half of every morning shooting the breeze with half the town.

To make things really bad, the line-cutter is usually friends with the person who is reading the paper, and asks them, "What’s in the paper this week." This is the moment of truth, where I find out whether it was good or bad if they were reading my paper. If the answer is, "Not much," I sure hope they’re not reading mine.

After the whole awkward "newspaper" conversation is over, the line-cutter finally tells the cashier which pump they were on, buys cigarettes, orders lunch and purchases several lottery tickets (which they proceed to scratch off right there at the counter). Then I wait patiently as the line-cutter writes a check, fumbles while tearing it out of the checkbook, writes it down in the check register and asks for a receipt.

When the line-cutter finishes up and turns to leave, they notice me, and say, "I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in line."

No problem.

From November 27, 2006

Yes, I love technology.

I’ve about had my fill of these computer-operated customer service phone systems.

But I still love technology.

I hear a lot of people gripe about how complex everything has become. I’m not afraid of that. I like the fact that I can do most of my banking and bill paying online. I like the fact that almost any information I need is right at my fingertips, and I appreciate having it instantly.

But it is getting harder and harder to actually talk to a person. Most of the time, I enjoy not having to talk to a person when I call customer service. I like to just punch in the account number, do my business and hang up. For one thing, I never have to wait for "the next available" computer due to a high call volume. Also, since I don’t have to wait on hold, I don’t have to listen to any "music" (see footnote #1) while I’m waiting. The icing on the cake is that the computer doesn’t try to sell me any extra products or services. And if the computer did try to sell me something extra that I didn’t want, I could just press 2 for "no" and the computer wouldn’t try to second guess my judgment.

But the other day, I actually wanted to talk to a person.

I had to contact one of my credit card companies because a merchant had double-charged my card, and when they did, they caused my account to go over the limit. Of course, you all know what that means: cha-ching! $$$

In fact, the term "over limit" actually has a numeric representation, as is shown by the following mathematical statement:

Statement: if X < Y, then Z + Y + O = F

In the event that the previous statement becomes true, then other variables come into play, such as I (interest rate) and BS (credit score). The previous statement can have a serious negative impact on both of these variables, whether the effect is instant or cumulative.

So to make a short story long, I ended up with a charge of $29.99 that I did not deserve. After all, I’ve played by their rules. I’ve suffered through all of their commercials. I pay my bill online five minutes before the close of business on the date it’s due. It was time for them to make things right.

So I logged in to my account to see if there was an online form to dispute the charge. These credit card websites are pretty easy to navigate, for the most part. When I want to pay my bill, there is a giant "pay now" icon for me to click on. When I want to sign up for an extra service, there is a giant "sign up now" icon. When I need to update my personal information, so that they may track me down if I don’t pay, there is a huge "update personal information" link in several prominent locations. When I want to read over the terms of my account, there is a tiny link buried at the bottom of the page that allows me to read those terms.

But if you want to dispute a charge, good luck. After surfing around their site for a while, I found the form to file a dispute. Of course, there was reminder that it is not their policy to remove charges, and that they are only reversed under special circumstances. I filled out the form, clicked "send" and waited. Nothing happened. No confirmation number, no email notice that someone had filled out a dispute form, no letter in the mail. Nothing. After a few weeks, I decided to call the company.

When I called the 800 number for customer service, I heard the typical greeting—please listen carefully "because our menu options have changed." I’ve been hearing that same greeting for years, regardless of who I’m calling. Do you ever wonder when their menu options haven’t changed?

I listened impatiently to the options. For English, press 1. Para Español presionar 2. For account information, including payment option, press 3...blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...

...To hear these options again, press 7. I kept waiting for the option to press zero and talk to the next available account representative (see footnote #2), but that option never came up. I tried several different numbers that I found on their website and their paper bill, but every number sent me into the same phone menu.

Then the light bulb came on in my head. One option seemed promising:

I knew that I would actually get through if I pressed 4, because there was no way they were going to simply let me use their automated system to stop doing business with them. So I pressed 4.

After listening to bad music while sitting on hold for a few minutes, there was a pause followed by a click and a quick ring. It worked. A man answered the phone. Just by the sound of his voice, I knew I had reached somebody higher up—somebody in a real office, somebody wearing a tie, somebody who was holding a real phone and not wearing a headset. This was somebody with a direct extension number, who probably had a picture of his wife and kids on his desk. More importantly, I could tell that this guy was somewhere in the United States. I like to pretend that he lived in Texas.

I quickly explained the situation, that I had no intention of closing my account, and that I just needed to talk to a person who could fix the problem. "All right Mr. Fasgold," he said. "I’ve credited your account."

Done. It was that simple. To top it off, he even pronounced my name correctly, and didn’t try to sell me anything. After the close of business that day, I logged on to my account from home, and sure enough, there was a credit for $29.99. Yes, I love technology.

So, what’s in your wallet?

Footnote #1: I use the term "music" very lightly in this case. The stuff you are forced to listen to while you’re on hold sounds like it was pulled straight from the Kenny G reject pile. Somewhere, there is a studio where someone is writing and recording mindless smooth jazz tunes that can be played in an endless loop.

Footnote #2: The term "account representative" is actually just a euphemism for the poor underpaid people who spend 40 hours of their lives each week stuck in a cubicle farm and answering calls from angry customers.

From November 20, 2006

The process of moving is one of the worst things in life that I’ve encountered. It’s a terrible experience for several reasons.

First, you always have much more stuff than you think you have. For example, my wife has all kinds of boxes and drawers and piles of junk that needs to just be thrown away. Sometimes I look at it and say, "Why are you keeping this?"

And to be fair, I’m not much better about getting rid of stuff—if I’m any better at all.

No matter how many garage sales we have, no matter how much stuff we throw away, or regardless of how many things we convince somebody else to take off our hands, there is still too much stuff.

There was a classic line in the movie Fight Club that I try to remember and live by: "Things you own end up owning you."

Of course, I’m not very good at living up to this creed. Therefore, I always get stuck moving and storing the same old junk year after year.

For some reason, I find it very difficult to throw things away if they are not broken. I’ve heard one of my friends say that he would throw away anything he hasn’t used in over a year. That must be wonderful.

The other thing bad about moving is having to actually pick up all this stuff and take it from point A to point B. The big things aren’t too bad, as long as you don’t have to take them apart or remove any doors from the house. The part that bothers me is moving all of the little junk from all the drawers. You put all this junk into boxes, thinking you’ll be able to go through it soon and remember where everything is. But that never happens. It usually takes months or even years to find everything.

But the thing that is miserable about moving is dealing with pets. When I moved from Kansas to Oklahoma earlier this month, I had to move a 50 gallon aquarium and four cats. Try doing that with a regular cab, short bed pickup. I had the truck bed filled with stuff from the house, and I had all the fish and cats in the cab with me. The fish were in three containers—one with a lid that sat on top of the transmission, another with a lid that rested on the floor behind my feet, and an open bowl that was covered with plastic wrap on top of one the pet carriers. Each time I turned a corner, I had to hold on to the fish bowls.

Anyone who has ever traveled with a cat can appreciate this. I planned ahead, and took away the cats’ food and water the night before. I kept them locked in a room with a litter box, and told them that they should go to the bathroom at that time. I’d been on the road for about 30 minutes, and had just crossed the border into Oklahoma, when I began to notice a very pungent aroma floating over to me. Luckily, I had brought a roll of paper towels and a bottle of bathroom cleaner. I pulled over, and resolved the current crisis to the best of my ability under the circumstances.

I went down the road a little further without any more incidents. I went through the town of Cherokee and was approaching the town of Jet when I began to notice another odor, only this time it smelled much stronger and more sinister. It made my eyes water, and I could have sworn that I was a victim of a mustard gas attack. I pulled over in Jet and began cleaning up mess number two. This time is was harder, because there were two cats in the same pet carrier, and I had to restrain them with one hand and clean with the other.

Let’s just say that when I finally found a truck stop, I really enjoyed washing my hands. I called my wife and told her that I hope she enjoys her new home, because the only way we are moving again is in a couple of pine boxes.

From November 14, 2006

November 10, 2006

Today I am finishing up my last day at The Gyp Hill Premiere, where I started May of 2004. It’s been a fun ride, with a lot of interesting stuff packed into a short time. Here are some of my favorite memories of my time spent in Medicine Lodge, Kansas, and my job here at the paper.

I first came to Medicine Lodge in October of 2003. My wife and I were living in Alva, Oklahoma, at the time, and I was giving guitar lessons. A guy from Medicine Lodge called one day and asked if I would consider driving there once a week if he could round up enough students. I agreed to come up and meet with him, and look for a place to teach. By chance, he brought me to the newspaper office to meet the publisher, Kevin Noland. He was thinking that Kevin might be interested in lessons. Kevin and I hit it off immediately. Not only did he offer me a place to teach, but also he gave me a key on the spot. He also ran ads to help me find students. That was my first experience with the people in Medicine Lodge.

The following spring, a position opened at the paper and Kevin offered it to me. So we packed up and moved to Kansas. I never thought I would live in Kansas—I always thought it was too flat. But the town of Medicine Lodge interested me—the history, the scenery and most of all, the people I met here.

I remember pulling into town and starting to move the heavy stuff into our new home. Within a couple of minutes, one of my new neighbors came outside and started helping. It wasn’t long before another neighbor had brought us a plate of cookies. This was a lot different from some of the past places I’d lived, where I seldom even met my neighbors.

In March of 2005, our son was born. For an entire week, our neighbors and people from a local church sent us meals every night. Some of them we had never met before. One lady even sent some money to start a savings account for the baby.

That’s the thing about living in a small community—people look out for you. I will really miss my neighbor from across the street. He’s an 80-year-old rancher, and he can fix just about anything. Whenever I was working on something, he would always come by to help. We spent a many hours in the driveway and garage working on cars, motorcycles and lawnmowers.

Here’s another example of what I liked about living in a small town—whenever I needed to work on my house, I could just run down to the hardware store, take home whatever I might need, and bring back what I didn’t need. We always would settle up later.

One morning, on trash day, I slept in and forgot to put the trash out. I was running around trying to get it to the curb, but I was too late. Even though the trash truck was already down the street and turning the corner, the driver must have seen me in his mirror. He kicked the truck in reverse and came back to help me with the trash.

From November 6, 2006

As our community is gearing up for Veterans Day program on November 10, this year’s holiday has a more personal connection to me, and it coincides with a monumental change.

Though I never served in the military, I have always been kind of history fanatic—especially the history of World War II. Last year, I was approached by a local veteran who informed me that the Kansas Legislature had set aside funds for an "oral history project," in order to hurry up and record video interviews of WWII vets before they are all gone. Several people in the community asked me—along with my boss, Kevin Noland—to apply for the grant money and interview as many WWII veterans as we could find in the area. To be honest, the idea was terrifying. It would be a huge project.

But one particular veteran kept pushing us to do it. He came by my office quite a bit, and kept the pressure on. I’m glad he did, because we ended up getting the grant, and have nearly 50 videos to include in our archives. We put a lot of hours into the project, but there were others behind the scenes who really helped pull it together. I won’t list names here, because they know who they are, but without their help this project would never have materialized.

On Friday, November 10, the community will once again honor these veterans. It will probably be the last time I see many of them again, because after the program I will be leaving to return to my hometown of Newcastle, Oklahoma.

However, I will be returning a few times to conduct veterans’ interviews until the project is complete.

The first time I drove through Barber County, Kansas, I was struck by the scenery of the Gyp Hills. As I drove up Highway 281 from Alva, I saw a rancher riding his horse. He waved to me. It was a nice greeting for what was to come. Now, three years later, I was walking down Main Street. A lady passed me on the sidewalk, and as she walked by she grabbed my arm and said, "We’ll miss you." Then she moved on.

I won’t be the only one returning home in time for the holidays this year. One of my best friends is also returning to Oklahoma—but instead of returning from Kansas, he will be returning from Iraq.

My friend is of the same caliber as these old WWII guys I’ve been interviewing. Right after 9/11, he volunteered to serve in the Army. He entered boot camp just two weeks shy of turning 35—which was the cutoff age at that time. Ironically, his birthday is on Veterans Day.

You have to admire these guys who serve in the Armed Forces—whether they serve during war or peace; whether they serve in combat or not; or whether they volunteered or were drafted. They all made sacrifices to some degree.

I would encourage all veterans to tell their stories—whether they served in WWII, Korea, Vietnam or any number of more recent conflicts. Tell your story—write it down, or roll the camera, because once it’s gone, it’s gone for good.

Happy Veterans Day, and please Support Our Troops!

From October 30, 2006

I have a confession to make.

For the past few months, every time I go home to eat lunch with my wife, I end up staying too long to watch her stupid soap opera. Disgusting isn’t it?

I don’t want to watch it, but when it comes on, I end up watching it anyway. Maybe I watch it because I can’t believe it’s so bad.

In fact, I’m amazed that soap operas are still being made in this day and age. Don’t people have a million other things to do that are more interesting? Aren’t housewives too busy to watch that garbage?

In trying to understand why my wife watches this stupid show, I ended up watching it myself. Here are a few observations:

For one, the acting is horrible—absolutely rotten. I think that I could actually do a better job, and I’m terrible as well. Who is auditioning these people? Surely they could find somebody who can act. If they find someone who can act, do they turn them down for being too good?

The writing is also terrible. I’m amazed at the horrible dialogue that goes on. I guess the writers are targeting the lowest common denominator in their audience. (Kind of like writing the news, I guess...)

And what about the characters’ looks? In the soap opera world, is there nobody who is unattractive? Not only is there nobody who is downright ugly, there is also nobody who is just average in looks.

I guess these people live in a vacuum; they are exposed to nobody outside their own little circle of beautiful, backstabbing friends. That explains a lot about the typical plot. The plot usually involves a secret relationship (possibly a marriage) between people who have no business even being in the gene pool. The relationship is completely sabotaged by a number of ex-spouses, hateful siblings or messed up parents.

The soap opera usually takes place in four settings—fancy houses, bedrooms, police stations and hospitals.

My favorite is the hospital. Does anyone ever stop to ask, "Why are all these young, healthy looking people always in the hospital?" None of them look sick. In fact, they still look wonderful, even if they are about to croak.

And what about the hospital staff? They are always at least partially made up of some of the same dysfunctional characters I mentioned earlier. How do these people keep from getting fired, sued or losing their license? And again, there are no ugly people working at the hospital. I went to the emergency room when I was 13 to get a fish hook removed—the doctor looked like Dr. Frankenstein and the nurse looked like Igor (only not as pretty).

I have no good reason why I’ve been watching this stupid show. Maybe I’m driven by the same compulsion that makes me listen to a bad song on the radio, or the same compulsion that makes stop and look when I see an accident. Every character on every show is completely messed up, and none of them have any real social skills. They may be beautiful on the outside, but they are trying desperately to hide the putrid cesspool lurking on the inside.

Are there really people like this in real life? You bet. They either become politicians or celebrities.

From October 23, 2006

Several weeks ago I shared the story of my 19-month-old son, Ben, and his obsession with the word "no."

In case you didn’t read that column, I’ll summarize: The boy really mastered the word. He mastered it so well that he could have been in one of those Capital One commercials (the answer’s always no!). He knows the word "no" so well that he could probably sing Tell Her No by The Zombies (I think the word "no" is sung like 100 times or more in that song).

The problem is, I have never been able to get him to listen to the word "no" when I say it. He gets into something he shouldn’t, and I say, "Ben...NO!"

No reaction. He doesn’t even seem to hear me. He just keeps on doing it.

But I recently discovered a word that he will listen to, and it’s been quite effective. That word is "Eeeeewww!"

It started out when he started to become interested in the toilet. He tried touching it a few times, and when he did, his mother and I would say "Eeeeewww!" and immediately grab something to clean off his hands.

It must have made a lasting impression, because now he points at the toilet and says, "Eeeeewww!"

He also points at the litter box and says "Eeeeewww!"

And while we change his diaper, he keeps repeating "Eeeeewww!" It’s become sort of a game to him.

There was a time when he would pick up things off the floor and immediately eat them. Now, I have him trained to pick something off the floor, say "Eeeeewww!" and hand it to me to throw away. It’s great to know that he is no longer eating carpet fibers or small balls of cat hair.

"Eeeeewww!" has become such a powerful word, that I’ve actually used it to replace the outdated "no." Here’s how I discovered the word’s power:

One day, Ben was playing with the knobs on the stove, trying to fill the house with poisonous gas and kill us all. Without thinking, I yelled "Eeeeewww!" and he stopped immediately. He backed away, pointed at the stove and kept repeating "Eeeeewww!"

Ever since that day, "Eeeeewww!" not only means "gross," but it also means "stay away from that or else."

Though I say "Eeeeewww!" when Ben is doing something he shouldn’t, I think he actually believes I’m doing him a favor by warning him about something that is gross.

Recently, the "baby gates" that we have using to corral the little squirt have become outdated. Now, Ben just climbs over them. I was able to keep him from climbing for a while though by pointing at the gates and saying "Eeeeewww!" But the other night, I slipped, and said "no." Instead of backing away from the gate and saying "Eeeeewww!" he started crying like I had really said something terrible to him. In an effort to stop the madness, I immediately said, "It’s okay—I meant to say ‘Eeeeewww!’"

I figure that I can get a few more weeks of good use out of this new word, until he catches on. I just hope that the word doesn’t have a negative influence—by turning him into a germophobe or compulsive hand-washer.

Finally, someone has figured out a way to determine who has the most friends.

A long time ago—almost two years, which is like forever in today’s fast paced culture—one of my friends emailed me an invitation to join a relatively obscure website called "MySpace." He said I could send him messages if I signed up. Since he was one of my best friends, and was away from home in the army, I thought I’d check it out.

In case you have been living under a rock (or just hate technology), MySpace was originally started up as a way for unknown bands to share their music. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

MySpace users create an online profile to send messages, share blogs, pictures, music and just about anything else they can think of. Of course, it didn’t take long for people to start using it as a place to hook up with members of the opposite (and sometimes same) sex.

But there is another dimension to MySpace—through something called "friend requests," users can add friends to their profile. Each user’s profile displays their total number of friends, and allows the user to rank their top friends. It is a fantastic way to find old classmates and spy on old girlfriends.

At first I thought the whole idea of social networking was pretty dumb. I’m married, have a kid, and I’m old enough to run for president. I hate the thought of wasting time chatting online. I have no interest in making new friends—after all, I already have more friends that I can keep up with. Years ago, I was having a conversation with the same friend who invited me to join MySpace. We came up with a theory that a person could have no more than 75 friends at one time. At least that seemed like a realistic number at the time. We theorized that once a person had 75 friends, no new friends could be added without first deleting a few existing friends.

Now that I’m older, I realize that this theory was completely out of whack. I’d guess that a normal adult male only has time for 3-5 close friends (subtract one friend for each dependent in your household). There is also room for about a dozen casual acquaintances. The "casual acquaintance" slots can also be filled by "limited presence" friends. These are friends that can only be tolerated in small doses.

If you happen to be female, these numbers have to be modified somewhat. There is only room for about 3 close friends, each of whom will take turns occupying the number 1 slot—otherwise known as the "best friend" slot. You will spend 80 percent of your time with the best friend until some petty disagreement causes the friend slots to rotate. If any one of your friends stays in first chair for more than a year, a miracle has occurred—you and your friend should get a prize.

So now, my wife and I have both been sucked into this whole "MySpace" thing. We sit around updating our profiles—adding pictures, graphics, music and trying to accumulate friends. At last count, I was winning. Here’s the score:

Me—70 friends

Wife—54 friends

As you can see, I’ve nearly reached my limit of 75 friends, so act now to reserve your spot. But hurry, because after this column hits the presses, I may be kicked out of the house and denied computer access.

From October 9, 2006

Last week I wrote about my crazy dream--the one where my body was taken over by puppets. I would like to thank everyone who responded; thank you all for your offers, but with all due respect, I don’t believe it is time to "seek help."

My dreams aren’t always dark and disturbing. Though I sometimes play videogames too much, and I have dreams that I’m actually inside the game. But don’t worry; I can easily see the difference between reality and fantasy.

Sometimes, my dreams are a creative outlet. A while back, I wrote about a song that came to me in a dream, titled We’re All Lovely Lads. In the dream, it was just about the most awesome rock ballad ever, and the audience went nuts when I played it. I was onstage with the band, dressed in white spandex with lot of fringes. I also had long flowing hair that would make Fabio envious. I was standing in front of a wall of guitar amplifiers, playing a Gibson "Flying-V" that was painted to match my outfit. The rest of the guys in the band looked almost as cool, but not quite as cool as me, since I was also the singer.

I introduced the song as one that was coming out on our latest album, and I hit the first chord of the song. It went exactly like this:

Then there was a really, really long guitar solo. Then the song modulated into the key of E and repeated both verses. Then there was another really, really long guitar solo. I imagine that on the album, the song would have been at the end of side 2, and just faded out--kind of like Hey Jude.

If anyone wants to play the song, the chords are: D-Dmaj7-D7-G-Gm-D-Em-A. But hear this: I will sue if you perform it publicly without my permission. Consider yourself warned!

I am one of those people who remembers dreams very vividly. In fact, I can remember dreams from years ago, and I like to tell them to people occasionally.

My son and I were playing with a puppet the other day. You know, when you really think about it, puppets in general are kind of disturbing. But the puppet at my house is very disturbing, at least to me. It is a puppet of Lambchop—the character from the children’s television show that was made several years ago.

I don’t know exactly how we ended up with a puppet of Lambchop. But playing "puppet" with my son reminded me of a very demented dream I had about 10 years ago. The dream actually revolved around the Lambchop puppet.

I remember my nephews watching Lambchop when they were little, so that probably sparked the dream.

Here’s what happened in the dream:

It started off like a movie, with a shot of me waking up in the morning. The camera was up in the ceiling looking down. The sunlight was just breaking through the window, making cheap mini blind shadows across the room.

As the camera zoomed in, and I started to wake up, it became apparent that something sinister had happened during the night.

My left hand had been replaced by a Lambchop puppet. I had no control over the puppet—it had a mind of its own.

To make matters worse, the puppet made me do very bad things. I was on a rampage, running around the town stealing and beating people up. That was the mild part of the dream—I did a lot worse than that.

In order to keep my secret and continue to function during the day, I kept the puppet hidden by wearing a large coat with extra long sleeves. Sometimes I kept a little hood on the puppet, like those hoods that people put on falcons or other birds of prey. No one had a clue that I was the puppet guy. At night, the coat or the hood would come off, and bad things would happen.

After several days of committing evil deeds, I hatched a plan to take back control from the puppet. I began fighting it, but it was too strong. I tried slamming it in the door, but that wouldn’t kill it. I finally decided that I would chop it off the next morning before it woke up.

But something terrible happened. In the next scene, I woke up to find that my right hand had also turned into a Lambchop puppet. So there I was, a shell of a man with two evil puppets for hands. I have no idea how many people I killed in the next part of the dream, but it was a lot.

With two puppet hands, I could no longer hide who I was or go out in public. I had to hide until dark. I went into the garage and turned on the table saw with my feet. I was going to cut off those awful puppets, but they fought back. While I could hold my own for a while fighting one puppet, two was more than I could handle. I fought the puppets, and the puppets won.

The dream ended on a really ominous note. It was morning, and the camera zoomed in on me like earlier. Only this time, I also had a puppet for a head. The end.

I hope that I never commit a crime, get caught, and end up on national television. If that ever happens, this little story I wrote will be all over the news, and Nancy Grace will have a field day. After this story is published, I should probably avoid seeking public office.

Now that I’ve told you this story, I’d like to remind the readers that I have no idea where the Lambchop puppet at my house came from, and if you think you see someone roaming the streets at night with such a puppet, it must be someone else.

Recently, I heard the word that every new parent dreads. It’s a simple word—one that a young child often hears from the moment they learn to crawl. Consequently, it’s one of the first words that a young child learns to master—and they even know exactly what context in which to use the word.

That word is "no."

It all started out innocent enough. Someone gave my son, Benjamin, a book titled Where’s Spot. The book is a simple book about a missing puppy.

The story begins with a mother dog looking for her puppy, Spot. Through the next several pages, the reader is asked if Spot is in various places. The book is a kind of pop-up book, and allows the child to fold back a piece of the page to check the places where Spot may be hiding.

Of course, Spot is missing until the last page, and there is a different animal hiding in each of the places seen throughout the book.

For example, the book asks if spot is under the rug. The child can then "lift" the rug and check. The turtle under the rug says "no."

My kid loves that book. Several times each day, we would sit in the big chair and read it:

"Is he in under the stairs?"

No.

"Is he in the clock?"

No.

"Is he in the piano?"

No.

After a few times through the book, Benjamin was "reading" through it by himself—simply flipping through the pages looking for Spot, and saying "no" every time he didn’t find him.

Then Benjamin started looking around the house. He would open the bathroom cabinets, and say "no." He would open the closet, and say "no." Eventually, he would open anything he could find and say "no."

But we made a mistake. At first, it was so cute to hear him flipping through the book and saying "no" in his little one-year-old voice, that we laughed and encouraged the behavior. Heck, it was funny to us.

But pretty quickly, he started to figure out the real meaning of the word. Now, after only a few short weeks, we have created a monster.

"Are you a good boy," I ask him.

"No," he says.

"Do you want your diaper changed," I ask.

"No," he says.

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Now, everything we do with him makes him say no. He refuses to take a bath. He refuses to sit in the high chair. He refuses to get in the car seat. He refuses to eat. He refuses to get in the stroller. When I am busy, he refuses to go to his mother. When his mother is busy, he refuses to go to me. I say potato, he says...no!

I had never thought of it before, but why do small children never learn the word "yes." In Benjamin’s case, we started off so well. He was saying "uh-oh" and "thank you." He learned to bark and the neighborhood dogs and even learned to "give me five."

But there is a bright side—he has mastered the use of the word "no" so well, that I’m considering having him audition for a Capital One commercial: The answer’s always no!

From September 18, 2006

It was in the last place I looked.

My coffee cup, that is. I spent half an hour on Friday morning trying to locate it after it turned up AWOL when I was trying to leave the house.

I was half asleep, and it was deadline day at the newspaper—the beginnings of a typical Friday in Daveland.

My morning ritual involves getting on the computer first thing when I wake up. The computer takes place over teeth brushing and showering; I must find out immediately if I received any important emails, eBay notifications or myspace friend requests in the middle of the night.

I usually turn the computer on, and then head to the kitchen to make coffee while the computer boots up. The computer’s hourglass icon spins around mid-screen, while it’s little Pentium brain goes through the waking up process.

By the time I return from the kitchen, the computer is ready for me to log on. I check the email on my Yahoo account; then I check my email from the office; then I log into my bank and check my balance; then I log into each credit card account to make sure nobody stole my identity during the night; then I read the news; then I read the weather; then log back into Yahoo to see if any more email came in.

Then I log back into my office and send a couple of emails to my boss so he thinks I’m already at work.

Then it’s time to pour the coffee, which has been sending its intoxicating aroma through the house, as if to say, "Hello. I’m the morning coffee, and I’m freely available to you any time."

On Friday morning, I poured a nice steaming cup of Folgers Coffeehouse Series dark roast into my favorite plastic truck stop mug.

But sometime during the few minutes, she disappeared. My delicious mug of streaming delight had apparently vanished into thin air. I decided that the only way to find her was to retrace my steps.

No coffee turned up, so I retraced them again, and again.

Now I was getting desperate—not because I was in any big hurry to get to work, but because I needed coffee to function. It was that movie Catch 22: I wasn’t functioning because I couldn’t find my coffee, but I couldn’t find my coffee unless I could function, and if I did find my coffee, that would mean that I was functioning, and then I wouldn’t need the coffee anymore.

After making several rounds through the house and looking in the obvious places, I began looking in the most ridiculous places—the freezer, the trash, inside drawers and boxes. Finally, I began to imagine the most unthinkable, illogical and irrational thought—that the coffee had simply vanished into thin air.

A comedian once remarked that a person who has just found something they were looking for will often say, "it was in the last place I looked." The comedian then went on to say that if it’s not in the "last place you looked," then you are an idiot.

I remembered that, somewhere in my morning stupor, I had walked outside to put my things in the car. I went out to check the car, but the coffee was still not there. I ran back in, and by this point, I was re-checking places I had checked earlier, like the coffee was going to move around or something.

When I finally gave up hope, on a whim, I decided to look inside our other car. Oops, I must have really not paid attention to what I was doing. There it was, still warm, sitting in the console.

"Hello, beautiful," I said.

"Hello, handsome," said the coffee. "Where have you been all my life?"

"Looking for you," I said back. She was in the last place I looked. But I still felt like an idiot.

From September 11, 2006

He’s back, but is he still Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?

It looks like Tom Cruise is trying to clean up his image. After his approval ratings dropped low enough to make George W. Bush cringe, the actor is trying his best at damage control.

While the rest of the media is busy going gaga over the pictures of baby Suri, I am smart enough to see his plan. Is it any coincidence that, after finally being dropped by Paramount, that news suddenly breaks about his apology to Brooke Shields?

I was flipping through the channels last week, and happened to catch Rosie O’Donnell’s first day on The View. There was a gigantic bouquet of flowers sitting right in front of the camera. Who were the flowers from? Why, none other than Tom Cruise. Of course, Rosie made it very clear who the flowers were from. I guess Rosie didn’t want to make her girlfriend jealous. Speaking of which...

Brad Pitt says he won’t marry Angelina Jolie until marriage restrictions are dropped. "Angie and I will consider tying the knot when everyone else in the country who wants to be married is legally able," Pitt told Esquire magazine.

In other absolutely meaningless Hollywood news, British police announced they had recovered Lindsay Lohan’s handbag that went missing from her luggage cart at Heathrow Airport. Apparently, Lohan was upset because the bag contained a quantity of expensive jewelry and her asthma medicine. Wait as second...asthma medicine? I thought Lindsay Lohan was supposed to be perfect.

In other handbag news, there is actually a company that rents overpriced handbags to people stupid enough to rent them. That’s right—some people are stupid enough with their money to actually rent a handbag. If you are so inclined, you may visit the website for Bag Borrow or Steal (www.bagborroworsteal.com) and rent a Gucci ‘Britt’ medium shoulder bag for a mere $90 per week or $275 a month.

If you are even more challenged in the area of financial responsibility, the Faraone Mennella bi-color quartz necklace is a steal—you may rent it for only $265 a week, or $795 per month.

To add insult to injury, anyone wanting to use this service has to pay a $9.95 per month membership fee.

I don’t know who’s dumber—the people who actually rent this overpriced junk, or me, for not coming up with the idea.

In other dumb and overpriced news, spoiled-brat-turned-pop-star Paris Hilton made the news for her recent DUI arrest. Hilton’s representative insisted that she only had one drink before she got arrested. Of course, they did not define the quantity or strength of that one drink. From my observation, Paris just kind of acts drunk to begin with. It’s also obvious that she never eats, so one drink is probably all she needs.

Oh well, I’ll cut her some slack this time—at least she didn’t go on an anti-Semitic rampage. But will I cut Tom Cruise any slack? The jury’s still out on that one.

From September 5, 2006

This week, I’m doing the journalist equivalent to pressing the "easy" button. Instead of attempting to write an original, and hopefully, thought-provoking column, I’m simply re-printing something I received in an e-mail. For the most part, I hate "forwards," but I found this one funny, and it summed up my cynical attitude over the past few weeks. I do not know the name of the author, and I deleted a few references that might be found offensive. (Disclaimer: the following is a work of fiction—no such Congressional act exists.):

Congress is considering sweeping legislation, which provides new benefits for many Americans. The Americans With No Abilities Act (AWNAA) is being hailed as a major legislation by advocates of the millions of Americans who lack any skills or ambition.

"Roughly 50 percent of Americans do not possess the competence and drive necessary to carve out a meaningful role for themselves in society," said Barbara Boxer. "We can no longer stand by and allow People of Inability to be ridiculed and passed over. With this legislation, employers will no longer be able to grant special favors to a small group of workers, simply because they do a better job, or have some idea of what they are doing."

Private sector industries with good records of nondiscrimination against the Inept include retail sales (72%), the airline industry (68%), and home improvement "warehouse" stores (65%). The DMV also has a great record of hiring Persons of Inability (63%).

Under the Americans With No Abilities Act, more than 25 million "middle man" positions will be created, with important-sounding titles but little real responsibility, thus providing an illusory sense of purpose and performance.

Mandatory non-performance-based raises and promotions will be given, to guarantee upward mobility for even the most unremarkable employees. The legislation provides substantial tax breaks to corporations that maintain a significant level of Persons of Inability in middle positions, and gives a tax credit to small and medium businesses that agree to hire one clueless worker for every two talented hires

Finally, the AWNA ACT contains tough new measures to make it more difficult to discriminate against the Nonabled, banning discriminatory interview questions such as "Do you have any goals for the future?" or "Do you have any skills or experience which relate to this job?"

"As a Nonabled person, I can’t be expected to keep up with people who have something going for them," said Mary Lou Gertz, who lost her position as a lug-nut twister at the GM plant in Flint, MI due to her lack of notable job skills. "This new law should really help people like me." With the passage of this bill, Gertz and millions of other untalented citizens can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel.

Said Senator Ted Kennedy, "It is our duty as lawmakers to provide each and every American citizen, regardless of his or her adequacy, with some sort of space to take up in this great nation."

From August 21, 2006

Like most of you, I’ve been thinking a lot about fuel economy. I guess it’s human nature to not worry too much about an issue until it can no longer be ignored. If oil was cheap and unlimited, and the effects on the environment were not an issue, I would drive the largest, most powerful vehicle I could afford. The sad thing is, this vehicle would probably be 10 years old with 200,000 miles on the odometer. But I digress.

Frustrated by the 14-20 mpg fuel inefficiency of my current ride, I looked up some fuel saving tips from the Department of Energy (fueleconomy.gov). Though my vehicle’s mileage rating ranges from 14-20 mpg, I like to round up and imagine that I’m getting 19 or 20 mpg most of the time. After all, my friends say I drive like a senior citizen.

So, since I’m getting a whopping 20 mpg, how can I improve that even further? Here’s what the Department of Energy recommends:

-Aggressive driving (speeding, rapid acceleration and braking) can lower your gas mileage by 33 percent at highway speeds, and by five percent around town. By my calculations, 33 percent of 20 mpg is 6.6, lower than the 14mpg low range of my vehicle’s fuel economy. Because of my driving habits, I must be getting a consistent 20.6 mpg.

-Gas mileage usually decreases rapidly at speeds above 60 mph. As a rule of thumb, you can assume that each 5 mph you drive over 60 mph is like paying an additional $0.20 per gallon for gas. I rarely drive over 60 or 65 mph, even in school zones, so this really isn’t an issue for me.

-Avoid keeping unnecessary items in your vehicle, especially heavy ones. An extra 100 pounds in your vehicle could reduce your miles per gallon by up to two percent. This is a great idea. I don’t like to haul around a bunch of extra junk, and also I don’t like riding with extra people. For every 100 pounds that your spouse or children weigh, they are costing you about 25 cents for every 20 miles you drive—another good reason to cut out the sweets and get off the couch.

-A tune-up can improve its gas mileage by an average of four percent, though results vary based on the kind of repair and how well it is done. In my case, that new set of spark plugs can increase my miles per gallon by .8—bringing my total up to 21.4 mpg!

-Replacing a clogged air filter can improve your car’s gas mileage by as much as 10 percent. For me, that’s a 2 mpg increase. Now I should be able to 23.4 mpg out of that V-8.

-You can improve your gas mileage by around 3.3 percent by keeping your tires inflated to the proper pressure. For a long highway drive, I like to inflate my tires to the point where they are about to explode. This makes me the only guy on the road getting 24.06 mpg out of an Explorer.

-By using the manufacturer’s recommended grade of motor oil, you can improve your gas mileage by 1-2 percent. That’s another .4 mpg that I’ve gained. Since I always follow instructions, I should be getting 24.46 mpg out of a vehicle normally only capable of 20 mpg.

So I guess I don’t have to worry too much about my gas guzzler for the time being. But I’d still be curious to see how many miles per gallon I could squeeze out of a hybrid—probably at least 100. I should note, however, that I barely passed my math classes in school.

From August 14, 2006

One down, eight lives to go.

We had a bit of a freak accident at our house recently. My wife and I have this cat, who we named "Velcro," and he has been our pet since we got married. He’s not exactly the sharpest pencil in the box, but he’s a good cat (if there is such a thing) and he makes good company.

But Velcro had a little mishap a couple of weeks ago.

Velcro is pretty typical of an indoor/outdoor cat—he goes out, wants right back in, then wants back out, etc. Pretty much anytime a door opens, he thinks he must run through that door, regardless of where it leads. Getting through the door is something that Velcro is reasonably competent at doing—except for the night of August 1. One of our babysitters was leaving the house, and Velcro tried to run past her. She didn’t see him, and the door was accidentally shut on his tail.

It wasn’t the first time Velcro got his tail shut in the door. I heard a commotion, so it went to check it out. When I saw Velcro running away in terror, I knew what had happened. I didn’t get too close of a look at him, because he was moving so fast. He headed for the bedroom, the place he always goes when something scares him. I opened up the front door, and to my surprise, lying in the doorway was the top three inches of Velcro’s tail.

I stood there stunned for a few seconds, because I was trying to process the information. I didn’t know what to do, so I just yelled at my wife, who was getting into the car, "Velcro’s tail just got chopped off!"

I’ve seen plenty of disgusting things in my lifetime, so a small length of severed tail lying in the doorway was pretty tame. But since the piece had been, until a few seconds before, attached to our family pet of eight years, the sight was very disturbing.

I instantly imagined the worst: Velcro running in our bedroom with blood spraying all over the walls. But when I coaxed him out from under the bed, I was surprised to find that there was not near as much blood as I imagined. I took him out to the laundry room, so I could contain the mess and assess the damage. In the meantime, my wife put Velcro’s tail in a Wal-Mart sack and laid it next to the sink. She really didn’t know what else to do with it.

To my surprise, Velcro went straight to the litter box, did his business, and then went to the food bowl and started chowing down. At this point, I figured out that he was probably going to be just fine.

Still, the whole episode kind of freaked me out a bit, so I turned on the TV to take my mind off things. But it didn’t help; everything on TV reminded me of what just happened. I turned on one of those car shows, just in time to see someone running a piece of exhaust pipe through a band saw. I changed the channel to TLC, and right away I saw one of their "life lessons" commercials, where a guy is carelessly using a saw. I flipped the channel again, and saw a guy splitting logs with an axe. I gave up on TV, and went to check on the cat. He looked a little sore, and what had just become the end of his tail resembled the end of a red magic marker—it was like he was "writing his name" in blood every place where he touched his tail. Gross.

The next morning I remembered the tail was still in the sack on the kitchen counter. It really didn’t seem right to throw it in the trash, so I buried it in the back yard. For just a second, I actually thought about preserving it just for fun—maybe I could hang it from the rearview mirror and call it a "lucky" cat tail. But that would have been just a little sick.

I was afraid that Velcro would look like some kind of freaky alley cat with a crooked, hairless, shriveled up stub for a tail. So I took him to a friend of ours, who is a veterinarian, and the tail didn’t even need stitches.

Fortunately, Velcro was born with an unusually long tail. So now, with a few inches missing, he looks like a normal cat. I just hope the hair grows back.

From August 7, 2006

If there’s one thing you can say about those guys over in the Middle East, they sure have a way with words when it comes to rhetoric and propoganda against the West.

For years, there have been stereotypical caricatures in movies, who say things like "I kill you, my friend" or "may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits." These stereotypes are simultaneously oversimplified and exaggerated, and I’m sure they are offensive to middle-eastern people in the same way I’m offended by stereotypes of white men who have no rhythm.

But political figures in the Middle East are fair game. Some sixty years ago, the nation laughed at ridiculous portrayals of Adolf Hitler and Admiral Tojo. Today, when we’re not taking jabs at our own leaders, we can laugh at the leaders in the Middle East.

I really miss the daily briefing of the former Iraqi Information Minister. That guy was a riot. I would like to see a reality show where this guy would write speeches, and George W. Bush would recite them.

I get a big laugh at the cute little phrases that Middle East leaders come up with to describe the West’s perceived alliance with Satan.

Recently, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was quoted as saying something to the effect of "America has to get off Satan’s donkey."

I can imagine a group of speechwriters, sitting around thinking of clever ways for their leaders to equate the United States to Satan in their speeches. I’m sure that the phrases carry more meaning in that region, but to American viewers, they just sound silly.

Before settling on the phrase "America has to get off Satan’s donkey," I wonder what other ideas they had?

In some trashcan in some office in Iran is probably a crumpled piece of paper with several phrases scribbled down and scratched off. Before they settled on "donkey" what else did they think of? How about getting off of his bus, staying off his porch swing, stop mowing his lawn, or stop picking him for dodge ball?

Hours ticked by, and finally the speechwriter had an epiphany...

"I’ve got it," said the guy writing the speech.

"What?" said the guy sitting around watching him. "Did you think up a catchy phrase for our great leader’s latest hate-filled speech against the American roaches and Zionist earwigs who should be given wedgies, wiped off future maps?"

"Yes, I’ve got it, my friend," said the first guy. "America has to get off Satan’s donkey."

"Ah. Brilliant!" said the second guy. "I guess you told them! Now, what do you want to do for the rest of the day?"

"That is a tough one," said the first guy. "Wait, I know, let’s go out into the street, find a crowd of people who are packed tightly together, and jumping up and down shouting nasty things about America."

"That sounds like fun," said the second guy. "But wait, didn’t we do that yesterday? ...And the day before that...and the day before that...and the day before that..."

"Sure we did," said the first guy. "Unlike the Americans, we know how to have fun. But first, let me check my e-mail and grab my black velvet portrait of the Ayatollah."

Further proof that our society has deteriorated into moral decay came in the form of a press release that ended up on my desk last week.

The press release, titled Divorce Caribbean Style, was from a Massachusetts-based travel agency and began as follows:

"For a growing number of people whose marriages have turned sour the cure is a trip to the Caribbean...not for a romantic honeymoon, but for a 24-hour Caribbean divorce.

"Haiti and Dominican Republic, independent nations sharing the island of Hispaniola, grant immediate divorce to foreign nationals. Many clients, especially those already with a ‘significant other,’ prefer to actually make the trip to the Caribbean instead of divorcing in their local courts, so they can share a romantic vacation..."

The same company also sent me a press release promoting the State of Montana, because that state allows proxy marriages. They made sure to point out that a proxy marriage, a marriage in which neither party has to appear, is recognized as legal by immigration authorities. Gee, I wonder how this law could be abused...

Here’s a television commercial that absolutely makes me crazy. It advertises a headache relief product called Head On, and the commercial goes like this:

"Head On, apply directly to the forehead. Head On, apply directly to the forehead. Head On, apply directly to the forehead."

Apparently, I’m not the only one who is annoyed. On the Yahoo! Answers website, someone posted a topic about the commercial, to find out how many people are sick of it.

One person called it "a perfect example of good diabolical advertising, though. You just repeat something over and over and eventually it worms its way into deep memory no matter how much a person tries to block it out."

One woman replied, "Every time that commercial comes on I laugh, and then after it’s over, my boyfriend asks me, "Wait, where do you apply it?"

But this person’s reply best sums up my sentiment: "That kind of advertising should be illegal. I’d like to apply my foot directly to their ***."

I heard that the distributor of Head On is now advertising a hemorrhoid relief product. I can think up a really good slogan for that one, but good taste prevents me from printing it.

There’s been a lot of talk about getting rid of the penny, because it now costs the government 1.23 cents each to produce them. I’ll admit it; I’ll stop and pick up a penny.

A bill introduced to get rid of the penny would require rounding all cash transactions to the nearest 5 cents. The bill proposes that cash transactions ending in 1, 2, 6 or 7 cents be rounded down, and those ending in 3, 4, 8 or 9 cents be rounded up, while credit and debit card transactions would still be valued to the nearest cent. Imagine the nightmare this would cause when you start balancing your checkbook.

If you think no one cares about the penny, try this stunt: next time you see one of those "take a penny/leave a penny" dishes at a gas station, just grab up all the pennies and walk away.

From July 24, 2006

You know, children are a lot smarter than you think—even when they are pretty young.

The other day I was sitting around in the house with nothing to do, because it was so hot outside. For me, being stuck indoors during the daytime is absolute torture. In fact, I would be perfectly happy just living in a giant garage.

But since our son was born, it’s not so bad to just hang out in the house. When my wife is gone, my son and I have a pretty good arr