On the Dotted Line, Of Course

Hot damn, I must be famous.

I signed so many items recently, there’s no way around it. I can’t think of any other explanation. Well, unless the explanation is that they weren’t “items,” they were documents. And people weren’t seeking my autograph, they were seeking my signature. And the “people” were our mortgage broker, the office of the seller’s agent, and the acting attorney.

Ok, so maybe my wife and I bought a house.

And we might have agreed to let the government harvest our organs before we die, I can’t be sure. I sat in a chair and signed my name so many times that the lack of sleep may have caused me to black out at one point.

I do remember this: I signed a document saying I agreed to continue signing documents after I left, just in case it was deemed necessary. At any time the attorney’s office could call and say something like, “Mr. Heppermann, we’re sending over a document that you must sign that says we can legally obtain all of your possessions the next time your credit card is run at Applebee’s.”

“But I love Applebee’s. What about their chicken dippers?” I’d probably say.

“Sorry. You signed a document saying you’d keep signing whatever we wanted you to sign,” he’d reply.

“Fine. Send it over.”

I also signed a document saying I’m somebody else. It seems that in the preparation of our paperwork, the attorney’s office spelled my last name with only one ‘n’. So instead of having us wait while they revised each piece of paper that had my name misspelled, they handed me a document that said I was Mike Hepperman as well as Mike Heppermann.

I clearly should have thought that one through before putting pen to paper. Now, if there’s ever some quack named Mike Hepperman who robs an orphanage and uses the money to buy pectoral implants, all the while leaving a huge paper trail of electronic transactions that say ‘Mike Hepperman purchased pectoral implants with money he stole from an orphanage,’ l could get arrested and sentenced to years in prison because six months prior to that I signed a document saying I was Mike Hepperman. Do you really think I stand a chance in prison if the inmates think my impressive pecs are surgically enhanced instead of the real deal? Crap.

But that’s what happens when you buy a house. They overwhelm you with paperwork and talk really fast through each page as you sign it. Sure, I own a house. But now I don’t know who owns me.

Art Imitating Life

Remember that scene in Dumb and Dumber when Lloyd and Harry pick up the evil hitchhiker (who thinks Lloyd stole the suitcase that he's trying to deliver to Mary)? Things are pretty quiet and laid back in the giant dog car until Lloyd and Harry start playing tag and making up rules as they go along. The hitchhiker, stuck in between them, sits patiently, hoping they'll stop soon, but he eventually loses his cool and starts yelling.

"GUYS! GUYS! GUYS!"

After they stop, he calmly and politely asks them to do something that's not so irritating. After a brief moment of silence, Lloyd asks the hitchhiker, "Wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world?" Without waiting for an answer, Lloyd demonstrates the noise and the hitchhiker doesn't wait long before making his plea again.

"GUYS! GUYS! GUYS!"

That is exactly what it's like raising two small kids. But the kicker is that Lloyd and Harry's actions aren't important to the analogy. The hitchhiker's reaction says it all. It doesn't matter that they're playing tag or making the most annoying sound in the world; Lloyd and Harry could be doing anything. With two kids, a parent turns into the hitchhiker multiple times a day.

So the next time you say to yourself, "I wonder what (insert name of friend with two small kids) is doing right now?" Think of that scene and you'll have your answer.

Merry Halloween and a Happy New Valentine's Day

Ahh, Halloween. It’s here. You know how I know? Because last Saturday I walked into my nearby hardware store and saw on display row after row of fake Christmas trees. Nothing says Halloween like Christmas trees.

What about all the Halloween stuff, you ask? Did they ever have that out? Oh sure. If you stopped in between the day after Father’s Day and the Fourth of July, you could have bought an assortment of Halloween decorations. Fireworks for your July 4th celebration weren’t available at that time because those were on sale during Groundhog’s Day.

I know the subject of retail stores displaying Christmas items too early has been beaten into the ground, so I won’t do it here (anymore). But seriously. Christmas trees? (I lied)

I expect that from Wal-Mart or Target, but not the hardware store. I know they’re trying to copy other stores who profit from Christmas long before Christmas arrives, but they haven’t quite figured out how. In the seasonal section of the store, right next to the fake trees, they still have barbecue grills and riding lawn mowers for sale. For those that don’t know, I don’t live in southern California or Florida or someplace that sees the sun after October. If people in my town are buying Christmas trees, they aint buying lawn mowers. Make up your mind, hardware store!

So, if you’re a fan of Halloween, hopefully you bought your decorations during the 15 minutes in which they were available. And who isn’t a fan of Halloween? If you’re a kid, you get loads of candy. And the reality is you don’t even have to dress up and walk around the neighborhood burning calories. You can be a true glutton – American style – and just graze on the candy your parents buy to give out to the neighborhood kids. You can also score more candy at school every day during the week leading up to Halloween.

If you’re an adult, you have an excuse to buy loads of candy and the power to yell at your kids, “Hey! That’s for the trick-or-treaters that come over. Put it back,” and then pull out a piece for yourself and eat it right in front of them.

On Halloween, everyone – young and old – also has an excuse to dress up and pretend to be something they’re not. This way, Matthew McConaughey can put on a costume and pretend to be a vampire instead of wearing his usual outfit and pretending to be interesting.

Tons of crappy scary movies hit the theaters around Halloween too, while a lot of good scary movies are shown on TV. For instance, even though I haven’t seen it, I imagine the latest SAW movie, and all the ones before it, is pretty crappy. Then again there have been about 18 of those, so people obviously like them. And to keep audiences coming back for that many sequels, the writers and producers obviously create wildly different plot lines for each one. I’m sure not one SAW movie looks anything like the others, and I would no doubt be completely lost by randomly picking one and watching it without first seeing the ones that came before it. So they’re probably pretty good after all.

For those that prefer movies with a little imagination, this week AMC has been running Alien and The Shining, two classic scary movies with great writing and top-notch directors. However they can’t hold a candle to Poltergeist, the scariest movie of all time. How can I definitively say it’s the scariest movie ever? Because I watched it when I was five or six years old and it gave me nightmares for a week. It’s scary as sh*t.

Now, you might say, “Why don’t you watch it as an adult and see if you still think it’s scary?” Well, I would watch it again except that when I watched it as a kid, it gave me nightmares for a week. It’s scary as sh*t! Did I not say that already?! Pay attention.

I can’t even watch the DirecTV commercial with the little girl from that movie because it’s too spooky. And you know the worst of it? Poltergeist is rated PG. It’s true. Get a hold of a copy and see for yourself. It came out before the PG-13 rating existed, but why it didn’t receive an R rating is beyond me. Aside from all the other freaky things in that movie, did you know there’s a scene in which a guy goes into the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror and then PEELS HIS FACE OFF? And not the way Fred and Daphne would peel the masks off the bad guys at the end of Scooby Doo. He peels it off in little pieces, exposing a lot of stuff that you wouldn’t see unless you worked with cadavers. And it’s rated PG! Episodes of Desperate Housewives don’t even get that rating. We’ve definitely softened as a society.

But you know what? In some cases that’s a good thing. Sure it’s stupid that nowadays kids who play sports don’t know if they win or lose because no one ever keeps score, but on the flip side we no longer hear anyone say, “Good luck with your Small Pox.”

So yeah, Halloween. Enjoy it.

Ugly Politics? Redundant.

“The man who invests his time in politics, follows it, studies it, believes in it, believes in its ability to sustain, broaden and improve society at large, to empower the common man to create a better life for himself and for those around him, is a man who might as well repeatedly bludgeon his balls with a hammer.” – Mohandas Gandhi

Ok, maybe Gandhi didn’t say that. Or maybe he did. Who knows? He’d probably say it if he were alive today. And living in the United States. And following U.S. politics. And if he lived in my house. And looked remarkably like me. And if he went by my name.

Ok, so maybe it’s just me. Gandhi would certainly deal with today’s nonsense better than I am. But he’d have his hands full.

Consider events of the last couple weeks: 50% of our country’s population openly cheered the fact that the U.S. was not awarded the Olympics, and 100% of the population openly decried the fact that our president was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Ugh.

If some alien life form were to read those two pieces of information, they’d likely think we’re a nation of self-loathers.

But this is not going to dissolve into an attack of one side or the other. That’s the problem. There’s too much attacking. We need something that erodes party lines, something that draws us together to achieve a common good. Something like Abe Lincoln’s “O’ Brotha', My Brotha'” speech.

To accomplish this, here are some things that I think need to happen over the next few weeks to unite us all:

TMZ captures footage of Keith Olbermann and Ann Coulter locked in the throws of passion at a New York City bus stop while waiting to begin their daily commutes. The two admit the affair has been going on for the past six months and that they’re expecting a child together.

To overcome his state’s tremendous deficit, Arnold Schwarzenegger agrees to sell California to Mexico. To alleviate fears of Californians and U.S. residents as a whole, the governor immediately erects a billboard along the state’s border that reads: “California – Now Owned by Mexico. The Difference? Absolutely Nothing.”

In an effort to end the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq sooner rather than later, President Obama changes tactics by removing all U.S. troops from both regions and replaces them with millions of pigeons and Dick Cheney, armed with nothing but a 12-gauge shotgun. Both countries surrender within 2 and ½ half weeks.

After harkening back to Vice President Joe Biden’s impassioned speech during the 2008 campaign, President Obama assigns Biden to spend the next 10 months riding the train back and forth from work to home, over and over, all day long. Excited, Biden asks the president if he wants him to brainstorm policy issues while spending his days riding the rails. Eager to not break his spirit, Obama smiles and says, “Hey why not?”

Stephen Colbert is awarded the honor of being the key-note speaker at every White House Press Corp dinner from now until his death, no matter who the president is.

Levi Johnston, the father of Sarah Palin’s first grandchild, agrees to pose in Playgirl magazine. That would be hilarious.

President Obama heads to L.A. for another appearance on Jay Leno’s show, presumably to atone for his off-color remark about the Special Olympics the last time he was on the show. Instead, Obama is unable to enter the studio because moments before he arrives, NBC announces it has traded Leno to CBS so that he can fulfill his long-overdue destiny as the replacement for Andy Rooney on 60 Minutes.

TMZ captures footage of Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck locked in the throws of passion at a New York City bus stop while waiting to begin their daily commutes. The two admit the affair has been going on for the past six months and that they’re adopting the latest Gosselin child to run away from home.

MSNBC and FOX News agree to massive buyouts from HBO. As part of the agreement, each “news” networks’ correspondents are forced to live on a deserted island, similar to Survivor. The only difference to the popular reality show is that this version is hosted by Ryan Seacrest and the island is completely devoid of any cameras.

In a huge boost to the economy, the federal government raises more than enough money to pay for the funds needed for healthcare reform by tying Michael Moore to a tree on the White House lawn and posting a sign next to him that says, “Kicks to the Groin: $2.”

In a slightly smaller boost to the economy, the government buys the Washington Redskins, then turns around and sells the team to Canada. The Canadians are disappointed later when they learn, in their attempt to replace their most valued citizen, Pamela Anderson, that they misunderstood the U.S. when we said, “We have a bunch of boobs you might be interested in.”

And finally, after years of threatening to expand his country’s nuclear power and making claims that the Holocaust is a myth, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is captured by CIA agents in the middle of the night, stripped of all control of the nation, and forced to marry Kate Gosselin.

Get Off My Lawn, Technology!

I’m no historical scholar. I’m also no technology guru. I’m no surveyor of societal movements. And, from this paragraph, you can obviously tell I’m no English teacher. All of that aside, it seems to me that today’s electronic breakthroughs, designed to make our lives easier, don’t do what they used to do (i.e. make our lives easier).

Inventions and/or advancements in technology used to do just that – advance us as a society. They improved upon the devices we use in everyday life or introduced something that vastly changed the way we live – like electricity or the automobile.

Nowadays it seems like our “advancements” are actually moving us backwards.

For instance, in the beginning, if a man of increased social stature, like a king or an overlord, wanted to communicate something to another man of similar stature, he would tell a less-prominent man the message and then send him running, possibly hundreds of miles, in the direction of the other king so he could relay the message roughly six months later. Then, just as the lowly runner arrived at the doorstep of the other king, he had to turn around and run back because he realized he forgot the attachment.

As time progressed, man created paper and ink, wrote the message down and tied it to a bird, which may or may not have delivered the note before eating it and pooping on the guy who was still running because his boss was slow to accept the newest technology. Eventually the kings/overlords decided to go back to using people to deliver messages, but because of the ability to write them on paper, the runners delivered hundreds of these letters in one trip and thus the postal system was created.

Communication changed forever with the invention of the telephone. Sure the postal industry still exists, but we no longer have to send a letter to our buddy three counties over to ask if he caught the end of the Bears game. We can exchange thoughts and ideas with someone on the other side of the planet as if they were standing right in front of us. Life has never been the same.

That is… until now.

Now, even though we still have the ability to talk to someone thousands of miles away while we drive, use the restroom or bother people in the movie theater, we opt to use our phones to type messages to the person on the other end of the line. Hmmm. I guess it’s a step up from using phones to hand write messages.

After all, talking to someone lets you easily pick up on their tone of voice and, if you say something funny, lets you hear them laugh. Boo! Who wants that? I’d much rather read about someone laughing, courtesy of the acronym LOL, which tells the typer that what they typed was funny enough to make their friend audibly chuckle.

Except that’s rarely the case. Whenever someone types LOL, they usually mean, “What you just typed was mildly amusing and may or may not have caused me to smile, but that’s about it.”

Then there’s the acronym LMAO, which indicates the reader laughed so vigorously that part of their anatomy is no longer attached to their body. This too is usually an exaggeration (except in extreme cases).

In addition to phones having typewriter capabilities, we’ve also made great strides in communicating with people over the Internet. These days we can log on and post a message to a friend or hundreds of friends at the same time. We can also send pictures and links, and receive responses from those same friends. Two of the most popular ways to do this are through Facebook and Twitter. Some of you out there, though, may remember this capability from about 15 years ago when it was called “e-mail.”

Thank God those days are over. E-mail is so archaic. It lets you send a message that’s as long as you want. No thank you! I much prefer to be limited to 140 characters. Plus, e-mail doesn’t let me see those (never-ending) handy updates from my friends on how far they’ve advanced in some online game.

So, given these trends in technological improvement, I’m wondering what’s next. Personally, I hope the airlines adopt a similar model of using an innovation from the past to improve their current efficiency. Perhaps on a trip from New York to L.A., we’ll one day sit in a plane that scoots along the ground as it’s pulled by a team of horses.

Maybe in the future, remote controls will be bolted to our televisions and wheelchairs will be operated by bicycle pedals. I’m sure in no time we’ll all be wearing see-through pants and shoes with holes in them as well. Yay! Oh wait… I think I’m a little late on that last one.

Whatever is on the horizon, I’ll be eagerly awaiting its arrival, shaking my fist at it from my rocking chair on the front porch.

Just Call Me Stretch

A couple weeks ago, I shared a moment in my life from years ago that forever changed the way I view the world. I’m excited to announce that just this past week I experienced another one of these moments. And this time I can say that it will literally change my view from a physical standpoint.

For the better part of 15 years, I’ve thought that I was 5’ 8”. It turns out I am in fact 5’ 9”.

It’s true. Let that sink in for a minute. I’ve spent my entire adult life believing that I’m significantly shorter than I actually am. I don’t know how this happened.

Maybe my doctor got it wrong during a physical way back when. Maybe I’ve heard friends of mine who are the same height say that they’re 5’ 8” and figured I must be too. Maybe I’ve actually grown an inch over the last 15 years, putting me on pace to be just as tall as the average NBA player by the time I’m in my mid-120s.

Discovering the mistake came easy enough. My son was playing with the tape measure, and after I measured his height, he wanted me to check my own. I obliged, showed him the number and then glanced at it myself, even though I knew what it said. Or I thought I knew.

I was both excited and stunned. “I’m a beast,” I thought.

Then I wondered how different my life would be if I had known all these years that I’m tall. Would I have been popular in high school? Maybe my increased confidence level would have helped me talk to girls without wetting myself. I would have always sat in the front row on airplanes for the extra leg room. I certainly never would have bought a two-door Honda Civic. Perhaps my autobiography and Wilt Chamberlain’s would be eerily similar. At the very least, my driver’s license would say that I’m a towering 5’ 9” instead of a diminutive 5’ 8”.

That’s another thing – the government thinks that I’m short. Should I tell them the truth now, or will they punish me for misrepresentation all these years? Do tall people pay more taxes?

My wife reminded me that she’s 5’8” and that I’m taller than her, so she couldn’t figure out why I was surprised. But I always figured female heights are different from men’s, like foot measurements or pant sizes. For a man, a size 34 in pants means something vastly different than what it means for a woman. How was I to know?

One thing I do know – at one of my son’s recent doctor visits, his pediatrician predicted that, based on his current height and age, he would be over 6 feet. We used to wonder where he got the genes to grow that tall. Not anymore.

You’re welcome, son.

And Now I Know the Rest of the Story

Growing up, we all had moments in our lives that impacted us and strongly shaped how we view the world. Some of those moments shook the foundation of what we knew, or what we thought we knew, and taught us a great deal – possibly more than we wanted to know.

A lot of things fit all of those conditions: the first time we learned about death, the first time we ate a school-issued lunch and, of course, the first time we learned where babies come from.

As I’m sure is the case for most people, the first time I learned where babies come from was a jarring, unwelcome experience. The information was heaped on me in an unsolicited manner, much like the overcaffeniated people selling timeshares who make it difficult to go anywhere these days, including even Dairy Queen.

I was eight years old, and the messenger of darkness was an older woman – a nine year old by the name of Natalie Something. (I’m omitting her last name not to protect her, but because I don’t remember it. It’s not important.) I was enjoying a sunny afternoon outdoors at my then after-school program (it’s no longer my after-school program), when this harbinger of evil skipped over to me with a grin on her face.

She asked me the seemingly innocent question, “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

Not knowing the devastation she planned to deliver, I happily obliged by answering, “I have one brother.”

Barely able to control her giggles, she informed me, “That means your parents had sex twice.”

She skipped away, giggling even more furiously than when she approached, leaving me shocked and confused. Not to mention a little nauseous.

I don’t remember how it was that I knew about sex, or how much of the particulars I knew (like why people participated), but I did know about it because I was shaken by the revelation. I didn’t have to ask what sex was, just why God would allow such a thing to be true. Perhaps I saw something on TV after staying up past my bed time, or maybe I heard someone’s older brother talk about it. However I learned of it, I never gave it much thought until Natalie’s brief biology lesson.

In my mind, I probably thought sex was just something done by actors, and even then only because they were getting paid to do it. If anyone in real life actually did it, it was only those people who lived on the fringes of society – belly dancers, lion tamers, New Yorkers. These types of people.

If a subject wasn’t talked about on The Dukes of Hazard, I didn’t care. For all I knew, Daisy wore those skimpy shorts because they were the only pair she had. Looking back on it, that’s true. No one on that show ever changed their clothes. Ever! I know they were poor, but if they could afford enough gas to drive 100 mph all over the state of Georgia, surely Uncle Jesse could afford to go down to the thrift store for ONE new shirt.

I’m getting off topic.

At any rate, as I watched Natalie ask the same question of each of her peers, subsequently destroying the will of the other kids on the playground, I dismissed the notion that my parents secretly put her up to it. My memory is fuzzy after this. Before completely blacking out, I think I ran inside hoping no one would see me and start to think about what my parents had been up to. I was also grateful that I wasn’t the kid in my class who had five brothers and sisters.

(At this point I should mention that three years earlier, a different girl told me Santa Claus isn’t real. If it had been the same girl, you could argue that I grew up around a child with a particular mean streak. However, the fact that two completely unconnected little girls delivered these pieces of information speaks volumes about the female population. Somehow I’m not gay.)

Despite Natalie’s efforts to crush my fragile soul, I eventually grew into a reasonably well-adjusted adult (insert your own joke here). Nevertheless, I can assure you that my son won’t learn about the birds and the bees, or even hear the term ‘sex,’ until he’s 27. And my daughter won’t learn of it until she’s 45. Why the discrepancy in their ages? Well… because that’s just the way it is. I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’m the dad, I make the decisions.

And I’m confident that I’ll have as much control over the situation as my parents had when I first learned the facts.

Yikes.

Cue the Scary Fish Music

There are only a few great television traditions to look forward to each year: the Super Bowl, A Christmas Story on Dec. 24, Duke losing in the NCAA tournament and Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.

During Shark Week, the Discovery Channel runs programming devoted to sharks in some form or another (as they did again recently). Whether it’s stories about world record-setting catches, documentaries about the history of sharks, interviews with people who have been attacked, or the network’s regular shows adopting a shark theme for the week, the programs never fail to entertain.

A lot of times on these shows, people will intentionally get in harm's way for the sake of our viewing pleasure by jumping into shark-infested waters and begging the animals to attack them. I often wonder what these people’s health insurance premiums are like, or if they lie to insurance companies about what they do for a living and just hope none of the adjusters see them on TV. That’s probably a safe bet because I imagine a lot of insurance adjusters only watch Sean Hannity or historical accounts of Native Americans getting robbed of their land and stripped of all their natural resources.

Anyway, Shark Week programming also strikes fear into its viewers by offering evidence that, at the point of birth, most sharks are roughly the size of a subway car. On top of that, during the first week of its life, a baby shark is taught by its mother to crawl on land and hunt down small children as they stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Shark Week even provides some comic relief because there’s always at least one documentary which says humans are more of a threat to sharks than they are to us. Yet these documentaries never show footage of a surfer emerging from the water, arms raised in victory, with a dorsal fin hanging from his mouth.

I know, I know, every year thousands of sharks are poached by hunters, but by and large the practice is limited to the eastern hemisphere of the globe. Not that that makes it right, I just personally don’t know anyone who’s ever had shark fin soup or has the complete set of a Great White’s upper and lower jaw mounted on their wall.

When I hear that we’re more dangerous to them than vice-versa, I don’t think about the reality of sharks being hunted, I instead think about the fantasy of a person wrestling a shark. It’s what we as American males do. We like to picture two creatures – human, animal or a mix of both – and imagine which one would win in a fight.

If you're factoring in strategy, sharks have multiple rows of teeth, and each tooth has a column of serrated “mini teeth” running vertically along its side. They clamp down on their prey, then whip their head back and forth, effectively sawing into their victim. My money’s on the shark.

I think we all went to high school with a guy who we thought had teeth like this (someone who probably repeated the 10th grade a number of times), only to learn he simply suffered from a severe lack of oral hygiene rather than being the product of some evolutionary man-fish crossbreeding. Whatever the cause, that guy was always in a lot of fights and he always won. It’s mother nature’s way – if you have shark teeth, you are winning most fights. You may not climb the corporate ladder, but that’s an issue for another day.

What was my point? Oh yeah, Shark Week is cool. And don’t get in a fight with a guy who has rows of teeth.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

To even the most casual observer, baseball's outlook has probably looked bleak for some time. Dwindling World Series ratings and sliding participation rates among growing minority populations in the U.S., particularly among African-Americans, are a fairly good indication. Then there's Major League Baseball's performance-enhancing quagmire, which, despite current drug testing, continues to haunt the league thanks to its past demons.

Meanwhile, the popularity of many other professional leagues and their athletes is on the rise.

The NBA has enjoyed rising Finals viewership over the last few years, a return to the global mountaintop after the U.S. won gold in the 2008 Olympics, and soaring popularity for a number of its stars. The league has also kept itself at the forefront of fans' minds during its off-season the last two years, due to numerous star-player trades and the tantalizing 2010 free agency market. (Comparatively, baseball's biggest off-season story this year involved its highest paid player breaking off his marriage to date octogenarian pop stars and admitting he tested positive for a banned substance in 2003.)

The PGA's top two money makers on and off the course last year, Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson, were also the top two money makers in all of sports (Sports Illustrated, July 6, 2009 issue). They're so marketable that Mickelson made almost as much in endorsements ($46.6 million) as the top endorsement earners in baseball, football and basketball combined ($49.5 million). And Woods is so far ahead of the pack that he earned nearly double that of Mickelson.

Men's tennis celebrated Roger Federer's record-breaking 15th Grand Slam title last month, surpassing Pete Sampras, but the question of which one of them has stirred up less controversy during their careers is still up for debate. During their dominance of the sport over the last two decades, Federer's and Sampras' likability quotients have rarely been disputed.

Even the NHL has its playoff beards and the coolest trophy in all of sports.

Then, of course, there's football - the undisputed titan of American fandom. Every year the Super Bowl earns the highest ratings of anything on television, no matter which two teams compete in the event. In the NFL, the product is so good, the action so packed, and the athletes so stellar that nary anything they do off the field can diminish our passion for their feats on it – not steroid use, dog fighting convictions or DUI manslaughter charges. For years, baseball has been America's past time in name only.

So what is baseball’s allure in the face of rising competition and its own continuing controversies? What does baseball have that no other sport does?

Well, for one, its music. Or rather, its song.

That in-game hymn that’s shared by every major, minor and independent-league team, college and university, little league and pee-wee squad alike. At no other organized sporting event, at least inside the U.S., will you hear everyone in attendance simultaneously break into song no matter where their allegiances lie. No other game has a tune devoted to that very thing – the game.

The next closest thing, likely, is college football, where fans often serenade one another with the home team’s fight song. But if there’s just one fan in attendance cheering for the other school, you’re not getting so much as a hum out of that person. Plus, should you venture to a different campus the following week, you’re not likely to hear that song repeated. Nor would you want to. They’re meant to unite the fans of a team in creating one more stitch in the blanket that is home-field advantage.

And yet, when the seventh inning of a baseball game arrives, something feels right about the entire stadium gleefully singing the same number, no matter who the majority is rooting for or how many runs back they might be. If anything, even when the game seems out of reach, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” can serve as a welcome relief.

Nowhere is this more evident than in Wrigleyville. Fans fill the stands day after day, year after year, and no matter how bad the contest, or the season, is going for the Cubs, they all stand and belt out the melody. Oftentimes, it’s at the urging of a celebrity or local pro athlete who is leaning out the broadcast booth with a microphone in tow. Not that the organization needs them; instead it’s usually viewed as an honor to lead the rendition. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s tough to find a more captive audience.

But boisterous versions of the song are heard in hundreds of ballparks in and out of the country. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” is universally known; sung by baseball fans before they’re old enough to distinguish right field from left. It’s believed that the song is so popular that for decades everyone sang it at the beginning of each MLB game, and that the ritual eventually moved to the middle of the seventh inning to accommodate L.A. Dodger fans who were just arriving to the stadium.

Even a book dedicated to the history of the song (Baseball’s Greatest Hit: The Story of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”) came out in 2008 to help commemorate the tune’s 100th anniversary.

Through constant change – integration, relocations, expansion, stadium lights, the designated hitter, artificial turf, the extinction of artificial turf, the wild card and interleague play – it’s been a staple, giving fans (pardon the pun) something to sing about no matter what the circumstances. The notion that the sport continues to draw major interest because of an in-game diddy is not the most ridiculous theory you’ve ever heard. Let’s face it, it’s not because of the beer prices.

Whatever the reason, it does continue to draw major interest. The current recession aside, attendance figures through the end of 2008, Major League Baseball is happy to tell you, suggest that the sport’s performance-enhancing drug controversy is not enough to keep fans away. Many view this as proof that the media are the only ones who care if the players use steroids or other banned substances.

Don’t be fooled. Fans care. They’ve always cared.

As a show of protest we could all stop attending games, stop watching the broadcasts, stop buying the merchandise, and subsequently force sponsorship dollars to dry up. But even given the economic downturn, that’s a lot to ask. Especially when, presumably while clean thanks to current effective drug testing, there’s a guy in St. Louis slugging his way through history. Or when there’s a hitter in Minnesota flirting with .400. Or when Kansas City is excited about one of its pitchers for the first time since Bret Saberhagen. Or when a member of the White Sox just achieved perfection.

Take away all this drama and the fans still wouldn’t stay at home.

There’s just too much singing to do.

Wait, I'm How Old?

The fact that I can remember the professional pinnacles of three celebrities who died last week (Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson, all with careers that peaked in either the ‘70s or ‘80s) has left me feeling a little old. Not that it’s the first time.

Nevertheless, this seemed like a good opportunity to ponder what it means to be my age: 30 something.

In your 30s, you realize you’re no longer the target audience for things like athletic shoes or energy drinks, and discover instead that every advertisement geared towards you includes baby food or life insurance policies.

In your 30s, you no longer need an alarm clock to wake up before 8 a.m. If you have kids, they wake you up long before that. If you don’t have kids, you still wake up before 8 a.m. because… well, you’re 30.

In your 20s, you can get a full night’s rest by sleeping in a folding chair and not feel the least bit sore the next day. In your 30s, you can get a full night’s rest on a comfortable mattress and wake up with a mysterious injury that can only be explained in the following manner: “I must have slept on my (name of injured body part) wrong.”

Your 30s is the first time in your life when every car you own throughout the decade is “practical.”

You’re no longer embarrassed to yell at passing vehicles that are driving too fast.

Filing your taxes becomes infinitely more complicated and/or expensive.

You start to take serious stock of your diet.

If you’re single and in your 30s, odds are you’ve tried clinging to your youth by going out to a club or two, and have been in complete denial about the fact that everyone inside is staring at you and thinking, “Wow, that’s sad. One of his friends should really say something to him.”

In your 30s, you start to move into managerial roles at work.

Or worse – you don’t. Then before long you realize everyone in your department is 5-10 years younger than you and that you really need to get it together and start moving into a managerial role.

In your 30s, you give up trying to follow the most current popular music and proudly make claims like, “Bon Jovi should go down as one of the all-time great bands in history.”

You convince yourself that you can still do everything, physically, that you could do in your 20s, only to receive serious medical attention for the bone/muscle/cartilage that you broke/fractured/pulled/tore/shattered while proving yourself wrong.

In your 30s, you form comfortable patterns at home and at work. Each day largely resembles the one before, with very little excitement to punctuate the passing hours. You either feel happy about your routine or begin to think, “Oh yeah, I can definitely see a mid-life crisis on the horizon.”

In your 30s, you no longer make your beer choices based on whatever’s cheapest. Which is a good thing.

You also have serious, lengthy political conversations without ever hearing the words, “The government should just legalize pot.” Which is nice too.

In your 30s, you begin to appreciate what your parents were getting at, and think the response, “Because I said so” is a damn good reason for telling your own kids to do something.

And finally, in your 30s, you find yourself thinking life’s not so bad after all because “at least I’m not in my 40s.”

Road Trip

With 318 miles in front of us, I check to see that the suitcases are loaded in the back and all seatbelts are clicked securely in place. Everything we physically need to accompany us is intact. The mental faculties are the ones in question.

Screams immediately fill the vehicle, even before the car pulls out onto the asphalt. Little can be done to soothe them, aside from an abrupt end to the journey altogether.

The young one’s angst is understandable – only four months into the world and instead of the freedom to explore the abundance around her, she’s shackled in an uncomfortable, unforgiving car seat; forced to watch the magic pass her by at 70 mph.

Comfort sets in for the rest of us as we hold firm to the knowledge that soon she’ll fall asleep. The hum of the highway will turn her current despair into quiet slumber.

Reports of unfavorable weather filter in from the radio airwaves. Soon our trip will likely be met by high winds, rain and even hail. We could delay the drive by an hour and avoid the treacherous weather. With evening rush-hour traffic starting to thin out, however, the risk of inclement weather feels like one worth taking. A shared glance with my wife is not necessary to know we would both prefer to drive through the storm and complete the trip sooner rather than later.

Miles tick by and tension begins to mount as the screaming persists longer than anticipated. By occupying the passenger seat, the role of quieting the baby falls to me. Either by giving her a pacifier, gently rubbing her head, singing her to sleep… something must be done. The family is depending on me. As the father and the husband, it’s my duty to restore calm and order to the chaos that ensnares us. This is my role. I cannot fail. I mustn’t.

But I do.

From the back, the elder child makes a request for some driving music. Eager to not enflame any other passions, I quickly grant the request. We are soon serenaded by the chorus sounds of “E-I-E-I-O!” It means nothing to the baby, but typically keeps our two-year-old son gleefully occupied, even if it’s just for the short term.

However, his younger sister’s cries make his favorite songs less enjoyable, so he joins me in the task of trying to calm her down. Being a small child, his simpler, more direct plan involves looking at her and yelling, “Stop crying!”

A genius plan, and yet… it too fails.

Soon the noise level inside the car is matched by the noise level outside the car. Rain begins to pound the windshield. If nothing else, it distracts my son from his sister’s screams, as his pleas of “Stop crying,” turn to shouts of “Rain!” Oddly enough, it’s a welcome change.

Peace is momentarily restored inside the car as the little one finds happiness in a padded baby book. Its mere presence dries her tears. Controversy stirs, though, as the sight of the book in the arms of the infant sets off a primal, territorial reaction from the first born. He wants it. What is she doing with it?

Attempts to appease my son with the other 30+ books we brought for him come up short. Apparently there is some magic contained in the padded book that is unequaled by any other piece of children’s literature.

I find myself wanting the book; to be swept away by its powers of escapism.

The car is in danger of getting swept away, not by the reading material, but by the increasing wind and rain. The unexamined option of postponing the trip now seems like one worth exploring. No matter, though. Should we find ourselves in peril, we can always cling to everyone’s favorite padded book as it calmly floats us down the river to safety. The kids clearly believe in its capabilities.

Besides, the storm pales in comparison to the threat of hearing damage we’re all suffering from due to the internal - rather than external - factors.

An eternity passes. The sun begins to set and the rain finally lets up. Soon we will arrive at our destination. I gaze out the window at the sign by the highway to see just how close we are.

Only 298 miles to go.

Happy at the Bottom

To me, climbing the corporate ladder sounds as much fun as falling off an actual ladder and hitting every rung with my face on the way down.

Is it a lack of ambition? Maybe.

Laziness? Sure.

But mostly I don’t want to be anyone’s boss, and I’m sure no one would want me to be theirs.

One reason I’m not “management material” is because, despite not wanting to supervise people, I would take seriously the task of hiring employees, which immediately disqualifies me for the job. For instance, I would try to learn as much as I could about a potential employee’s personality and not just get them to rehash their resume. Instead of asking ridiculous, formulaic questions like, “Give me an example from your previous job when you successfully overcame an obstacle,” I would ask questions like, “After the first month or two of working here, will everyone think you’re a total douche?”

Habitually late, poor hygiene, steals from the company… I don’t care. But if the new guy always uses the middle stall in a men’s room with only three stalls, I couldn’t live with myself for hiring him.

Managers are also in a no-win situation. If my meticulous hiring practices paid off and everyone liked one another and worked well together, the only one left for them to turn on would be me. And they would because I’m not sure I could turn off my supervisory sensor after leaving the office.

What if, while enjoying a Saturday night out, you saw one of your employees get thrown out of a bar for acting like a drunken nuisance? It’s happened to a lot of people, and it doesn’t make anyone a criminal, but can you really ignore that come Monday morning?

What if, while driving home one night, you see a car pulled over by a police officer and notice it’s one of your employees? At first you assume he was just pulled over for speeding, but as you pass the scene, you start to wonder if the cop will want to inspect the car. He could find something that might be a tad bothersome, like pot, or something slightly more worrisome, like a body. Some might argue that’s even worse than always using the middle stall. I would not argue this, but someone else might.

And the boss always has to be careful of a watchful eye too, right? Let’s say you bump into a colleague at the drug store while nervously scanning the condom aisle. As the boss, do you immediately grab the box labeled ‘Magnum,’ knowing that if you don’t, you risk losing the respect of your employee and everyone in your department (since he’ll surely tell everyone)? On top of that, do you load up your cart with eight or nine boxes and shoot him a confident look that says, “That’s right, I’m grabbing eight or nine boxes”?

Or what if you, the boss, are at the pharmacy on your lunch break, and the guy you just interviewed for a job is strolling through the same aisle? Do you say to yourself, “He’s being responsible” or do you eliminate him from consideration because you think he won’t be willing to work weekends? What if he grabs the ‘Magnums,’ but the job you’re hiring for is a professional stair climber? You can’t hire him now because it would mean imminent disaster (mostly for the stair climber).

See, there’s just too much to worry about. I couldn’t do it. Let me climb the corporate chair or one of those midget ladders you use for painting indoors.

Joining the Online Social Frenzy

Ok, I’ve finally stopped living in 2005 and started living in 2008. I’m now on Twitter and Facebook. And before I say anything else, let’s be sure to add Twitter and Facebook to the list of things that people do only because other people are doing them. So I’m guilty of doing at least two of those things. But hey, if Ashton Kutcher can get a million followers on Twitter, I figure I can probably get four or five.

On the flip side, I doubt I can say anything worth reading in 140 characters or less, considering I have an unlimited amount of space on this blog and can’t offer anything worth reading on here. So don’t get your hopes up. Nevertheless, I’ve leapt out of my old-man rocking chair and into realms that are well below my age bracket.

And just for the record, I posted a joke on here about how one of the symptoms of the swine flu includes, “tasting delicious with applesauce” the day before Stephen Colbert joked on The Colbert Report that one of the symptoms includes, “tasting like bacon.” So clearly the Emmy-winning writers of the The Colbert Report read my blog to steal ideas for their show. Since they’re no doubt reading this right now, let me just say, “You’re welcome.”

Swine Flu - Fact from Fiction

With the swine flu having reached the U.S. and parts of Europe, people are starting to panic about how widespread the virus will become. As a result, all sorts of myths and rumors have emerged regarding the illness. As always, this blog is here to provide nothing but the facts regarding this powerful threat.

Depending on your region of the globe, swine flu has many names, including ‘hog cough,’ ‘pig pneumonia’ and ‘bacon bronchitis.’ Questions raged early on about how it spreads, with many medical professionals believing it stems from people having “relations” with pigs. That of course has been dismissed. Now medical professionals believe it’s linked to people having relations with infected pigs. Doctors are also warning that swine flu can be spread whenever a police officer sneezes on you.

Symptoms include fever, runny nose, sore throat, nausea, vomiting, curly tail, snorting when you laugh, refusing to clean up after yourself, making derogatory comments towards women, and tasting delicious with applesauce.

Many worried citizens have confused their swine flu symptoms with those of the bird flu, but it’s important to remember that bird flu symptoms include fever, coughing, sore throat, worm breath and pooping on cars.

If you in fact have swine flu, your doctor will likely suggest a steady diet of fruits and vegetables, a few prescription pain killers, and 5-6 gallons of water sipped from a trough.

Health officials have announced that everything within a 15-mile radius of Senator Henry Waxman’s house is currently under quarantine.

Maybe It Was Bernie Madoff

Despite my aversions to the latest breakthroughs in technology, as mentioned in an earlier post to this blog, I at least emerged myself years ago in the joys of online banking. There is no joy, however, when you log into your checking account and see parentheses around the number that’s listed in the ‘Available Balance’ column. At that moment there is only fear. Well, and panic. And some slight rage.

If you’ve never seen parentheses around your ‘Available Balance’ figure, it means you’ve never been overdrawn on your account. If you have seen the parentheses, your first thought is undoubtedly always the same as mine, “My bank is stealing from me.”

Sadly, if this were 2007, that would be seen as a joke. Now, that very well could be the case for a lot of people. But before I sought revenge by driving to my nearest branch and dropping off a busload of Hannah Montana concert-goers, I looked at my check book to see if my math was wrong or if I forgot to subtract an earlier transaction. Three and a half days later I discovered it was both of those things.

I think I would have enjoyed getting tangled up in a lengthy, bitter, expensive lawsuit with my bank (and ultimately losing) more than I enjoyed figuring out where my math went wrong. I also would have enjoyed getting tangled up in a lengthy, bitter, expensive alligator attack more too.

At this point, you’re probably wondering, “Why don’t you have overdraft protection?”

My response to that is, “Why don’t you shut up?”

Why would I want to deprive the bank of charging me $50 for kindly pointing out that my account has a negative balance? Besides, if I don’t have enough money to keep my account in the black, I can certainly afford to go another $50 into debt.

So pish to your overdraft protection. Pish, I say.

Some Post-Easter and Pre-Tax Day Yuks

A few jokes for today...

As part of a sudden change in plans for reviving the economy, President Obama announced today that the U.S. is officially filing for divorce from Mel Gibson.

Many Pittsburgh baseball fans were excited to hear about this story until they realized the outcome would not be affecting their team’s Major League roster.

When a story leads off with this sentence, “A polar bear attacked a woman at a Berlin Zoo Friday afternoon after she climbed a fence and jumped into its habitat during feeding time, police said Saturday,” (brace for the picture) it’s a good indication that prices at the zoo’s concession stands have gotten out of hand.

There was an article on cnn.com yesterday about the "laws of attraction" between men and women. It's time for all these scientists and “love experts” to stop wasting their time studying why certain people are attracted to each other, and just admit that how attracted a woman is to a man depends on the success of his band, and how attracted a man is to a woman depends on whether or not she ever had a penis.

Good night! Enjoy the veal, tip your waitress.

And Ask For a Raise

I’m not a job-placement professional, but in today’s current job market, I’d probably advise people to look for work in the childcare industry.* They could certainly use good people. Then again, if that’s your only option you might choose to stay unemployed. I would.

That is in no way meant to disparage those that do work in the industry. Quite the opposite. That is meant to point out that I do not have the qualifications or the stomach for that kind of work. Much the same way that I don’t have the stomach to be an ER doctor, NFL lineman, or a member of the armed services.

Deciding to look after infants and toddlers all day long, multiple days a week, particularly ones that aren’t yours, is truly noble. Looking after ones that are yours is nothing to sneeze at either. I only do it because, monetarily speaking, I’m required to by law. Since this is the case, I plan to stick around and hold over their heads how much money they owe me as soon as they can grasp that concept. Also, my wife would have me hunted down and killed if I left.

Having the same number of kids as parents in a household, also known as “playing man-to-man,” is largely thought to be a manageable situation. This is a myth. How daycares get their employees to agree to individually take care of up to five kids, which is the case at my son’s daycare, is beyond me. Every day that I pick him up, I expect to see at least one teacher weeping in the corner. It hasn’t happened yet, despite seeing situations that would cause me to weep in the corner if I was in charge.

One aspect that probably makes it a little more tolerable is that the people who work at my son’s daycare receive free daycare for their own children. This certainly makes the job a little more inviting because daycare is expensive. Why is it expensive, you ask? For the same reason ice road truckers command such a high salary – the work is perilous and few people are willing to do it.

I looked it up, and somehow, “daycare employee” does not rank high on the list of professions that cause the most number of suicides.** It falls well below social worker, homicide detective and Tyra Banks’ publicist.

This doesn’t mean the industry couldn’t use more good people. So think about it if you’re looking for work or like to help your fellow man. Not that I’m recommending it. I’m just saying.

*Unless you’re the Octo-Mom, in which case you should have to experience the phenomenon of a real-life Lost scenario.

**I did not look it up. Hey, this isn’t The New York Times.

Go Go Gadget Whatchamacallit

The other day I read an article on cnn.com about a guy who was released from prison after 8-9 years for being wrongfully convicted of first degree murder. The interviewer followed up with him to see what the past year has been like as a free man. The article struck a cord with me, not because of how easily someone can be wrongfully imprisoned or because I was fascinated about what innocent people go through emotionally while in jail, but because of what he said about cell phones.

The guy told the interviewer, after a year as a normal citizen, that he couldn’t live without his cell phone.

Sounds like a joke, right? This guy just spent almost a decade in jail, where he not only didn’t have a cell phone, but had no need for one and probably never even saw one; where everyone around him was without a cell phone. Once he’s out, he doesn’t have a job, a wife, kids or presumably any friends. Even though he was eventually found not guilty, do you really think any of his old friends are offering him their extra concert tickets or inviting him to their Super Bowl parties? Who’s calling this guy?! And who does he have to call?

I, on the other hand, have a job, a wife, two kids and hopefully a couple more friends than a guy who just got out of prison for first degree murder, and I could go days without noticing my phone has fallen in the toilet.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have my cell phone,” he said. “It has my calendar, my address book, everything on it.”

Well that confirms it. I am now officially less technologically savvy than ex-cons. It’s one thing when kids are more up on all the latest electronic devices than you are (that’s to be expected), but when a convict can integrate himself into our society of mass communications better than you can, that’s embarrassing.

I can use a cell phone, but only for its most primitive function. Games? I think I have some. A calendar? That’s probably on there too. I know I can program any number into it that I want, but I never have. If I want to call someone who’s number I don’t have memorized (which is most of them), I carry around my personal address book that has all my homeys’ numbers in it. Like I said, embarrassing.

I certainly haven’t mastered driving while talking on my phone. Not that I’d want to. I’ll spare you my soap-box rant about how dangerous it is, and just say that I don’t know how people do it physically. I drive a stick shift, so making a left or right turn from a full stop while talking on my phone is virtually impossible. I might as well try to put a sweater on a cat while I’m driving.

And if you want to get a text message from me, you’ll have to send me one first. Even then I’ll curse your name under my breath and probably not respond. I used to think that people who text either have severe stuttering problems or have spent their whole lives smoking and have to attach a voice machine to their throat that makes them sound like a garbage disposal when they talk. Otherwise, to me, texting is like someone with perfect vision learning brail. What’s the point?

Plus, if you’ve ever taken a typing class and have spent years typing on a computer keyboard, texting has to drive you crazy. Even if you have a phone that has each letter on a separate keypad, as opposed to mine that has three letters on the same keypad, you have to work your thumbs like it’s 1988 and you’re playing Super Mario Brothers. And if asked to compare people who talk on their phones while driving to people who text on their phones while driving, I would award Rhodes Scholarships to those who merely talk.

I actually appreciate that texting lets you talk to someone without having to actually talk to them – like e-mail on the go. But most people text back and forth at the same time, making it more like instant messaging. Therefore, any awkward conversation you had hoped to avoid by not actually talking to the person is still potentially a factor when you text. For instance, let’s say Jim and Ted have the following conversation via text messaging:

Jim: “Hey Ted, what’s up?”

Ted: “Hey buddy. How about that game last night? OMG, LOL, BFF, KGB, TNT!"

Jim: “I know. It was TMI, AOL, FYI!”

Ted: “By the way, I didn’t appreciate you getting drunk and feeling up my wife at Craig’s party last weekend.”

At this point, Jim can’t exactly be silent for 10 minutes, then come back and type something like, “Sorry about the pause. My ceiling fan fell down and hit me on the head. I have to go to the emergency room. Later.”

At any rate, I’ve accepted the fact that I’m like the 80-year-old man sitting on his porch yelling at kids to get off his lawn. I’ll grant you that everyone else has figured out something and I’m merely standing on the sidelines. I can refer to the same article for further evidence.

To make ends meet over the past year, the man freed from prison told CNN that he sells stuff on eBay. I remember first hearing about eBay back in the late ‘90s (before it became mainstream) when a friend of mine started buying and selling all sorts of stuff on it. I remember thinking he was crazy. Consider the process: You're buying something you can’t feel or try on or even see without the help of a small, grainy Web picture. Not only that, you're buying it from some kook you’ve never met before, and you're trusting that kook to send you the item after charging your credit card. Let's not forget that none of this takes place until AFTER you wait a couple days to see if other people drive up the price on you. Despite all this, eBay is not only a widely-accepted medium for buying things, but it’s completely ingrained in our culture. I still think it’s crazy.

Yet here’s this guy who jumps right into making money on the Internet after being shut off from the world for nearly 10 years. Gone are the days when ex-cons take jobs mowing lawns, painting houses or teaching driver’s ed.

I guess I’m just slow to catch on to things. I saw an interview the other day with the founder and CEO of Amazon, who has developed Kindle 2 – a device that’s about as tall and thick as a clipboard, but that stores the text of up to 1500 books. You can bring up all kinds of literature on this electronic screen and read them wherever you please. The first thing that struck me was that this is the second version of the device, so it makes perfect sense that I’m just now hearing about either one of them.

My next thought was that Kindle 2 looks like a remarkable piece of electronic equipment that I will be ready to purchase exactly three years after they stop making it. Here is a rundown of other popular developments in technology and my relationship with them:

MySpace? Nope. Facebook? Uh-uh. Twitter? God bless you. HDTV? My TV is HD compatible, but that’s where it ends. Blue Ray? That is different from HD, but competes with it, right? I’m getting a headache. TiVo? This I would like to have, but it’s not old enough. As soon as TiVo celebrates its 20th anniversary, sign me up baby! The iPhone? This would be a huge waste on someone like me.

I do have an iPod, but that’s not cool anymore, is it? At this point isn’t the iPod what CDs were when the iPod first came out? I don’t know what has supplanted it as the latest, greatest thing in music, but I'm sure at least three things have by now.

I have this blog, but I resisted creating it for three years before finally giving in. More than a year later I’m having a great time, but I don’t feel any more computer savvy than I did when I started. I successfully posted a picture on this blog a year ago and haven’t been able to do so since. I don’t know if I’ve forgotten how, or if the process has changed, but a few months ago I spent hours trying to do it again before finally giving up.

So where does my sedentary nature for technology come from? Not sure. It’s not from my friends. If that were the case, they’d all have to be senior citizens.

It’s not my wife. As I type this, she is e-mailing a picture of our kids that she took with her cell phone. Mine can’t even take pictures, but if it could, I sure as hell wouldn’t know how to do it.

Is it my parents? Tough to say. They have at least three computers in their house, two of which are in the same room. On two different occasions, my dad has given me a computer that he felt was too slow or no longer had the capabilities that he was looking for. Plus, he operates his own Web site.

Then again, it was the mid '90s before my parents got a CD player to replace their record/8-track player. And my mom has a cell phone that she doesn’t turn on.

To be fair, they never looked at the record/8-track player as cutting edge. They didn’t have people over and say, “Hey, want to listen to some funky Carly Simon tunes on our new-age music box?” It really just took up space. I think the only reason it hung around so long was because without it, there would be an empty space in the living room.

As for my mom’s phone, there is no “to be fair” comment. She pays for cell phone service, but never turns it on. I can’t explain it. I can only assume it’s because she can’t recognize when it is losing power, and doesn’t know how to recharge it. Therefore, she’s afraid that if it ever loses power, she’ll never again be able to use it. I, on the other hand, know when my phone is dying AND how to recharge it.

Not sure how impressive that is. These days it doesn’t even qualify me to spend time behind bars.

The Power of Our Peers

We, as a society, do a lot of dumb things. Some times we do dumb things to impress people (buy Hummers), other times out of tradition (spend Christmas with our families) and some times just because they’re fun (get drunk and bet it all on black 7).

But nothing is dumber than doing something for no reason other than because someone else has done it. And we, as a society, do that a lot. Not necessarily in the sense of “keeping up with the Joneses” because a lot of times in those instances, there is at least one other reason to justify the dumb things we do or buy. Even though someone might buy a BMW because his neighbor has one, it can be argued that a BMW is a quality, high-performing automobile that is a good purchase whether your neighbor has one or not.

I’m talking about things that cannot be explained in any other context, and why anyone ever did them in the first place is incomprehensible. For instance, using chop sticks. Or voting Republican (sorry, couldn’t help myself).

Below are just some of the things I’ve noticed that people do only because someone else has already done them or is currently doing them:

Run with the bulls – I understand the desire to do something dangerous for an adrenaline rush, like skydiving or rock climbing, but running with the bulls is in a category of its own. If you were planning to do this and showed up on the big day to find you were the only person who would be running from 12 angry bulls, would you still do it?

Camp out for movie tickets – I also understand camping out overnight for seats to a concert or a sporting event that will be the hot ticket. These are one-time events with limited seating. But a movie will play 10 times a day, every day for three to four months at multiple theaters near you. There is no reason to camp out for movie tickets. None. If you have ever done so, please stop reading this and refrain from telling people you know me.

Put Christmas lights on the outside of our homes – It’s cold, a pain in the ass to do, and we spend most of the season looking at the inside of our homes because, as I mentioned, it’s cold.

Send fruitcake as a gift – It’s the most re-gifted present in history, which means you wouldn’t give it to anyone unless someone else gave it to you first.

Participate in eating contests – Not much of a contest if someone else isn’t involved.

Drive El Caminos – You know there is something called the ‘pick-up,’ right?

If this were the ‘70’s I’d say, “Wear plaid bellbottoms.”

If this were any decade I’d say, “Wear fanny packs.”

If this were your parents I’d say, “Jump off a bridge” – Growing up, you no doubt learned that jumping off a bridge wasn’t a good idea even if the whole neighborhood was doing so. Despite the desire of some people to bungee jump, take a dip or end it all, parents didn’t believe any value could be derived from this activity.

Chant “De-fense” at sporting events – If you do this, you’re not only assuming that the team you cheer for is so dumb that they are unable to tell when to play offense and when to play defense, but that the team’s coaching staff is also unable to recognize when to play one or the other. This team, in all likelihood, is not worth rooting for. And let’s face it, if the guy next to you didn’t do it first, would you be the one to lead the chant? Didn’t think so.

Root for the Chicago Cubs – I mean, seriously. A hundred years without a championship? Misery loves company indeed.

Marry Larry King

Marry Liza Minnelli

Put Flavor Flav on TV

Cast Keanu Reeves in movies – The Matrix was 10 years ago. He hasn’t made a good one since.

And I'm sure there are thousands more. Feel free to add to the list below.

Nobody Knows the Trouble I Can't Watch

Editor's note: Below is what I wrote earlier this week, before the ice storm that has hit a large portion of the country forced hundreds of thousands of people in Louisville (and certainly many other cities) to lose power. Our local news is reporting that the electric company won't have power fully restored to the area for at least a week. I know the inconveniences of losing power for that long, but only in early September. Not late January.

I hesitated with this week's posting because given these latest developments, writing about my "problem" seemed a little out of touch, slightly self-centered and a tad insensitive. But I had written it before storm conditions made a huge impact on people, and the message is very tounge-in-cheek, so I thought maybe it could provide some levity. With that said, I do hope conditions improve quickly for those without power and life can return to normal for everyone.

Usually I reserve this space for light-hearted topics, but I’m going through something that I feel I should share in hopes that it will bring me understanding and offer you, the reader, some perspective. My TV is busted.

I’ve asked myself over and over, “How is this fair?” and “What have I done to deserve this?” especially considering the thing is only three years old, but I’m slowly coming to grips with the reality. I lost her on Monday and it’s time to move on.

Fortunately my daughter was born last Friday, so that joyful news has served as a nice distraction. But it’s hard to truly grasp my feelings when an event so wonderful is followed by one so tragic. To make matters worse, a snow storm came through on the day it went out, making it too dangerous to venture out to buy a new one. The city is asking everyone to stay off the roads unless you have an emergency. But come to think of it, if a broken television doesn’t constitute an emergency, I don’t know what does.

Let’s face it, watching your TV completely give out is like holding a friend in your arms while he dies. Only in this instance, it’s also like having to share your living room with your dead friend’s body for two days afterwards.

I’m not the only one who’s been hurt by this; the whole family is suffering. During those times when my two-year-old son’s “playful energy” and “good-natured restlessness” are a little too much to take, my wife and I like to pop in a Baby Einstein DVD. And he likes them even more than we do. But living with a two year old and not being able to watch television is like spending the night in the woods without food and water – there are ways to survive, but you’re really going to wish you had brought along food and water.

The poor kid is still struggling to accept the loss. He’s spent the better part of two days exhibiting OCD behavior by fruitlessly pushing the power button on and off and muttering, “TV broken.”

Sadly, when I think about it, there is so little on TV that I like to watch anymore. I never would have guessed that losing her would be this hard. With all the reality shows and spinoffs of original shows that we never watched in the first place (I’m looking at you, CSI and Law & Order), most of what we tune in for are the few sitcoms left and reruns of extinct sitcoms. And yet, the silence is deafening.

I guess what I miss is the satisfaction of holding the remote in my hand and zipping through the channels as my fine motor skills morph into gelatinous goo. I miss turning it on and seeing promos for future shows that block out half the action of the show I'm trying to watch. I miss cable news and sports channels taking the phrase "sensory overload" to a new plateau by running scrolling tickers, side-panel previews and roundtable discussions, and I miss hearing Jon Stewart make fun of them. And even though I don't watch them, I miss knowing that if I wanted to, I could tune into a number of talk shows in which people excel far more at yelling than they do at composing a rational thought (now I'm looking at you, Bill O'Reilly). It’s true what they say – you never really appreciate something until it’s gone.

Ah well, she had a good run. I think I hear a plow truck outside my window now. If I can survive the night, the roads should be passable by sun up. Then we’ll welcome an even newer member to our family.

Party On Wayne, Party On Prez

Last week when I mentioned that this year's Presidential Inauguration was something so weighty and momentous that it was hard to find humor in it, that was because I hadn't yet seen any of the proceedings. Then later during the weekend, I watched about 30 minutes of the pre-Tuesday celebration before I realized it wasn't MTV's coverage of Spring Break. Other than all the winter coats, everything else was virtually identical, right down to the Madeline Albright keg stands.

People partied in Washington for days leading up to the Inauguration. And not just your average Joes and political big wigs. So many musicians and Hollywood celebrities were on hand I thought an intervention for Robert Downey Jr. had broken out. From the first speech given sometime Saturday or Sunday to the last Inaugural Ball Tuesday night, the length of the entire event just missed beating out the Oscars in terms of TV coverage.

By the time Tuesday rolled around, we all saw the images of the massive number of people gathered on the Mall in front of the Capitol. The crowd was so large it nearly rivaled what is usually found at the DMV. For some, the experience had to be a little like going to the DMV - like the inability to see the front of the crowd or to clearly hear what was being said. Of course despite those pratfalls, most people were filled with incredible hope and optimism, whereas the DMV leaves most people feeling like souless, vindictive, spine-crushing creatures. Kind of like a less powerful Vladimir Putin - "If all you people don't get out of my way, I will poison you."

I say "less powerful" because Putin actually has his goons poison people, while I'm not able to rely on goons. Not yet, anyway. (I hope he's not a regular reader of this blog.)

Anyway, I forget my point. But I bet Madeline Albright could drink Putin under the table. And he's Russian, so that's saying something.

Nothing's Getting Through

I have writer’s block. Well, I guess I can’t really call it “writer’s block.” It’s actually more like “guy who occasionally posts nonsensical ramblings to a web page” block. Or “blogger's block,” if you insist. Whatever you call it, I’m out of ideas.

I contemplated writing about the freezing temperatures and how it’s so nipple-twisting cold outside that the government should make it legal to insulate our homes with whale blubber, grizzly bear fur and spotted owl brains. But that’s the only thing I could think to say. Probably because it’s too damn cold to think.

Then there’s the big story this week about the US Airways flight that was brought down by some birds. But aside from the remarkable job done by the pilots and crew to keep anyone from getting hurt, the one thing I kept coming back to with that story was how much I would hate birds if I was on the flight. I mean, it’s one thing when they poop on your car, but when they force your plane to crash into the Hudson River in the middle of January… that’s out of line. I think after that I’d buy a monkey and train it to throw its feces at every bird it sees, whether the bird pooped on my car or not.

Yesterday I thought about how 30 Rock is quickly becoming my favorite show, thanks in part to the character Dr. Leo Spaceman who, on Thursday’s episode, asked “When will modern science find a cure for a woman’s mouth?”

Another one of his finer moments came last season when he was called upon to help a man who slipped into a diabetic comma. The less-than-reputable doctor picked up the phone and dialed 411 instead of 911, and when the operator asked him, “What listing?” he furrowed his brow in a confused manner and replied, “Uh… diabetes repair?”

But those are just rehashes of some funny moments from a sitcom, not the source of a blog posting. So then I thought how poignant and fitting it is that this year our first African-American president will be sworn in just one day after we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. day. But I couldn’t find a lot of comedy in that, and offering serious insight on weighty, historic political moments isn’t really my forte (buuuuurrrrrrrrp).

I could always follow up on my plan to list my New Year’s resolutions, but two weeks into the new year is usually when people start breaking their resolutions, not making them. So I missed the boat on that. Maybe next year.

There was an embarrassing moment earlier this week when I went out for lunch and tried multiple times to secure a cup lid to the top of my fountain drink. I finally decided that none of the lids were the right size, so I asked the woman behind the counter to set out some more of the appropriate-sized lids. She immediately popped the same lid on the cup that I had struggled with for 20 minutes. Her advice of, “Don’t be afraid to break a nail,” seemed unnecessary.

I could have made that incident the subject of this posting, but it was really more pathetic than funny. However, I realized that my inability to attach the cup lid to the accompanying cup is sort of a metaphor for my inability to come up with something to write about after two weeks. Now is not the time to come up short on ideas because it’s only going to get worse. After my daughter is born in a little over a week, I’ll barely have the brain capacity to tie my shoes or remember how to get to work every day, let alone pop on cup lids (write new blog posts).

Maybe I should stick to bottles and cans. Not metaphorically speaking, just when I’m thirsty. If my creative problem persists, I’ll just start posting links to porn.

Ringing In Some Self Improvement

Hope everyone had a safe and happy New Year’s celebration.

New Year’s Eve is one of those few occasions when nearly every sector of the worldwide population has a reason to party. Saying goodbye to the current year and gleefully sharing in the optimism that is a “fresh start,” even though the next year will likely bring more of the same crap, gives everyone an excuse to go nuts until the wee hours of the morning.

However, if you live with a two year old, and you and your wife – who is eight months pregnant – are still awake at 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, you’re probably saying to yourself, “Man it’s getting late.”

And if you are like me, the only reason you’re still up at 11 p.m. is because you’re trying to get the two year old back to sleep. Otherwise you would have been resting comfortably in your bed at 7:30 p.m.

It was during this time that my mind drifted away from vengeful thoughts toward my crying child and instead began to think about New Year’s resolutions. I thought that for 2009 maybe I should resolve to be a better husband or be a better father or to work harder at my job or to help my fellow man in need whenever possible. But for me, those are highly unrealistic goals and the New Year’s experts (who disseminate their vast knowledge in checkout counter magazines nationwide) always say not to make resolutions that are too lofty or unattainable. So then I thought I’ll stick with my original plan to wear socks with fewer holes in them.

I was content to go with this until I caught a few minutes of Deal or No Deal yesterday that made me feel like my resolution is a little lame and self serving. During a break from the regular brain-teasing action, the women who open the suitcases were talking about their resolutions and one of them – Cinnamon or Jasmine or Fibula; can’t remember – said she hopes to be able to surf more. At that moment I’m sure everyone who was watching thought the exact same thing, “The world is lucky to have you, Fibula.”

So now I feel obligated to try something more challenging and meaningful. Leave it to a show hosted by Howie Mandel to cause me to reflect on my life and push me to better myself. My hat’s off to you, Howie. So stay tuned for my revised resolutions. Right now I’m thinking of something along the lines of relieving my butler from polishing my car so that he can have some time off. Besides, the nanny can do it.