National Egg Nog Day

A lot of talk is given to the true meaning of Christmas
And I wouldn't blame a single person if they were to miss this
A day like Rodney Dangerfield doesn't get respect
I'd like to share with all of you my seasonal regret

While everyone is talking 'bout the birth of Baby Jesus
Or fighting crowds for Christmas gifts to be given between us
I want to call attention to a day that most ignore
Today is National Egg Nog Day December 24

I've you're looking to unwind
With an alternative to wine
Have some egg nog

If you need some Christmas cheer
Don't go reaching for a beer
Have some egg nog

If you want to feel dandy
You can spike your nog with brandy
Have some egg nog

If you need something to chase
Away that fruitcake taste
Have some egg nog

If you want to gain a pound
Just have another round
Have more egg nog

If your friends sneer and say eww
Then there'll be more nog for you
Have more egg nog

I know many won't agree
So there'll be more nog for me
I love egg nog

Check This

If memory serves me correctly, my last blog regarding the grocery store was in reference to the shirtless shopper.  The last topic was amusing.  This one is most annoying.  As much as I hate waiting behind lazy drivers at stop lights, I really cannot stand waiting behind check-writers in the grocery store.  It's not even about the checks.  It's about the complete disregard for those behind them.  Too many times people are chatting, sorting through either coupons or food stamps, and only once their groceries are totaled to they start writing the check.  By the time the total is ready, the check should have the payee written and the check should be signed.  Only the payment amount should remain.

The express lane, which does not accept checks, is a slight concession to those craving efficiency.  I would propose one step further.  I would propose a check and coupon line.  I understand that people can save money by clipping coupons, but let me play devil's advocate.  People in advertising might disagree with me, but coupons and gym memberships are similar.  Gyms sell memberships, but only a percentage of members actually go.  Coupons printed and mailed in mass quantities, but how many people clip, and how many throw them away?  For that matter, how many people are up in arms because of plastic bottles, but don't blink an eye about junk mail and coupon mailers.  These are not my battles, as plenty of people have drawn attention to the ecological reasons for going paperless.  I just want people to stop writing damned checks in the check-out line.  Checks are for mailing.  And seriously, who doesn't have an ATM card by now?

Good vs. Evil

Tonight, Iron Chef America is showing a repeat from November 2006. I remember this day very well. Three chefs. One non-chef. From the outset, I was torn. My three favorite television chef's were on one show. Two would be paired together. One would have to fall on the grenade that was Rachel Ray. This undesirable task fell upon Mario Batali. On the other side were my favorites, Bobby Flay and Giada de Laurentiis. When the smoke had cleared, Rachel Ray had ridden on Batali's coattails to an upset victory, and it upset me, as well.

I have been unable to let go of this for over two years. No disrespect to Mario Batali, but Rachel Ray represents everything that is soulless and wrong. Giada represents everything that is wholesome and pure. I must take this opportunity to blow off some steam.

As we are two days away from Ray's throat surgery (likely her own body's revolt against her unpleasant voice), I can think of no better time to speak my mind. Watching her on television, it is like she is daring you to despise her. Made up acronyms such as EVOO, saying yum-o, and all of her other peculiar phrases drive me crazy. Ray admits that she is grossly unqualified for what she does, yet shamelessly self-promotes herself alongside experts. Hey Rachel, I'm an internet-ordained minister, but you don't see me placing myself alongside pastors and priests. How can you seriously expect people to take you seriously when you state that you can't even make coffee?

Thankfully, for Ray's yin, we have de Laurentiis' yang. Newton's third law states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, thus we are given an angel--Giada de Laurentiis. Giada's passion for food and life are obvious when you watch her. She does not try to force herself on you, but rather invites you into her kitchen, if you are so inclined. I, for one, am so inclined. She is an innocent seductress, the girl next door, if the girl next door could be a super model. I've tried a few dishes from her show, but sometimes I still feel like she is looking at me through the camera, saying, "I know you're not watching for the food, but that's okay. I understand. Maybe you'll like the next dish." She is an angel, sent to bring joy to the world.

In the end, it is clear that we need both of them. We need Rachel Ray so we appreciate Giada. There is no debate. Don't be deceived by thirty minute meals that take an hour. To quote Judge Smails from Caddyshack, "There are two forces in the world--Goodness and Badness. You need to decide which you want to be. Do you want to be good?" Choose Giada de Laurentiis.

My Golf Game is Like Art

If you've golfed with me you're probably starting to object, but read on.  I've rarely strung together enough good shots to have a really low score.  I'll follow a birdie with a triple bogie.  When you take close to one hundred shots, you're bound to have a few good ones.  Strangers I've played with have made the mistake of complimenting my swing before I strike the ball.  This is their mistake, as the percentages say that the real thing will not live up to the beauty of my practice swing.  But I've hit amazing shots.  Three hundred yard drives with a slight, yet planned draw to set up a short chip for birdie.  Most of the times I try to replicate this beauty it turns into a snap-hook into a hazard.  Such is the fate of the twice-yearly golfer.  But the one or two beauties are enough to keep my clubs off the lake bottom.  Enough to make me, in some cruel self-punishment, believe that there lies within me some speck of talent, and return for another three-digit day.

Art Galleries are similar.  Whenever I go, I inevitably find a few pieces I like.  Some would lead you to believe that art galleries are full of great work, but I say that most galleries are like my golf game.  There are usually a few real winners sprinkled throughout a slew of slices and worm-burners.  The best part of the Guggenheim in Bilbao was the building.  I was bored inside.  Too many dreary Russian portraits.  I like Hopper, Miro, Picasso, Dali, Chagall, and van Gogh's olive trees.  I can't tell you what I like about any of them.  It doesn't matter.  There are usually just enough to keep me coming back.  

So my golf game is like art--because a lot of art sucks, too.

Cheap Bikes

What in the world is going on with cheap bikes?  Every day I see people on cheap, Wal-Mart bikes with full suspension commuting to and from work, etc.  I have nothing against cheap bikes, but am disgusted at the cheap bikes that people buy.  If you wear jeans on your bike, you do not need full suspension.  The increased weight and decreased efficiency of an expensive suspension bike makes it ill-suited for commuting, let alone those with bargain basement parts.  A smarter consumer could get more for his money with a rigid frame, narrower tire design without the visual frills of these cheap pieces of crap.  The sensibility of the bomb-proof BMX bike reigns as a superior choice, except for it's inefficient pedaling height and wheel size.  They've got the right idea in China and Europe, with simple, efficient adult size commuters.  I wonder who the commuters on theses cheap death traps think they're fooling.

Metrication and Dvorak

I know. The title grabbed you. Two words you always wanted together. Their common traits will soon be apparent. Let's start with Dvorak.

You are likely sitting before a computer, and therefore a keyboard. Due to the mechanical limitations of Christopher Sholes' 1874 machine, it is probably a QWERTY keyboard. The QWERTY layout was originally designed with some kind of logic, but evolved over six years to minimize typebar clashes. Nineteen years later Blickensderfer's typewriter used a supposedly superior layout, but it never caught on. Today there is a small movement towards the Dvorak Simplified Keyboard. The beauty of the Dvorak design was that without the mechanical limitations of the QWERTY design, August Dvorak studied letter frequencies and hand physiology to create a keyboard that minimized hand fatigue and increased efficiency. In a society that increasingly values productivity, yet suffers from repetitive stress injuries such as carpal tunnel syndrome, why have we not changed to a more efficient model?

For exactly the same reasons that we have not undergone mandatory metrication. Show me a person who believes that the Imperial System, also known as the United States Customary System, is superior to the metric system, and I will show you an idiot. The United States is slowly undergoing voluntary metrication, but outside the food, medical and scientific communities, it is rare. At what point to speed limit signs get posted in km/hr?

The answer is that it is easier to keep doing things the wrong way than it is to put out the initial investment to make long term improvements. There is the part of me that wants to adopt the Dvorak as my preferred keyboard. Our computers already have the Dvorak Simplified Keyboard layout a few strokes away. I'll keep you posted.

Handshake

I have fallen victim of the handshake that I disdain. We often take for granted what is conveyed in this simplest of tasks. There are many types of handshakes, from the polyphasic shakes, the thumb hold shake used with the bro-hug, the slap and fist-bump, secret handshakes and the classic handshake. Situationally, one usually flows from shake to shake with little thought or consequence. One can usually be forgiven for a shake error, but the simplest of shakes can expose your weaknesses. With the classic, standard handshake, it is an unwritten rule (until now, because I'm writing it) that the web spaces must make contact. When they do not, you are usually left holding a limp, clammy set of four creepy fingers. These fingers bring judgement and ridicule. This is why I was filled with self-loathing and disgust a couple of weeks ago when I accidentally broke my own rule. The four fingers being squeezed were attached to my empty palm, being shook by a superior grip. I'm not sure how it happened, but he could probably see it in my face. I wanted a redo, but you don't get a second chance. I wanted to find another hand to shake, to wash the self-loathing away. Nobody apologizes for a weak handshake. To apologize is to acknowledge that it happened. The best you can hope for is that nobody else noticed. I've ratted myself out. I've admitted a weak shake. Believe me, it will be a long time before it happens again.

Buttons

We all know that men's shirts and women's shirts button differently, based on the fact that men have traditionally dressed themselves, while women were once dressed by others. What not many people are paying attention to, is cartoon button-up shirts. I was watching Family Guy tonight, and noticed that both Lois and Peter's shirts buttoned up the same way. I realize that I'm probably one of only two people in the entire world to notice this, But Peter Griffin wears women's shirts! But before you call him a cross-dresser, sometimes he wears men's shirts, as well. If you look at hulu.com, you will see Peter in a men's shirt on the main Family Guy page, but he consistently wears what can only be explained as women's wear. Quagmire wears what is apparently a button-up without buttons. Joe wears a polo shirt without buttons. Cleveland wears a t-shirt. In fact, I'm pretty sure that most characters are wearing women's shirts. I'm pretty sure that Jay Leno was on Family Guy wearing a men's suit, though.

Tell me again how my mind is idle when I watch television.

Onions

In a supposedly uniform menu, how can one have a Taco Bell bean burrito that stands out as good or bad?  The point of a chain restaurant is so that you know what you're getting.  That being said, taking the classic bean burrito as our example, the make or break ingredient is the onion.  Sometimes there are onions, and sometimes there are not.  Fact - the good burritos have onions.  They supply a satisfying texture to an otherwise uninteresting chew.  So today, in an effort to break it up a little bit, I stopped by Alberto's for a burrito.  Imagine my surprise when I get home and find onions like you'd find on a burger inside my burrito!  Sliced onions do not belong in a burrito, end of story.  Sliced is for burgers, chopped is for burritos.  

I remember a time when I didn't like, or at least didn't think I liked onions, and now it's hard to imagine why.  The Ancient Egyptians worshipped it.  Ancient Greek athletes ate large quantities of onions because they believed it would lighten the balance of the blood.  Roman gladiators were rubbed down with onion to firm up their muscles.  They have been prescribed for bowel movements, erections, headaches and hair loss.  Syn-propanethial-S-oxide can kiss my ass, but in January of 2008, New Zealand created a strain of "no tears" onions.

At this point you should realize two things -- you should educate yourself more about onions, because nobody else but me is telling you, and you should always have chopped onions on your bean burritos!

Changing The World!

My efforts have been validated.  It is said that if you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem, and my friends, I am writing to tell you I am part of the solution.  My little blog has become a vehicle for change, helping to create the world that I want to live in.  Today I was informed that one of my blogs has actually modified the behavior of a reader.  She shall remain anonymous for her own protection, but when I heard the good news, that ten little toes rub a little smoother, I felt like these little blurbs, so often dismissed as the ramblings of a mad man, are totally worth my time.  Sure, it's not quite the feeling of a proud parent who's child just hit the game winning home run, but it's nice, nevertheless.  Hairy noses, shirtless shoppers and shirts tucked into underwear still persist, but we can keep our fingers crossed that a positive butterfly effect is underway.

Go Ahead And Stick It In

The Q-Tip, that is. We've all seen the warnings, telling us not to stick them in our ears. Medical experts tell us that they are unnecessary, and that our ears naturally clear out excessive wax. They tell us of all the wonderful applications that Q-Tips are good for, but try to deny us the most natural usage. I understand that the company is probably just covering their ass, trying to prevent some perforated eardrum from bringing them down. But let's be honest -- earwax, or cerumen, for those of you who are so inclined, is gross. It messes with my head if I don't get it out of there. We've all seen somebody who has that yellow build up down in the canal, and you know how the thought of it right now kind of makes your nose wrinkle. Seriously, I understand that there are more approved of methods for removal, but none offer the daily convenience of the simple cotton swab. Perhaps a little history is in order, so we can feel better about our willfully ignoring medical recommendations.

Q-Tips were invented in the 1920's by Leo Gerstenzang. His motivation was to provide a safer alternative to the method his wife was using on their baby's ears - a toothpick stuck into a piece of cotton. Years were spent refining the product, which was originally named Baby Gays. In 1926, he changed the name to Q-Tips Baby Gays. Just so you know, the "Q" stands for quality, and if I'm going to stick anything in my ear, quality seems like a good choice.

National Sandwich Day

Today is National Sandwich Day. If I were on the ball I would have let the world know earlier, but better late than never. Plan lunch accordingly, and if you are seeking sandwich knowledge, check the link below.

http://www.informationweek.com/news/showArticle.jhtml?articleID=6507138

Give Me Steam

Hemochromatosis. Too much iron in the blood. I didn't have it. I had too much iron on my clothes. They don't have a word for that, but I was suffering. I had left my ironing board up for over a year, routinely ironing clothes before work. People would ask me why I ironed so much, and at times I felt like I was all alone, jealous of those who mysteriously had wrinkle free clothes. Of course I had regularly thrown a couple of items into the dryer. I had gone as far as buying Downy Fabric Releaser in bulk, but I kept coming back to the iron.

Now everything has changed. For six months my only iron has been dietary. I owe it all to steam. My iron would make steam, but not like I needed. I needed crazy steam. Now I have 1300 watts of steam spewing power that make wrinkles disappear faster than panties at a Tom Jones concert. Have you ever tried to iron cargo pants? Miserable. Steam cargo pants? Piece of cake! I love it. Steam is so much more than a Peter Gabriel song. It is broccoli's best friend and can power locomotives over mountains. It can clean your carpets and draw crowds to geysers. It can also mess you up, which makes it dangerous, and therefore, very cool.

Now I only iron on vacation, and the lousy hotel irons make me miss my steamer even more. I'm not going to lie about it -- people see my steamer and they want to use it. It's intriguing. I do suggest you try it. It could change your life...

Ain't Gettin' Any!

Nope.  Not a post about sex.  It's about the "homeless" guy standing at the intersection with the "Please Help" sign, listening to an iPod!  First of all, it's a rechargeable battery, which means you're charging it, which means you're probably plugging it into a wall or a computer, which means you probably aren't that homeless.  If you're pan handling, it seems like it would be in your best interest to look like you've got everything working against you.  Don't wear nice shoes.  Don't wear nice clean clothes.  Don't shave.  Don't smoke.  Don't sit down.  You ain't getting my money.

On the other hand, you can go a long way with a funny sign.  That's a good way to earn a buck.  

Bait and Switch

The bait and switch. It's the oldest trick in the book. You'd expect it from a car dealership. You wouldn't expect it from friends at a barbeque. This summer I headed up to my roommate's aunt's house for a little barbeque, relishing a nice Griller or two. There's an assortment of chicken, carne asada, and hot dogs, but none of the best vege-meat ever. Soon a well-meaning aunt asks if I would like a Griller, and I confirm that I do. A couple minutes later I am handed a small plate with a Griller... straight from the microwave! There is nothing wrong with a Griller from the microwave when I am at home, but if I am going to a barbeque, and the grill is already fired up, then my vege-meat should be getting some sweet grilling goodness. I had been duped. Nothing else about the meal could make up for this culinary injustice. To make matters worse, there were quite a few vegetarians present. Others likely suffered this same tragedy. Don't get me wrong, a Griller from the microwave is way better than the grilled cheese at In-N-Out, but it still rubs me the wrong way. This will serve as fair warning to those hosting barbeques in the future - don't patronize your vege-meat eating friends this way. Give 'em the sweet grilled goodness.

When Less Is Less

At the risk of turning this into a blog about hair, I am going to approach the subject once again.  Usually I am concerned with an over-abundance of hair, but there is a flip side - the over zealous eyebrow plucker.  How does this happen?  Does a person just look in the mirror one day, say "eyebrows suck," and methodically remove all traces?  Does plucking become like a gambling addiction that slowly takes away every thing you have?  Eyebrows serve a function!  Sure, they can get out of hand, growing bushier than a schnauzer's, but they also prevent sweat and even rain from rolling right into your eyeball.  As much as I am a fan of function, I'm also into aesthetics.  The real reason this bothers me, is that it's just weird.  It kind of freaks me out.  The lack of eyebrows is only part of it -- the hideous make-up that some people choose instead can be wild.  Sometimes I wonder who people think they're fooling when they only have a few thin hairs in the area where an eyebrow used to be, acting as dots to connect the lines of bad make-up.  Sometimes less is more, such as fixing the unibrow, but taken to extremes, less is less.  

No I Did Not

A few weeks ago a group of us were going to the Cheesecake Factory for dinner.  The restaurant is located at the mall, so as the hostess is walking us to our table, she asks if we did any good shopping that day.  Without hesitating I said no, that I had not.  Later, as I thought about it, I was disappointed that I had blown an opportunity to make something up.  The hostess was obviously just doing her job, and making light, meaningless conversation, but since I'm kind of weird, I figure I should take advantage of these opportunities with a entertaining lie or story.  

It also reminded me of another time years ago when my dad and I were rolling through a small mountain town on the way back from four-wheeling.  As we were driving through this parking lot, this tall blond woman stopped us and asked if she had seen me at a bar or club the night before.  I felt like a deer in the headlights as I shot back a quick "no."  As she left, I was quickly reprimanded by my ever entertaining father for not playing along, and at least having fun with it.  Well, years passed, and I realized that I had made no progress with the impromptu lie.  Now that it is back in my thoughts, I'm going to work on some good stories for the unsuspecting person that exchanges in pleasantries.  Think George Costanza pretending to be a marine biologist or an architect.

The Shame of the Good Fast Food Employee

Really? This is living up to your potential? This is a career? This is your opportunity? This is wrong. This is selling yourself short. Maybe not for everyone, but if you've got a suit like the one in the picture, maybe you should aim higher.
I'm a little conflicted regarding good employees in fast food jobs. There are those diamonds in the rough that make it worth driving past the close Taco Bell so you get to the one that does it right. There's the breakfast guy at Del Taco that knows my order if he sees my car pull up. These are the people who routinely perform above the bar that has been set by countless others with no ambition. These are the people who you really hope get better jobs, at better restaurants, in better industries, etc. These are the ones you shouldn't take for granted. You can usually tell who they are before they leave. Sometimes they are the kids obviously putting themselves through school, and you are almost happy for them when one day your burrito kind of sucks. Others remain, and you wonder why, and the good person in you wouldn't mind if your burrito sucked tomorrow. Perhaps they are managers, and doing better then I imagine, but I'm pretty sure that McDonald's is more of a job than a career.

A Failed Channelling

A week ago I was in Portland for the Portland Marathon. I was ill-prepared, due to too much weight and too little training, so I was looking for any extra edge I could find. Since I was in Oregon, I turned to Oregon's own Steve Prefontaine for strength. Being short on hair, I turned to what I had left--the stache.

Well, let me just tell you, that channelling Pre through a mustache doesn't work. I crossed the finish line, but without style and without energy. Okay, the stache had some style, but it also scared children and repulsed women. I shaved it off upon arriving back at the hotel. Even with this failed channelling, I still think it was a good idea. If nothing else, it was a chance to sport a ridiculous mustache in a place where nobody knew me. I don't know when I will try to channel powers again, but you can bet you're going to be reading more about mustaches sometime in the future.

Passports

Why is it that your the document that gives you freedom to explore most of the world is so cumbersome and user unfriendly? It feels like a large, flat ball and chain, requiring special pockets or arrangements to keep on your person. There are various security wallets, pouches and belts for concealing them, but all are limited by the size of what they must carry. I prefer the passport wallet that has a loop around a belt, then hangs on the side of the hip, as it is the most natural and concealable of the four passport wallets I own, but even so, one must worry about crunching or creasing the passport. Now that passports are issued with electronic radio signals built into them, it seems like passports could undergo a change in form factor, more like an identification card, or a driver's license. All the information could be stored electronically, it could be more durable as well as easier to carry. Gone could be the awkward moments of reaching into your pants every time you checked into a hotel. It might take away some novelty of flipping through a passport for evidence that you are well traveled, but it's a sensible trade off. All the world got together to come up with current passport designs once before--hopefully they can shrink our current paper ball and chain in the future. Can I get an amen?

Don't Get It Twisted

I work in a world where I am constantly trying to get people to become more aware.  Mostly of their posture and movement, but it varies according to their needs.  Various factors influence my prediction of their success, but awareness of one's body is paramount.  This brings me to a disturbing observation I had the other day at work.  While it is quite common to see a woman's skirt twisting to the side, I was dumbfounded to see a man's pants ridiculously twisted at the waist.  One hip pocket was approaching the vertical smile, while the other seemed on a mission to become a front pocket.  It is quite believable that a skirt could twist to the side without notice, but there are various design and anatomical reasons why this is quite inconceivable for a man's trousers.  To clarify, this man was not twisting off of a mat, or doing anything that would have just twisted the pants.  Far too much time had passed, with ample opportunity to straighten out this most uncomfortable blunder.  It almost made me mad, but I was a little too aghast to settle on one emotion.  So while it may not be as familiar as "don't get your panties in a knot," I'd recommend you don't get your trousers twisted.

It's Easier This Way

Anyone who has read my blog knows how I feel about toe hair. Now, after special inspiration from multiple offenders, we turn to the fellas. I don't feel comfortable telling people this to their faces, so I'm telling the world instead.

The following are lyrics to be read to the tune of Rose Garden, by Lynn Anderson:

NOSE GARDEN

I beg your pardon,
I don't wanna see your nose garden.
It's supposed to stay inside,
Don't let those nose hairs stray outside.
You could clip, you could shave, make those nose hairs behave,
Make them go.
I beg your pardon,
I don't wanna see your nose garden.

I keep seeing things that I just can't believe,
And I almost think that the bad ones need a mower.
I wish some would think it over.
Well, if a sweet-talkin' me could make the world see,
That a mustache belongs on a lip and not one's nose,
It's gross when it grows.
So like a toe a nose shouldn't be so hairy,
Or maybe those two types should marry.
It's your civic duty to inform such men.

I beg your pardon,
I don't wanna see your nose garden.
It's supposed to stay inside,
Don't let those nose hairs stray outside.

Instrumental break.

I beg your pardon,
I don't wanna see your nose garden.

When it comes to your nose everybody knows,
But if this is what it takes to tell you,
I'd just as soon let it go, but there's one thing I want you to know.
You better give a little snip, to that hair above your lip,
There are lots of little little tools to help you cut it out,
And you know what I'm talkin' about.
So like a toe a nose shouldn't be so hairy,
Or maybe those two types should marry.
It's your civic duty to inform such men.

I beg your pardon,
I don't wanna see your nose garden.
It's supposed to stay inside,
Don't let those nose hairs stray outside.

Don't Call Me Mr., Mrs.

I don't know what it is, but an unusually large percentage of people, mostly women, call me Mr. Zak.  I hate it.  It's mostly at work, either from patients or co-workers.  I don't know if it's a desire to lengthen a mono-syllabic name, to condescendingly validate my professional status while still being young or what.  I do know that I don't want people always calling me Zakary, and I don't need the "respect" of the "Mister" preceding my name.  The whole Title-First name thing bothers me.  From Dr. Phil, to the Dr. First Name in tangents of my social circles, it rubs me the wrong way.  Artificially being raised up by a title, but then made accessible by your name seems transparently insecure.  Thus, I refuse to validate peoples neurosis and refer to them as such.  Call me old school, but I'll stick last names with titles, and first names shall stand alone.  

Worst Job Screening Ever

Most of us work with somebody who seems to have gotten a job without having an interview.  The person who must have a job because they're related to the boss, slept with the president, or was offered a job as part of a settlement.  Usually these employees are relative unknowns.  This is what makes Tony Kornheiser's presence on Monday Night Football so mind-boggling.  He seriously almost makes me want to miss MNF.  Nobody likes him.  Everybody knew they didn't like him.  He's had a radio show since 1992, and has been part of the most annoying show on ESPN (Pardon the Interruption) since 2001.  That's effectively a five year television interview before he joined MNF in 2006.  There has to be an explanation.  Admittedly, he gained fame as a writer/journalist, but being a successful writer does not qualify you to sneak your way into living rooms across America every Monday night.  It makes me nostalgic for the days of Al, Dan and Frank.

Speed Limits

The trouble with speed limits is that they only have an upper limit.  We need lower limits as well.  Many signs list the maximum speed, which admittedly seems like a suggestion, but we need to come to an understanding about the implied minimum speed limit.  Conditions being what they may, this would often be unenforceable, but the greatest unpunished freeway offense is driving too slow.  There is a rule about impeding traffic, which supposedly is punishable, but tell me how many people you know who have been ticketed for driving too slow.  This total and complete disregard for the flow of traffic will raise blood pressure as well as middle fingers, and trigger road rage more than waiting too long at a traffic light.  Living in one of the greatest freeway clusterf*@ks in the country, I might be more sensitive to this than most.  But this also begs an explanation of fast and slow lanes.  If we are to believe that the words are license to drive fast in the fast lane, then it is reasonable to believe that the slow lanes are for driving slow.  But the fact of the matter is that if you drive fast in the fast lane (any lane for that matter), you'll get a ticket.  The naming system has lost credibility, and is no longer to be considered reliable.  Granted, the very idea of having one speed for up to four lanes is laughable.  The spirit of the fast/slow lane system is commendable, but for the sake of efficiency and safety, something must be done about the super slab slow pokes.  They say it never rains in Southern California, which is almost true, so other than sheer volume of automobiles, there are few excuses to drive so slowly.  My closing words are the reminder that if you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem.  Get some lead in your foot.

The Dream

Recently someone was asking me if I knew about interpreting symbols in dreams.  Of course I don't, but the internet sure does, so I decided to look up some symbols from my own dreams.  I'm not convinced that I dream often, but I'm quite sure that I remember very little.  But there is one dream that took place some twenty years ago, that after the second or third time, stuck in my memory.  

I find myself on the deck of a pirate ship, near the bow.  Lined up across the deck are all the pirates.  At the cabin door is the captain, complete with a peg for a leg, a hook for a hand, and patch over his eye (seems a little over the top, but he was like a super-pirate).  The entire crew is laughing at me as the captain opens the door.  Out of the door comes a herd of buffalo, stampeding toward me.  The next thing I know, I'm treading water next to the ship, surrounded by buffalo, swimming around me.  These giant buffalo, having just imitated tiny lemmings, are circling like sharks, but are no longer threatening, but probably circle because they cannot tread water.  Perhaps if they were water buffalo, they would be more adept in the water, but they are American Bison--plains animals.

With the help from a quick Google search, I learn that pirates can either represent chaos in one's emotional life, or may symbolize freedom and defiance of authority.  A herd of buffalo signifies tranquility and plentitude.  Neither of these seem to have any particular significance to a happy ten year old, but with these symbols having about as much reliability as the horoscope in the local paper, I have decided to forgo any further research, and just enjoy the memory as an amusing conversation piece.

Encouragement in a Civic

For the last eight years I've been talking about moving away from Southern California. I've made very loose lists of places I would like to go, but it never really mattered how they were ranked. Now I'm reaching the point where I almost have a date set, and while it's still over a year away, it somehow seems real. I still need to research some more, but a phone call from the cuz (barrettbenson.blogspot.com) moved Portland, OR from a nice idea cracking the top ten to the top of the list. I've only spent two weekends in Portland, but it rubs me right. I have more acquaintances than friends there, but it has loads of potential. I am encouraged that I can handle the rain by it's inclusion on frequent Best Places to Live lists, as well as the testimonials from past and present residents. A couple of weeks ago I got to put a mark in the plus column that is not open to the subjective interpretation of others. Driving on the 215 I see an Oregon license plate gracing a Honda Civic, the frame from Beaverton, which is essentially Portland. As I pass, I am pleased to see that the female behind the wheel is attractive, lacking all of the traits of the stereotyped Portland Granola Girl. I am not concerned that she was not in Portland. I am not concerned that there was a dude in the passenger seat. I am perfectly content to rationalize my desire to move to a place I know little about, whether the reasons are legitimate or imagined. I see the glass as half full. I don't have a lot marks in the minus column for Portland, but the one that most people point out first is the rain. But there is a silver lining on even that cloud -- I like wet girls. Viva Portland!

The Glory of Karaoke

Currently many people are debating John McCain's choice of running mate, Sarah Palin. The general consensus is that it will be boom or bust. The same boom or bust decisions are made all over the world in karaoke bars every night, only with smaller consequences. There are a number of factors that determine what is a good karaoke song. Of course, you have to be able to pull it off on the technical level. If I stood up to sing a Mariah Carey song, that's a bad choice. I'd never pull it off. This is amongst the most basic and elementary decision making steps in song selection. I suppose knowing your audience should also be mentioned, as busting out some N.W.A. at a country bar would probably be met with some resistance. But my biggest disappointment is when your local American Idol goes straight for the Top 40. In my mind, this minstrel is so pretentious that he or she thinks they can perform this song, which is already pounding the airwaves, that the audience will appreciate hearing this even newer and improved version. On the other hand, maybe they are only uninspired. Harmless creatures that just don't know any better and are just trying to participate. The real glory of karaoke comes from the forgotten songs, the hidden gems. And before you get any great ideas about singing Don't Worry Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin, Top 40 from 20 years ago can still be dangerous. Helping the Baja Men let the dogs out ten years later is also a bad idea. Going back 30 years, you can sing almost anything you want without the same danger, but go back 40 years, and you have to be reverent of the songs that nobody deserves to sing. Yes, you are allowed to sing Dock Of The Bay, but nobody is allowed to cover Sinatra singing My Way - show some respect. (Props to karaoke bars in the Philippines for removing it from their play lists)
So sing your Tom Jones and your Neil Diamond. Bring Elvis back in the building. Rock some Queen if you can. Explore some Bobby Bare for some real fun. But above all, remember this quote from the Karaoke King, "It's not about the voice, it's about the choice."

Gypsy Love/Hate

I have a love/hate relationship with gypsies. Specifically the Gitanos of Southern Spain. On one hand they have given Spain and the world Flamenco, which of course, is amazing. If I had way more time on my hands, Flamenco is why I would play the guitar. Some of my favorite travel memories were watching Flamenco performances. Thank you Gypsies.

On the other hand, you have the common hustling Gypsy. I'm walking between the cathedral and the Alcázar in Seville, when I am approached by a young Gypsy woman offering me a small branch. I refuse. "Gratis, gratis," she says. Naively thinking she will leave, I accept her branch and turn to leave. But my hand is anchored in her grip, and suddenly my palm is being read. In my limited Spanish, even though she may be speaking Caló, I can tell she is saying I am awesome, and my future is at least above average. Even so, I'm still looking for her little Gypsy friend who might try and pick my pocket. When she finishes, she shows me her palm, asking for money. It's been a couple of years, and I honestly don't remember if I gave her any money or not, but I'll tell you what I do remember. I stuffed that little branch in my back pocket, and every time I saw a Gypsy approaching I whipped out that branch like a crucifix towards a vampire.

So thank you, Gypsies, for your Flamenco, and next time I go to Spain, I'm bringing my own branch.

Olympic Sized Problem

I am thoroughly enjoying the 2008 Beijing Games.  The chance to play expert viewer in obscure sports that nobody has cared about since four years ago, automatic conversation pieces for just about anyone you will run into and thoughts of joining the band wagon and jumping into the pool to be a swimmer.  This also a time to be proud your country, for national pride and patriotism.  As an American this can be exciting.  As a man, this can be more problematic.  The Olympic Games are testing whether I am a better man or countryman.  The patriot wants to cheer for the Americans.  The man wants to cheer for the hot chicks.  Granted, there are events that are void of good looking athletes, but the dilemma lurks around every smoggy Beijing corner.  I try to rise above my more basic instincts and root for a purer cause, which is much easier in the men's events.  Maybe I'll grow up someday.  Maybe not.

Equal Opportunity Enjoyer, But...

I hate it when people ask me what "my type" is. I don't really have one. I like a lot of different "types." I've been accused of having different persuasions, Asian, Latin, Black, White, etc. Good is good. Hot is hot. Nice is nice. You get the idea. I'm not particular with"plain" vs. "cute" vs. "gorgeous," or anything like that. Some things kind of freak me out, such as violent fetishes, tattoos on breasts, armpit hair and such. But there is apparently a less obvious deal breaker that knows no bounds. It is found anywhere from trailer parks to Orange County. You don't always see it coming, and might not see it at all until it's an inconvenient complication. It's simple to bring up as a joke before it's actually discovered, but awkward to talk about once it's there. It's easily remedied, yet it's presence speaks to me of a woman's inner soul and identity. It is... toe hair! You're already shaving your legs, what's an extra couple of seconds to finish the job? I've had some ladies tell me that women don't grow hair on their toes, but I've seen it way to many times to believe I'm seeing the exceptions to the rule. Once it's there, I can't get it out of my head. I've probably just lost interest all together. It might be my way of finding fault with people to rationalize my bigger issues. No--on second thought, it's just gross.

Picking Her Poison

So last week I am leaving work, heading out to the parking lot, and I see a woman walking ahead of me with a black umbrella.  I figure she must be using this to block the sun, as it's 95 degrees outside.  I figure she's not the fancy type, substituting a black rain umbrella for a nice summer parasol, if one is so inclined, but to each her own.  Whatever keeps her from getting her inevitable skin cancer, I suppose.  A couple of seconds later I see the umbrella flopping around, and to my surprise, she is lighting a cigarette.  So now I'm confused, how she can fear the sun and it's potentially damaging rays, but welcome much more certain carcinogens voluntarily.  I did not care enough to ask her, so I will never know.  

This brings me to another point.  Who really gets sunburned anymore, anyway?  People do.  Friends of mine.  And it's funny every time.  I'm so pale I respect the sun, but do not fear it.  I don't intentionally stay indoors between 10 and 4.  I've been burned in the past, but kind of think I've got this whole thing figured out.  This is why I think it's so funny when people get burned.  It's always a surprise--like it's their first time.  Especially my brown friends.  "Dude, I don't need sunscreen, look at me, I'm Mexican!"  Whatever.  You burn.  Watching you squeal and peel was extra satisfying for this pale face.

If you get skin cancer, it's probably your own fault.  If you get lung cancer, it's probably your own fault.  But it will probably be a surprise.  But not to me.

No close-ups

Name a famous flutist.  You probably can't.  But while you think about that, think about this.  A couple of weeks ago I went to one of those big churches with half a dozen huge video screens above the stage.  Everything goes pretty well, nice service, interesting change of pace, whatever.  Then comes special music.  A flutist.  A male flutist.  Big deal.  Until the AV guys, against better judgement take these big screens and plaster this dudes face up on all the screens.  This was probably not a bad looking guy, but the sad fact was, that we only saw his face in flute-playing mode, which is not the most flattering of faces.  The positive:  a big, salt-and-pepper mustache (got to respect the 'stache).  The negative:  a voluntary overbite.  People have those surgically repaired.  Because they look funny.  Even before you do that funny thing with your lips.  

There are many wind instruments that can distort the face a bit, but with varying results.  Trumpet players, with Dizzie Gillespie's iconic cheeks or the intensity of Miles Davis are nothing to be ashamed of.  Saxophone players vary a bit.  Candy Dulfer would look good doing anything, but don't ever disgrace John Coltrane by comparing him to that no-talent hack Kenny G (he bothers me something fierce).  I cannot say all flutist look silly, as Ivana Zahirovic looks alright, and Ron Burgundy rocked the jazz flute to rave reviews.  

In summary, I would suggest to performing flutists that they not take themselves too seriously.  You're already fighting an uphill battle in the style department, so take a lesson from your brother, Ron Burgundy, and goof off a little and have fun with it, because it's hard to pull off the serious flutist.

Binocular Vision

I hate looking people in the eyes. I wish I could just pick one. Sometimes when I'm talking to someone I start thinking about how I'm looking at them, trying to look them in the eyes. It's too hard to watch both eyes--you have to kind of go out of focus like you were looking at one of those 3D posters where you look for the hidden image. So I look at one eye, and then the other. I wonder if they can tell that I'm only looking at one eye, so I shift to the space between the eyes. By now I've usually lost track of what is being said, caught up in my own neurosis.

If you think about the word focus, it is defined as a central point, which creates the dilemma of looking somebody in the eyes. If the eyes were located at the mid-line, it wouldn't be a problem. I think this is part of the reason why we are naturally drawn to cleavage--it's in the middle. It forms one line for the eyes to focus on. It's nature's way of simplifying the task of focusing. Of course this is often highly inappropriate, so you try extra hard to look into the eyes, and avoid the cleavage, taking you further away from the actual topic of conversation. Even without the temptation of cleavage, the eyes present enough of a problem on their own.

I don't know if anybody else has this problem, but I expect there will be at least a couple of people that develop this problem after reading this...

Good luck.

Cheers.

Cheerios?

I just finished a bowl of Cheerios, and let me tell you, it was great.  But there's a catch.  These Cheerios were Honey Nut.  I've had Cheerios without the Honey Nut -- not so great.  Kind of sad.  More like a bowl of Tearios.  

I initially wondered how we could shift to calling the Honey Nut variety just Cheerios, with the cheer implying that it was the good stuff, but that was my youth talking.  Now we have Cheerios in Regular, Honey Nut, Berry Burst, Yogurt Burst, MultiGrain, Cheerios Crunch, Fruity, Frosted and Apple Cinnamon.  That's a lot of bowls of whole grain goodness.  It is now my whimsical quest to try all of the cereals in the Cheerios family.  

This has also got me thinking about Grape-Nuts.  Going to have to let those thoughts waste a few hours.

HDTV Downfalls

I love HDTV.  In fact, I can't go back to standard definition.  The bar has been raised.  The clarity of watching sports is fantastic.  Even run of the mill sitcoms are more pleasurable to watch.  As HDTV was transitioning into the standard viewing experience across the country, many spoke of how it was affecting aging stars.  Many were undergoing the knife, because the sharpness of the television screen was so unforgiving.  

But I am not against aging gracefully, and this blog has nothing to do with something as serious as surgery.  My observation is much simpler.  Most of my observations on this blog are quite simple.  A couple of years ago I was channel surfing, and I stopped by the free preview of Skinemax, as the soothing music and glimpse of mid-day nudity caught my attention.  This was a short stop, for the story I am about to tell you is still to this day, almost as disturbing as the day it happened.  Within a New York minute, the beautiful actress is centered on the screen, arching backwards, breasts pointed to the high-definition camera.  And there it was.  Just off center screen, on 57 inches of what is usually high-definition glory, was the unexpected--a nipple hair!  About an inch long!   I am temporarily frozen, just retelling the story.  Oh how I wished I had just been watching the Cosby Show!

Now, I am not so naive as to think that this doesn't happen, but in the world I want to live in, this is at least remedied far shy of an inch!  Furthermore, if your profession involves nudity, don't you check yourself?  The production company certainly shares the blame as well.  

I no longer let Skinemax curiosity get the better of me.  I learned my lesson.  Please, learn from my mistakes.  HDTV is a blessing for sports, nature shows and action movies, but it too has it's limitations.  

You have been warned.   

In-N-Out

Vegetarians, we must take a stand. We must not continue going to In-N-Out with our meat-eating friends. Come on people. A grilled cheese is really just American cheese on a white bun! Who cares if it's animal style? Grilled onions--I can do better at home! In-N-Out says, "Quality you can taste," and that may be true for their patties, but there is a reason why they are so cheap, and that reason is all they give to the veggies. In the first paragraph on quality on their website, they reference over-processed ingredients while they rave about their beef. Only a couple hype-building paragraphs later, they are raving about their American "cheese" being the real thing, and sponge dough. The shakes are average, and not worth the trip. The much lauded fries are merely a consolation prize that the omnivores try to fool us with, while we all know that Del Taco's fries are far superior.

So please, omnivorous friends, don't patronize me by telling me how good a grilled cheese is in any guise. Six dollar burgers? Please, I come from the land where they have $13 Vege Burgers that blow your mind. Please realize that while I might occasionally accompany a friend to this sub-par establishment, it is not because of culinary waywardness. Maybe I'll enjoy the company more than the food, because In-N-Out kind of sucks for vegetarians.

Who Steals a Unicycle?

Seriously.  I have (had) two unicycles.  Someone lifted one out of our garage.  We live in the most secluded arm of the complex.  It makes no sense.  How many thieves ride unicycles?  Why didn't they take my $2400 mountain bike?  If they would have taken the other unicycle, which is "nicer" I wouldn't have minded so much, but I had grown quite fond of the little cheap one.  I'm a little confused, and kind of pissed off.  I must not publish the rest of my thoughts, lest they later incriminate me for malice and forethought, should I catch the thief.

Shirtless and Shameless

I just got back from the grocery store. I'm doing my thing, throwing stuff in my cart - hey, the produce looks good today, look at those tiny cans of Coke, look at that portly man with no shirt, see how they keep all the expensive razors locked up, the magazine selection sucks. Then I'm in line and I see it again... THAT TAN FAT MAN ISN'T WEARING A SHIRT!!! What the hell? How come that didn't freak me out the first time? He and a shirted buddy were both carrying 24 packs of Bud Light out the door. Of course it was Bud Light. People put on shirts to buy Bass Ale. The positive spin on this situation, is that at least he didn't have a t-shirt tucked into his Fruit of the Looms.

Thoughts on Chipotle

1)  It's awesome.

2)  When they ask me if I want grilled peppers an onions, I'm always looking at the ratio, which is usually about 2.5:1, peppers to onions, so I usually refuse.  But there was one time when the ratio was a rare 1:1, and I said, "yes," and it was great.

3)  The hot salsa is the best.

4)  Cilantro is better than lettuce, and I'm always on the lookout to see if that little cup is full, and then it all goes on my vegetarian burrito.

5)  I try to predict how big my burrito is going to be by the end of the line, starting from the first scoop of rice that goes onto the tortilla.

6)  The quick, casual fold of the tortilla makes the employee look either like a seasoned pro, or a sloppy, careless high school summer worker.  Sometimes I am amazed at how perfectly it comes together, while others make me stare at those behind the counter, almost like I'm sorry for them, except for they just jacked up my burrito.

7)  Is it a big deal that the pork is vegetarian fed?

8)  Chipotle is not health food.  But the hidden blessing of the really sloppy burrito wrapper is the double tortilla, 330 extra calorie burrito.

9)  Steve Ells, the Chipotle boss, is a graduate of The Culinary Institute of America.  Respect.

10) It's awesome.

Another Blog

Hey everybody, my cousin is probably as weird as I am, so check him out at barrettbenson.blogspot.com

Enjoy.

Your Pillow Rights

UNDER PENALTY OF LAW THIS TAG NOT TO BE REMOVED EXCEPT BY THE CONSUMER

All caps.  Sounds important.  Yet so often ignored.  On the one hand, so clearly a warning for the pillow merchant, yet a suggestion for the consumer.  While there is no harm in leaving your pillow tags on a pillow that goes into a case, there is nothing to be gained by leaving this tag on a decorative pillow.  This is a decorative disaster on par with the greatest fashion faux pas!  If you need to be reminded, in three languages, how to wash your pillow, then put the tag in a safe place.  They don't let me write pillow tags, or they would say, "Hey, you've bought the pillow.  You ARE the consumer.  Now take off this damn tag!"  Oh well, they're probably the same people who have the toilet paper coming off the back of the roll...

The Greatest Fashion Faux Pas

Fashion is a silly game. True style is never out of fashion, while what draws raves on the runway is rarely practical enough for common wardrobes. What is acceptable varies with culture, socioeconomic status, personal statements and more. I would never proclaim expertise in the matter, but I speak to the one inalienable truth of the fashion world -- there is never a time or a place, no matter what you've read in Ecclesiastes, where tucking your shirt into your underwear is acceptable. Don't do it. It's wrong. It's dirty. You will be judged. Harshly. I'm sure the offenders don't know any better, so we must educate them. Ignorance is not always bliss -- sometimes it's embarrassing.

Wedding Singers

Friends don't let friends sing at their weddings. Sure, you think they do, buy you're usually wrong. Think about all the people you know. Now think about how many of them are good enough to sing at a wedding. Now think about how many have sung at a wedding.

The nervousness, the crackling voice, the uncomfortable body language. And then the polite applause. It's just about all I can take. Who is doing the favor with this special music? I am specifically referring to the actual wedding, and not the reception singers, but without a doubt, in either case, when wedding music has been memorable, it has come from a hired gun. Months of planning have gone into these weddings - every last detail - to make them go as smoothly as possible, yet it is an unsettlingly consistent oversight to trust that one of your friends is going to perform so well as to enhance your wedding in any conceivable way. I do have one friend (yeah, that's you) who sings at weddings, but truth be told -- I've never heard her sing anywhere. As with my thoughts about gas stations, there are, of course, exceptions to the rules. But I implore you all -- don't let your friends sing at your weddings.

Old ladies and baseball.

There are many things that just put a smile on ones face. For many it is frolicking puppies, playful kittens, children playing in sprinklers, etc. I would like to cast my vote for old ladies at baseball games. My favorite, is two or three women, without men, wearing every conceivable piece of paraphernalia, pins in their caps, keeping score, and enjoying a beautiful summer day. Bonus points if they're drinking beer. I don't know what it is, but I love it when old ladies drink beer. I'm smiling just thinking about it.

Pet peeve

Seriously people--when you are sitting at a stop light, it's not nap time.  It's not time to put on your make-up.  It's not time to finish a magazine article.  It's not time to do anything that requires shifting into neutral while you sit.  You must be ready for the green light.  You must be alert.  Your right foot must hover over the accelerator.  Your left foot should, if applicable, be depressing the clutch pedal.  If you're living in farm country, this might be acceptable.  If you're living in Southern California, this is definitely not acceptable.  The two seconds it takes to re-engage your transmission is just long enough to trigger road rage.  As George Costanza said, "We are living in a society!"  Green means go.

In defense of leaving the toilet seat up...

So, as toilet seats go, I prefer to leave the seat in the down position.  One will rarely find toilet seats up in my own home.  But at work, I often leave the toilet seats in the "up" position, and I feel like explaining why, as it rarely comes up in conversation.  Often when I go into a public restroom, I will find urine, or like today--feces on the toilet seat.  Since I possess the ability to pee standing up, this does not interfere with my duties, the seat is raised, and the duty done.  "Why even bother lifting the seat?" one might ask.  And here it is.  It's so the lady walking towards the bathroom doesn't enter, and think I was the derelict pissing on the seat.  I would rather be considered inconsiderate, than unable to control my wiener.  Welcome to my mind.

Green Porno

If you are one of the two people that read this awesome blog, I know you will love these videos. Life changing.

www.sundancechannel.com/greenporno

Enjoy

Where do they get it?

I rarely see good looking women at the gas station.  I know that they drive, and therefore need to fill their tanks with fuel, but that's where the mystery starts.  When?  Where?  Do they have less attractive people run errands for them?  Does fuel flock to them, as do men?  You're probably thinking, "I'm hot, and I fill my own tank all the time!"  Maybe you do.  This only heightens the mystery.  It is not my mission to see a beautiful women pumping gas.  It is only a consistently confounding observation.  We cannot blame tinted windows, or back road commuting.  We all use the same gas stations.  This is not to make anybody feel less beautiful for pumping your own.  Just think of yourself as the exception to the rule.