I Can Help... Even If I Don't Have A Clue About The Problem

One of the things I thought about including in my "Tagged" posting was how my friends have always counted on me for advice, how I'm a good listener, offer good suggestions and tend to make them feel much better about themselves.

It has been this way for most of my life.

When I was in 5th grade, my best friend T was the class stud, and he had a girlfriend. This wasn't a cute little kid crush. They actually would go into a dark hallway in our school's basement and make out in the afternoon after class.

I could only imagine what was going on down there. Sometimes they talked about "necking."

What the hell was that?

Did that mean they rubbed necks? If so, that didn't sound like much fun.

I was clueless and jealous.

Even though I didn't know what it all was, I liked girls. I wanted in. Or sort of. Once a cute girl C, asked me if I wanted to go into the dark hall with her. I came up with excuses not to. I was sure I would screw it all up. Better not to even go down that road.

But I digress.

After a couple weeks of making out, T pulled me aside one day. He needed help.

His girlfriend, D, wanted more than he was willing to give.

I put a serious look on my face, my arm around his shoulder, took him into the classroom's book nook.

"Talk to me." I didn't say that, because I was 10, but if I'd been older, that's what I would have said.

He looked scared.

"It's okay," I said. "You can tell me."

He took a deep breath. "She wants me to french kiss her."

My God, I thought. "Go on..."

T continued. "I just don't think I'm ready for that."

I nodded. I looked him straight in the eye, the way friends do when there's a lot on the line. "I understand."

"What should I do?" T was distrought.

I smiled, a comforting grin. He knew I had the answer. He knew I would help him see the solution. All of my mother's lessons about sex and being grown up were about to pay off.

"T (actually I used his real name)... She needs to respect you and your body. If you aren't ready to french, then you shouldn't do it. No one can make you do things like that if you don't want to. Tell her the truth. That's all you can do."

It was solid advice. I had done my work. Well, most of it. There was still one thing left for me to do.

I spent more than two years trying to figure out what the f@#* french kissing was. I was too embarassed to ask... but my imagination... oh boy did I have ideas. None of them made any sense to me then, or now, looking back at my 10 year old mind. The french were sexy people, this french kissing must have been a doozy.

I went to libraries, bookstores, watched movies, eavesdropped on older kids. Whatever it was it had to be big, if T was sweating bullets over it.

It was quite a letdown when I discovered it was tongue kissing. Turned out I'd done it before I knew what it was called.

But from that spring day in 5th grade, I knew I had a talent. I could talk people off the ledge, lead them to the light, help them in their times of need... all while talking out of my ass.

I'm It

My friend Lemon Gloria "tagged" me this weekend. It came after she was tagged and had to write six truths and one untruth about herself. In addition to having the honor of being tagged, I also had the brains to pick out her lie.

She can't hold a tune. I could tell just by looking at her. I'm guessing that she is the really fun woman who can't wait to take the stage at karaoke, knowing that her version of "Living On A Prayer" will send people running through the streets for ear protection.

So now about me. Six truths one untruth:

1) I have visited 44 American states. As I child, my mother and I would go camping with her best friend and children. We visited a different region of the country each summer. The only states I haven't been in are Alaska, Hawaii, North Dakota, Minnesota, Nebraska and Kansas.

2) I was once in People Magazine. I was 6 at the time, and one of the subjects of an article that included a photo of me.

3) While I am a liberal pretty much across the board, I do own a gun and enjoy shooting as a hobby. Perhaps it's the boy part of me, or maybe it's from living in Ohio for 5 years, but even though it goes against my general politics, it's a passtime I like.

4) I like all genres of music, but jazz may be my favorite. I love listening to it and I'm trying to learn some jazz riffs on my guitar.

5) The first time I ever "went all the way," we were interupted when her grandfather walked in the room. She moved so fast, he never knew what was going on.

6) I once got lost while driving in a middle eastern desert. When we finally found people, they were carrying machine guns and not at all happy to see us.

7) I am a very good cook.

So now, I'm supposed to "tag" someone else. But since I'm new to this and don't really know anyone else, other than the woman who tagged me, I'm going to wait a bit before passing on the honor.
Can I do that?
Defer the tag?

Award Night

I am not the first person to say this, so I’m not breaking any ground here. I just want to get on record.

To me the Oscars amount to this: over paid pretty people, who don’t work as hard as the rest of us, and have no sense of what the real world is like, patting each other on the back and congratulating themselves. They cheer and cry and make statements and look serious, as if they are as important as their paychecks are bloated.

I love movies.

I don’t think an actor who has worked 8 weeks on a film has any clue what he’s talking about when he says it was an exhausting project.

When an actress puts on 40 pounds for a role, a role that earns her more many than the average American earns in a lifetime, she is not courageous.

And then when I hear a star take the stage and make a political statement, I wonder, has he ever actually had to work an entire year with two weeks or less of vacation?

And let’s talk for a moment about the jewelry and the fashions.

Here are some of the people who can actually afford to buy obscenely priced clothes and necklaces.

But they don’t have to. No, they get them for free. They get so much for free that many stars have come to expect freebees wherever they go.

Recap: They make too much, they don’t have to spend it. Nice!

It’s all ok though, because they realize that part of the price they pay for their lives of glamour is treating fans well, knowing that they’ve given up their privacy, showing with their real-life actions that they’re good people.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Sorry, I had to throw some humor into this post. That’s a good one.

Back to reality.

I know, I’m painting in broad strokes here and there are exceptions. There are good people in Hollywood, smart people, caring and even real/realistic people.

But when I look at the Oscars, my first reaction is that I’m watching people who think they are worth the hype.

I just disagree.

And giving them more television time than the President does when announcing major world policy is just silly.

My name is John...

There’s good news and there's bad news.

The good news is that my workouts are going very well. Only on the very first day did I see the specter of death looking over my shoulder. He was pointing his bony finger at me as I did squat thrusts while holding these torturous weights called kettle bells. I managed to avoid the scythe that day, and he hasn’t returned.

I am very pleased with the project.

On the other hand, I just can’t stop eating.

My stomach is a bottomless pit. There is no end to my gluttony.

Tonight, there is a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints here at work. I am the only person who knows where it is and it really isn’t mine to share, but it is mine to dip into. I could eat the entire box. I won’t because someone else ate one sleeve already, so that only leaves 720 calories for me.

I could do it.

Now, I had a delightful salad for dinner, so that’s not going to kill me. But the rest of those cookies just might.

And then there’s the risk of something else sweet coming into the newsroom.

I’ll eat it! Nothing can stop me. If it’s sweet, I want it and I will have it!

Forget heroin, crack, crystal-meth. I’m an addict. An addict of sweet chocolaty goodness.

I need help.

Son, Do You Like Rubbers?

When I was a little boy, my mother was very active with Planned Parenthood. For a while she was on the board of directors.

That's where my book called Did The Sun Shine Before You Were Born came from. It ran down what sex was, how it made babies. It was pretty straight forward explaining that sex was what happened in bed when mommy and daddy loved each other. It didn't go into how much fun it is, how it can happen in all sorts of places without beds and how there are plenty of times when love has nothing to do with it.

My mother also taught a sex-ed class at a local private school. She'd come home at night with a box filled with replicas of the male and female anatomies, replicas that you could take apart to see all of the pieces that made up the larger contraptions.

In the another box she had samples of every form of birth control available at the time. As a 6-year-old I could not only name what each device or pill was, I could explain how it worked.

Condoms and diaphragms were simple to understand, I didn't quite get how pills and hormones worked, and I thought the idea of an IUD irritating the lining of the uterus was creepy.

Now, there are those who will tell you a 6-year-old is too young to know all of those things. I'm not sure why. I had no more urge to have sex than any other boys.

What I did have, though, was a great feeling of responsibilty. Once I did start having sex, I knew what I was doing (birth control-wise), I knew why to do it, I didn't have any problems asking and using, and I knew I had no excuse for ever coming home with scary news for my parents.

The frankness did lend itself to odd or awkward conversations, some unintentional.

Once in high school, my mother and I were driving somewhere on a rainy day. She asked me "What do you think about rubbers?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You know, rubbers, do you ever use them?"

"Uhhh."

"I guess not, I've never seen you putting them on."

"Uhhm."

Awkward silence.

"I'm talking about galoshes."

Of course, mom, of course.

A Late Breaking Rant!

I never really wanted this to become a place for my political rants. Generally I find other people's political rants quite dull and unpersuasive.

Of course, mine aren't dull and are always right, but I still don't want to burden what few readers I have with politics or religion.

BUT... (you knew that was coming)

Today came word that drug maker Merck is suspending its campaign to make its HPV vaccine mandatory for American kids. Among the reasons is a backlash from parents who say requiring the vaccine takes away their right to teach their children about sex.

Here's how the flow chart works:

Vaccine stops forms of HPV... HPV can cause cervical cancer... HPV can be transmitted by unprotected sex.

Here's how the puritans see the flow chart:

Vaccine = unprotected sex.

I don't know where to begin here.

Once anything is in anyway linked to sex, the conservative, head-in-the-sanders are against it.

Their logic? Well, there is no logic.

Maybe it's their belief that giving preteens this vaccine sends the message that unprotected sex is ok.

It doesn't, that argument is stupid.

If you teach your kids that they're too young for sex or that they must always use protection, getting this anti-cancer vaccine isn't going to ruin your lessons.

Perhaps they think their daughters aren't going to have sex until they're married, and then only with a husband who has never had sex.

Dream on.

Parents will be lucky if their kids don't have sex. You have to double that luck in order to have an abstinent daughter marry and abstinent son.

But what about those abstinence covenants? Great idea, but there are two problems with them. The first is that they don't always work. The second is that the kids who make virginity promises are less likely to use condoms (or any birth control) when they break the promises and have sex. These are the kids who need the vaccines the most.

Maybe some parents think their daughters should be older. Maybe, but the vaccine is more effective if given before the girls are sexually active.

I fear that with this thinking, there's no point in coming up with an AIDS vaccine. No one will let their kids have it. (Oh, by the way, the HPV vaccine has shown that it may prevent anal cancer among gay men, but there's no way anyone is going to give it to a 12-year-old boy)

There is a segment of our country that hears "blah blah blah sex blah blah blah" and immediately starts yelling "NO NO NO," without thinking through the consequences, without looking at the big picture.

They scare me.

New Discoveries

There is a newly discovered film of President Kennedy, taken less than two minutes before his assassination. The man who took the film has known about it for more than 40 years, but apparently never thought it was very noteworthy. Only after casually mentioning it to his grandson did the man donate the film to the museum dedicated to Kennedy’s assassination.

There are, no doubt, historians and conspiracy buffs alike looking at the film frame by frame, to see if there are any shots of Lee Harvey Oswald carrying a violin case into the Book Depository.

Apparently there have been a few other similar discoveries of items originally thought to be unimportant.

In New Guinea, air traffic controllers are taking a new look at a file that’s been lying around for the last 80 years, labeled A. Earhart/Change In My Flight Plan.

FBI agents now think it might be worth checking out a map that’s been hanging on the wall at the headquarters for the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. They’re curious about an X over the Meadowlands and a scribbled note that says “We buried Jimmy here.”

And, several residents of Qandahar, Afghanistan have decided to contact U.S. Forces about the tall bearded man who has been working the register at Osama’s Coffee House.

That’s all for now, I’m catching up on past emails, like the one from my friend Anna Nicole that says Paternity Results in the subject line.

Oh, it can wait.

Tim Hardaway Would Hate My Club

Damn computers…

I’d written the funniest, wittiest post ever. You all would have died laughing.

But I never saved it and it’s gone forever. No point in trying to rewrite it, I’ll never be able to recapture the moment.

You’ll just have to imagine the most perfectly written essay ever… and give me credit for it.

Instead, let me tell you about my first trips back to the gym.

It really isn’t a gym, it’s one of those classic old fashioned men’s clubs. The locker room is mahogany; the lounge is filled with beautiful leather furniture, which is as much about practicality as it is aesthetics. It’s not at all uncommon to see a 65-year-old man, reading the Wall Street Journal, smoking a cigar, lounging on the couch, naked. Imagine bare asses on cloth. It wouldn't work.

Naked was the way everything there was for decades. It only went coed about 15 years ago. Before then, no clothes.

I’d seen the bare asses of some of this city’s movers and shakers poking out of the surface of the swimming pool, much like the tops of humpback whales in the ocean. I looked away before seeing the blow holes.

Heat room, naked; steam room, naked; sitting around reading the paper area, naked; no need for a towel during massages.

Go up a floor to the courts, and all of that changes. One flight of stares takes you from the least formal to the most formal. Don’t get on the squash court wearing anything but white. It’s offensive to the members.

Fat lawyers standing face to face naked, not offensive.

Blue shirts for a game, offensive.

A few weeks ago I saw a friend of my father’s in the locker room. He was, of course, naked. As he walked toward me to say hi, he gave himself a nice vigorous scratch. Then extended the same hand for a shake.

Thank goodness I was headed to the showers.

You Gotta Be Kidding (I am)

I had a couple of topics I wanted to touch on today, but then that great man Tim Hardaway opened his mouth.

As a fellow heterosexual, I will offer my opinions.

If you missed it, here’s some of what the former NBA player said on a Florida radio station.

“You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people… First of all, I wouldn't want him on my team. And second of all, if he was on my team, I would, you know, really distance myself from him because, uh, I don't think that is right. I don't think he should be in the locker room while we are in the locker room."

He added that he would try to have a gay player removed from the team.

Word!

I can’t tell you how many times I have been in a locker room when a gay man has lost control and grabbed my dick. All of us straight men are so good looking that we are always at risk of being jumped by gay guys.

Certainly, if I were in the shower, and one of “them” saw me naked, I’m sure I’d somehow end up in an all-man threesome.

And then there’s the risk of being hit-on by a gay man. That’s how you can catch gay, you know.

There is a gay couple in my building. Believe me, it’s just a matter of time before they kick in my door and do gay things to me. Forget keeping them out of the locker room. Let’s get them out of my building too.

Of course, I am surprised that there are any gay men in a professional locker room. Pro-sports are so manly I didn’t think a gay man could actually keep up with the real men. They throw like girls.

It’s probably a gay conspiracy, just so they can see and talk about how amazing the big muscular athletes look when they’re all sweaty after a big game.

Thanks Tim, thanks for giving me the courage to speak out as intelligently as you…

Asshole.

Getting Back At It

Tomorrow I return to the gym and to the trainer who has proven he can make me throw up.

I spent some of the fall making a half-assed effort at working out and trying to get my 36-year-old body back to its 17-year-old glory (they say you should set realistic goals). Then I traveled out of the country for a couple of weeks, and had one excuse after another for falling off the workout wagon.

Back in my glory days, I was a slim 6’1”, played three varsity sports, and had legs that were so skinny even the football coach was afraid they might snap off.

I was also 50, yes 50 pounds lighter. I slipped so easily into 32 inch wastebands, I think I had cheekbones, my butt stopped the ladies in their tracks (ok, that part I always imagined)

Now, well, it’s a different story. I don’t have a stomach that hangs out. I’m just big. All around big.

And part of my unhappiness is that my mental image of myself is still that of a strapping young teen, so mirrors and photos of 36-year-old John make me very unhappy.

In the past I have tried and failed at operation slimdown.

Perhaps, because I’m going a little more public with it now, I might have more motivation to stick with it.

As if an ass that stops the ladies dead in their track isn’t enough.

Wish me luck.

It's All About The Comma or It's All About, The Comma

Today my friends, I present my favorite news story of the week. As I stared at it, I realized it also holds an important lesson for all of you kids who don’t think punctuation matters.

It comes from California, in the form of a 911 transcript.

I’m sure many of you have been following the story of Walter the Wandering Wallaby. He escaped from his wallaby sitter's home last week and has been surviving the mean streets of Fontana ever since.

Caller: "Yes there is a big kangaroo here on the street."

911: "I'm sorry, I need you to… what's going on there?"

Caller: "A large kangaroo, lady. We are looking at it. He's right here in our street."

911: "What do you mean a kangaroo lady? That doesn't make sense."

Caller: "It's large kangaroo in our street, right there."

Saddly, part of what makes the 911 call so special are the tones of both the caller and the operator. The caller is pissed that she has to keep repeating that it's a kangaroo (perhaps if she'd recognized it as a wallaby it would have been a smoother conversation.) The operator can't figure out what the caller is talking about and, because you can't see a spoken comma floating out there, can't figure out what a kangaroo lady is.

It reminds me of a written example of why commas are so important. As I recall, this came from one of the strong female teachers in my life:

A woman without her man is nothing. (that's the wrong, comma free version)

A woman, without her, man is nothing.

See the difference?

It is important, because I’m sure police respond much differently when the call is for a wild kangaroo lady.

Loose Ends

Cosmo is more like himself today. The doctor prescribed a heavy duty NSAID and maybe it’s working. Tomorrow he goes to his regular vet for a more detailed examination, and then he’s going to stay with MB for a bit. He’s happy and not at all uncomfortable.

Who takes a 5-year-old to the animal ER? Actually, that’s not a fair question because I know that sometimes you have no choice in child care. But, to take the little boy into the consult with the vet seems cruel. Everyone in the waiting room heard him scream and yell that he didn’t want Lucky to die. I’m not a fan of glossing over life for kids, but is it so bad to tell the little boy that Lucky has to go to a farm?

MB and her partner are having, or getting a baby. They’re adopting from overseas and are far along in the process. I had been expecting them to ask me for a sample. All of that practice for nothing.

Some college students around here are in hot water for hiring a hooker, a hooker who is HIV positive. Lots of things to touch on here, but my first question is why college kids need to hire a hooker. Is there any period of life when sex is more available than in college?

And this gets me to my final topic which came up over the weekend. When I’m President of the World, one of my first decrees will be that every school have barrels of condoms by every door. The students will learn sex-ed, and be told that they probably aren’t ready to have sex, and they really should wait. But we all know better, and on their way out the door they should be able to fill their pockets with rubbers, with no embarrassment. Teens have sex, and that will never stop. Teen pregnancy and STD’s can be prevented though. And while we’re at it, get the girls to line up for the HPV vaccine. It’s not going to make them have sex, it’s not going to tell them it’s ok to have sex, but it’s going to protect the ones who were going to have sex anyway from a tough price to pay, cancer. I have many female friends who have a little extra angst when they get their annual pap's, all because of an easily transmitted virus they got in their younger days. Imagine how much easier they might sleep if they'd had a vaccine.

Poor Doggie

Cosmo is sick… and we don’t know why. It started yesterday with an odd limp. This morning when he woke up, he had trouble walking. It was like he was drunk.

I called my ex-wife, MB, and we took him to the doggie emergency room.

MB and I were married for 5 years, we've been divorced for the same amount of time. For the first year or so after we split up, we didn't speak, There was a lot of hurt and anger. Our joint custody of Cosmo is one of the reasons we reestablished our friendship. Then we remembered that we do actually like each other.

It’s sort of like a brotherly/sisterly affection now. I have zero romantic feelings towards her and I have no doubt that she lacks that same feeling towards me, but it is still a lot of fun hanging out .

Back when we were married, we had just finished a phone conversation while I was at work. A coworker walked up to me and said she knew I’d been talking to my wife. She knew, because she said she never saw me smile or laugh as much as I did when I was talking to MB.

That remains true today. As we sat in the ER, waiting for a couple of hours, we cracked each other up.

We talked about the hard issue too, of what to do with a 9-year-old bullmastiff who might have a serious problem. That wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t terrible. It was comforting dealing with it together.

At the end of it all, there was no official diagnosis on Cosmo. It could be something simple like a neck injury or something not so simple like a brain tumor. Or it could be anything in between.

Quite a range.

Right now he’s sleeping on his bed and he seems comfortable.

Today, I'll Pass

I was going to write a witty, albeit mean little something about Anna Nicole. Not because I have any reason to care strongly about her either way. No, I was going to do it because being mean is so easy.

Taking pot shots at a celebrity like her would have required no thought, no crafting, really no clever ability, certainly no creativity.

And that is the reason I think so many people like to be mean.

Mean and offensive comments always grab attention, they get a big laugh, and they require no real brain power to create.

It's the like making the choice to walk through this word a happy person or a grumpy person. It is a piece of cake to be grumpy. And complaining, oh it's so much fun when you're with a group of people, and so easy.

Sucking it up though, and trying to have a bright outlook, even in the face of a bad day takes a lot of effort. It can even be exhausting.

But, having lived my share of grumpy days, I now think the effort of trying to be in a good mood is worth it.

And I think I will feel better about this post by skipping the softballs that Anna Nicole has tossed up there through her life.

That's Crazy!

I'd really like to work for NASA.

It seems like the organization really treats its employees well.

My boss has always been there for me when I needed a helping hand. She let me have time off when my divorce wore me out. When she has beaten me down for a mistake, she has always picked me up and sent me out on a positive note.

Still, if I were to drive 900 miles, wearing a diaper, with a BB gun, a wig and a plan to abduct and perhaps kill another television producer, I'm not so sure she'd fly to pick me up from my court hearing and then hold a news conference expressing such deep concern, not for whomever it was I was going to whack with my new steel mallet, but for me.

We cover stories of men and women going bonkers all the time. True, they don't all slip into a pair of Depends to carry out their attacks, but they go from being people who hung out with neighbors, attended PTA meetings, and led church groups, to killers or attempted killers. And when they try to kill their husbands, wives, rivals, they don't get a ton of sympathy.

So what makes our astronaut so special?

Yes, it's clear that something went terribly wrong with her, but can't you say that about a lot of people who do bad things?

What about the California woman who was arrested this week for plotting to kill her husband... using wasps! Police say she was going to fill his car with them, and he's allergic. Her coworkers aren't rallying on her behalf, talking about how sad they are for her. No one has held a news conference to talk about how they want to figure out how things went wrong in her life. But something must have made her dig into the wasp nest.

Face it, no one ever cared why O.J. snapped, except, I guess, for the guy who drove the Bronco, and maybe Ron the waiter who was probably yelling, "O.J., why the hell are you doing this?"

The astronaut plot is a great story, with all of the key elements, sex, violence, rubber tubing and space travel.

I just don't get why she's getting so much sympathy.

A Broken Contract

My animals and I have a very basic living agreement. They each take care of certain responsibilities and in return get eternal love, food, shelter, Cosmo gets a couch and Juliet gets her Egyptian cotton sheets.

Juliet’s sole job is to keep the apartment critter free. She does it well. Other apartments in my little building have reported mice. One once made a wrong turn and came into my kitchen. Juliet got him, chopped his head off and put it on a spike as a warning to all other mice. That was 4 years ago and no other mouse has ever ventured into apartment 1F.

She keeps her skills sharp with the occasional bug on the wall. Her most impressive talent is how she can catch a fly midair between her paws. She likes to stun the insect and play with it for a while, before calling me into the room to show me her handiwork.

Cosmo’s job is to defend the homestead. He’s 150 pounds and his bark rattles the windows. When he hears an odd noise in the hall his ears perk up and he makes enough noise to send any would-be intruders on their way. After a walk, he will stand at the top of my building’s front steps and assess the situation on the street. If there are strangers or shady looking people, he will hold his ground with a ferocious look on his face until the threat has passed.

A few weeks ago he barked at a biker who was cruising down the sidewalk at 2am. The guy was so startled he crashed into a parked car. I pretended to scold Cosmo, but he knew there were extra biscuits for him once the guy was out of sight.

Last night, I got home from work shortly after midnight.

It was 13 degrees out and windy.

The lock on my building’s front door had broken last week, and they replaced it yesterday, apparently with a new lock that would accept the old key.

My old key didn’t work.

My first attempt to get into the building was to ring the bells of some of the neighbors I know. I was disappointed, but I also understood, when not a single one of them trudged downstairs to the front door to see who was a-knocking at 12:10am.

Plan two was a break-in. And one note here, I could be a burglar. I have always been good at forcing entry into locked places.

The problem with the break-in was the fear of being mauled by Cosmo. Like I said, it was cold, I had a hat and a scarf on. I looked like a burglar.

But it was either that or sleep in my car.

So, like Spiderman, I scaled across the front of my building to a window I know I could jimmy. Like Magnum, I forced the screen out of its track and picked the window lock open. It was a very loud process.

Then, like T.J. Hooker, I hurled my body through the window, did a somersault and sprung up behind a couch, ready to defend myself from my massive watchdog.

The only sound was a long, annoyed sigh. Then a weary pair of eyes popped over the top of the couch.

Cosmo took one look at me, snorted, and went back to sleep.

Super Confessions

I was invited to three different Superbowl parties and one “hang out with a couple of friends” event. I was pleased to have been on that many guest lists, partly because I was able to use one event as a reason not to go to another, when in fact, I stayed at home.

My dad thinks I went out with my friend Mike. Mike thinks I was at the Kauffman party, the Kauffmans think I was with my dad.

It worked out well, because I had chores to catch up on, and my own new HDTV.

It also led to one of the great discoveries of our time.

Sick of waiting in lines at the supermarket? Do your shopping during the Superbowl!

During the middle of the second quarter I dashed off to the Super Fresh. I needed to do one of those semi-annual massive shopping trips, and I was willing to miss Prince. I figured, even if his breast popped out, I’d be able to see it on youtube.

Timing is everything, and I nailed it. My car has Sirius radio, so I listened to the game as I drove and got to the store just as halftime was beginning.

My first fear was that Super Fresh was closed.

No, it wasn’t, there just weren’t any customers, except for me.

Not one little old lady trying to reach soup from the top shelf, no one pretending to know whether a mellon was ripe, no clean-ups on aisle 5, no children crying because they couldn't have Cocoa Puffs.

I could leave my cart blocking the dairy section and feel no guilt, I could even throw long passes from the bread department into my cart, with more accuracy than Rex Grossman.

When I was finished gathering, my cart was overflowing.

So I did what everyone has always wanted to do with a full cart... I went through the express lane. It was likely the first time that register has had a $192.00 purchase.

All four of the store employees came to help. One ran my items over the scanner, one pushed them down the lane, two others bagged for me.

I was out just as Chicago kicked off to begin the second half.

It was just Super!

No Wonder She Smiles

There is apparently much more to Lily Allen than I realized.

A co-worker of mine just forwarded me this link to a recent article on how the singer likes to spend her time while she's on the road.

I guess it's one way of learning local culture.

It's Making My Head Hurt

A few days ago I wrote that there is no bad music.

I may have overstated it.

Several months ago, on a flight from Egypt to the U.S. I had a layover in Frankfurt. The plane sat on the runway for about an hour and a half, for whatever reason that planes just sit there. It was hot and we were tired and sitting on coach on Lufthansa isn’t all that comfortable.

While we waited, the airline pumped the same song through the speakers, over and over again. It wasn’t very loud, just enough volume to hear what sounded like an off key European singer repeating the same annoying melody over and over again. We couldn’t hear the words, just the tune. Just the annoying tune.

Again.

And again.

For the entire time we sat on the runway.

That was back in October.

The song has made its way stateside.

Last night’s musical guest on SNL was a woman named Lily Allen. I’d never heard of her so I turned down the volume, I couldn’t hear the words, just the tune.

All of a sudden this sense of tension built up inside of me. I couldn’t help but wonder when we were going to takeoff, why the air was so stagnant, why I was so uncomfortable! Odd thoughts for someone sitting on a comfy couch in his own living room.

I slowly turned to the screen and turned up the volume.

It was the song. It’s called Smile, and just thinking about it is filling me with a sense of rage.

Maybe it’s not the song itself, (although I think it is) maybe it’s the environment in which I first heard it. But it’s stuck in my head again and I’m not at all happy about it.

Stickin' It To Me

This was cholesterol day.

Apparently, I have inherited my father’s and his father’s cholesterol problems.

In fact, I’m not sure that we have blood in our arteries any more. My numbers make it sound like I have something more akin to the sludge that lines the drain of a utility room sink.

The last time I got it checked my doctor was so freaked out he called me instantly. I think he was surprised that I was alive to answer the phone.

Three months and one big bottle of Lipitor later I was back at the lab for another test.

If the cholesterol doesn’t kill me, the blood tests probably will, and that is also my father’s fault.

When I was about 6 years old, I was visiting my pediatrician for my annual check-up. His name was Doctor Hertz (yes, sounds like hurts). It came time for the old TB Tine test. That involved the thing that looked like a corncob holder that they jabbed in the arms of young children. When the children screamed, the TB spores would fly out of their lungs.

I think that’s how it worked.

Anyway, I wanted no part of it.

“It’s no big deal,” Dr. Hertz declared. “Look, I’ll give one to your father first.”

My dad did that wide-eyed, clenched-jaw subtle head shake that he thought the doctor would see but I’d miss. It was the other way around.

Dr. Hertz rolled up my father’s sleeve, and my old man lost all of the color in his face. Once the probe hit his arm, he made a groaning noise that sounded like a snoring hippo. His eyes rolled back and he went face down on the floor.

I was immediately whisked out of the room as the doctor called a code yellow-belly.

The next part I didn’t see, but heard. As my father began to come to, he had a flashback to a college boxing match and thought he was getting up from the mat to go another round with his opponent. Only in this case his opponents were young nursing students.

I think he hit a couple of them.

Like every 6-year-old, I thought my dad was indestructible. Whatever was in these needles dropped him faster than a tranquilizer dart brings a black bear out of a suburban tree.

For all anyone knows, I may have tuberculosis now. No one will ever be able to confirm it, because they’re never going to jab me with that thing.

The needle for the cholesterol blood test is no better, but I haven’t found a way to get around it.

Instead, I sit there with my free hand over my eyes, in a cold sweat, and I’ve been told I talk gibberish.

When it’s over, and I’ve taken a nap to recover, I strut around, pointing at my band-aid, showing off like the hero I am.

I survived another one.

I’ll get the test results Monday.

Not Guilty!

The more I think about it, the less guilty I feel about any of the music on my IPod.

That’s because one of my lifelong credos has been “There Is No Bad Music.”

There is rock and roll that makes your body shake. There is blues that makes you feel pain. There is classical music that creates vivid visual images. There is pop that makes you giddy.

I have been to rock concerts that were religious experiences.

I have been to orchestral performances that brought tears to my eyes.

I have been to churches where the choirs had stronger messages than the ministers.

I have danced to polka.

I have sung along to barbershop quartets.

I have belted out show tunes in my shower.

Music reminds me of the best times in my life. It also reminds me of the worst times in my life. There are songs I won’t listen to ever again, because of how I’m afraid they’ll make me feel. There are songs I listen to often because I know how they’ll make me feel.

There are few things that can bring thousands of people together as one.

I have heard 100,000 people sing along to one song. I have sung at the top of my lungs with 99,999 people I didn’t know.

My high school class of 90 people never was closer than when we all sang hymn 576 in the Episcopal Hymnal.

If REO Speedwagon reminds me of one of the most favorite summers of my life, if Duran Duran conjures up an image of a girl I saw but never met, if Salt ‘n’ Pepa take me back to the prom... well... I accept it.

I hold my head high... and the volume too.