More Bad Commercials

The Ped Egg... How could I have forgotten the Ped Egg? We were talking about bad commercials last night at youth group and the Ped Egg comes up as universally hated. Why? Because feet are disgusting. All feet. I don't care if you think you have cute feet. You do not. Nobody does. Feet are gross.

Even in the most exquisite homes, should you pry off the molding from around the ceiling, you will find and unfinished edge that looks dry and cracked and disused from being out of sight and hard to reach. You may even find a gaping unfinished gap where the drywall of the two were to meet but didn't. Besides, put the trim back on and no one is the wiser. The trim is shoes, the rough, unfinished corners are feet.

There is not a great amount of fine design that went into making feet look pretty. They are far away from the eyes and should always be that way. Feet are not to be regarded so much as they are to be cared for. Minimally.

I know I am going to die from slipping in the shower with one foot in my hand and the rest of me balanced precariously on the other. This is why as soon as I get done washing my feet, I know at least I will live another month before I have to do that again!

What, you wash your feet every day? Listen, I don't have that kind of faith. Cheating death can only lead to death. Besides, all the soap and water rush down there anyway! Your feet are the cleanest part of you after you shower. Until the second you step out...

You know that bathmat? Riddled with germs and fecal coliforms; to say nothing of the bathroom floor. As soon as you put your feet down, the jig is up. Feet are gross. They cannot be made ungross by polish and pedis or any other matter of dressing them up; except to cover them completely. For those of you fetishists out there, I think you are sick. You have a sickness. Feet are gross.

And the commercial for the Ped Egg, you know the one made famous by the shot of the clear plastic collector filled with what is ostensibly "foot shavins'" but looks for all the world like grated Parmesan cheese? Never should have been allowed to happen.

Which brings me to the next series of commercials that ought to be outlawed now and forever more; hair removal.

If something is called the "personal groomer", why do you compel me to watch you use it? I don't need to see some lady of a certain age hacking back her 'stache, (which by the way so thick I have second-thoughts about shaving mine off because it is comparatively wimpy), or god forbid demonstrating the use of the product in the "gentle areas" which this thing is really designed for. I just hope she cleaned the thing before she went from her "gentle areas" to her mustache.

And do these people know that gentle and genital sound a lot alike? What happened to the old days when the commercials referred to this region as the "bikini line"? I can live with that, because as much as I don't want to hear about bikini line maintenance, at least I can think about bikinis while the announcer is talking. And that's not half bad.

But what of feminine hygiene commercials? Never bothered me. They don't show the use of their product. And for good reason! They just allude to it. The target market gets the message and the rest of us are able to go about our lives living in blissful ignorance, just as it was before the commercial. That's good advertising!

I was regaling the youth about another hair removal product whose advertising we could not escape, NADS - the Australian hair removal system. Sadly named, NADS was like a do-it-yourself (with the help of a friend) at home waxing kit. I don't know if NADS means colloquially the same thing in Australia as it means here in the states, but if there is one place you would not want to use NADS was on the nads (they're testicles, Mom). That can only lead to bad things.

The worst part was the actors who were trying their level best not to look like they were in excruciating pain for having used the product. And then the really worst part was when they proudly showed the hair that had been removed on the patented removal pad, which was now mixed in with the sort of amber-greenish tinged NADS product itself. It made a terrible emetic melange. And if you were unemployed or worked third shift, you were exposed to this commercial more times than I believe could possibly be healthy.

You may notice I did not take the time to link any of these commercials to the blentry, because like horror movies or porn they should be viewed only by adults at their own risk with full knowledge aforethought of what you may see. After all, like the popular phrase goes; "You've seen it, you can't unsee it". I will not be party to spreading the message of these purveyors of personal hygiene. After all, the first word of personal hygiene is 'personal'. I for one think we should keep it that way.

Straight Arrow

Among my favorite commercials on T.V. right now is the one for an attorney trolling for clients who have taken Accutane, the acne drug. It says something like:
If you or a loved on has taken Accutane and sustained a serious injury or death; call the blah blah blah law firm. Are you for real? How am I going to call you if I am dead?

I know what they are trying to say, but English teachers all over the land should be using this as an example of how not to write. Not that I know any better - I can't imagine how my friend Regina, the English Professor, feels when she is bombarded with the myriad egregious grammatical travesties I commit each and every blog. I mean I love commas, this much is clear, and I overuse the parenthetical thought. I mean, why not just include it in the text? And where it this all going anyway? He is talking about commercials for no good reason! He's hit rock bottom. He has nothing left to write about.

The poorly written lawyer commercial made me nostalgic for the old "Head On" commercials they played at the end of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy:
"Head On, apply directly to the forehead..."
I decided to get online and look it up to see if it was still in the stores. It apparently is. Does it work? Not according to any of the research I read. It certainly isn't as affective (effective?) as an aspirin.

Which brings me to aspirin, I guess. We have all heard that it is quite a miracle that aspirin (acetylsalicylic acid) in its current form was discovered a long time ago 1899, lest it would have been caught up in the rigmarole of today's pharmacological industry. Though the plants from which it is synthesized has been known for thousands of years to contain broad therapeutic powers, Bayer was the first to put it to market in the all important pill form. In fact, the lead developer of aspirin for Bayer is also credited with the creation of the water soluble pill. There is some tongue in cheek data that indicates that a drug indicated affective (effective?) for so many maladies would cost $90.00 a pill and be available only by prescription.

And yet, for such a magnificent drug, it is marketed straight down the middle, without using gimmicks and shouting. Who thinks that shouting a slogan like "apply directly to the forehead" is helpful to the curing of a headache? But it was crude and it worked. It sold tons of product that didn't work.

Did I stumble on something obvious here? The more capable a product is, the less it has to be shouted about. Conversely the more shouting being done might seem to indicate that this thing might be something less than what it is purported to be.

Right. Not a revelation I admit, but important none-the-less. Here's why. I am about to go back into sales. Instead of shouting about how good I am, or my company is, or my product is, I am going to show it. I am going to make sure I don't need to be marketed, but instead known and trusted. I am going to quietly (as much as that adverb can be attributed to any verb being performed by me) go about proving my effectiveness.

Sorry no jokes or punchy twists of phrase. Sometimes you just have to be straightforward. And lately I haven't been feeling the funny. Not that I have been sad - far from it, just not witty as such. Which usually happens when I am essentially content. My humor comes from the same place as the poorly written law firm commercial... when life isn't working out, sometimes you gotta shout about it.

I am sure there will be ample opportunity to be funny in the future. After all, the newness of the new job will wear off and the realization that I am still working for a living will sink in and I will find something to be funny about. For now, though, it's straight down the middle.

The Dog Days Are Over

This is it. My last weekend of unplanned, though much needed furlough from working. I start on Tuesday in my new capacity as an account executive for Jarvis Property Restorations and Great Lakes Cleaning. I am really excited to work for a new company and continue on with my current company in a different capacity.

My brain is liquefying from being at home so much. I admit to be so stir crazy that I have become ineffective. You know how sometimes you just curl into a ball and the world goes by you? I am in the ball. Thoreau would say my hodiernal circle is out pacing me. Thoreau was a goof. Don't get me started on Thoreau.

So, I can't wait. I awoke this morning the the song "Dog Days Are Over" by Florence and the Machine running through my head. Click the link if you would like to hear the song. For those of you not so inured, the lyrics follow:

Happiness / hit her / like a train on a track
Coming towards her / stuck still / no turning back
She hid around corners / and she hid under beds
She killed it with kisses and from it she fl-ed
With every bubble she sank with a drink
And washed it away down the kitchen sink.
The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are comin' so you better run
Run fast for your mother; run fast for your father
Run for your children all your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your longing behind.
You can't carry it with you / if you want to survive
The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses
'Cos here they come
And I never wanted
anything from you
Except
everything / you had
And / what was left after that too / Oh!
Happiness / hit her / like a bullet in the back
Struck from /a great height
By someone /who should have known better / than that
The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses
'Cos here they come
Run fast for your mother / run fast for your father
Run for your children all your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your longing behind
You can't carry it with you / if you want to survive
The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses
'Cos here they come
The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horse-s are comin'
So you'd better run

Indeed. The dog days are over. I suppose that this level of optimism is unwarranted given that my crystal ball is still in the shop and I have no idea what the future holds. But isn't that the great thing about optimism (or faith or hope)? You do it even though you have no right to. Hopefully attitude is everything and I have everything under control.

This Old House

My house was built in 1926 which makes it - well, past its prime. No longer can you just put on some new paint to cover over the ravages of age. This was made painfully obvious by the previous owner(s) who tried to do just that. Our Realtor, who is also a good friend was circumspect about us buying the house in the first place, because of all the paint on all the trim.

The house is full of trim and molding from floor to ceiling. And all of it was caked, (literally caked) with layers and layers of paint. It was to the point in some areas where you could not even make out the detail of the piece of trim. Corners resembled more like acutely angled arches. There were drips everywhere. The good news is that much of the original wood is unpainted and gorgeous, so it's not all bad. I'd attach some pictures, but Em has them all on her computer and she is in Chicago.

This is why it took us the better part of 8 months to strip and paint one room. Sure, it's a big room but some people can't imagine why it took 8 months. All I can say is, you go one inch at a time with a heat gun and various sharp implements pulling off strips of paint in many layers each with varying properties.

For instance, one layer would come right off like a big piece of dead skin, (sorry for that simile, but it's apt), whereas the next layer would simply turn to muck and need to be worked very slowly and deftly. This of course is due to the differences in paint over the years. The original lead based oil paints simply don't want to come off. And it is pretty apparent that the modern paints over it were not applied sans primer.

The faces of the walls themselves were in no better shape. Clearly there was wallpaper at one point over the original (forest green!) paint, over which someone decided to paint. And so with heat and scraping and not a little swearing, it all came off, too. After that, the walls were sanded and the plaster fared to as smooth as I could make it. Then it was all primed and painted properly.

God, I just went back and read the last few paragraphs. Sorry. If you think reading about it is boring (it is) try doing it (no, don't!). What brings this up is that I am now taking all the paint off the door casings upstairs and I am reliving the horror all over again. I started this endeavor immediately after finishing the other painting and then just ignored it for a year leaving them in situ. However, there is only so much sitting around I can do and I have been doing a lot of it the last two weeks, so it was time to make some progress.

I have done a couple hours a couple days over my hiatus. Today was the third two-hour session. It is terribly difficult work. It is terribly boring work. I have to wear an elbow brace and a wrist brace to keep my carpal tunnel down to a dull roar, (a condition which not incidentally became exacerbated during the initial scraping/painting job). The job is mad no easier by the fact I have limited motion and the paint chips seem to have a malevolent sentience in as much as they seek out the space between my arm braces and my skin. Add the paint chips and the sweat and the chaffing is nearly unbearable for more than a couple hours; even though I put on powder before hand.

It is notable that after two hours of labor, I can see that despite the piles of paint chips and dust that now live on the floor instead of on the trim you can note exactly zero progress. As soon as I get done I see whole sections of my work area that I simply did not get to. It is frustrating. No matter how many times I try to coax myself to stay in one area and move on only when it is done completely, I can't. I will step outside my mind for a time and whence I return, I am surprised to find myself scraping in a whole different area, starting something new when the area I just left is patently undone.

This short attention span is my bane. I suppose I would have been diagnosed as ADD as a child if my parents hadn't been more patient. It is amazing to think that with different parents (as an adoptee it is not out of the realm of possibilitly) I could have been drugged just for being a little flighty and precocious. Thankfully my parents simply tried their best to keep me in some sort of envelope. It was a big envelope.

I digress - see how easy it is for me to get off topic? I just had to go back an re-read the last paragraphs to remember where I was going with this. The point is that these maintenance jobs are a labor of love. And in order to do something right and be proud of it, you just have to suck it up and do it. So what if I don't get it done all during my hiatus from work? I also did taxes (which was preferable to scraping paint just to frame it another way) and got a lot of other things done, too. The time hasn't been wholly unproductive.

When the door casings are prepped, I will pull the doors themselves. I hope to have them "dipped" so I don't have to put a bunch of labor into pulling the paint off them. Under the paint is some sort of finish which will have to be sanded right through to the wood. It would be much better to have a professional dip strip them so I can go about the work or making doors open and close the right way in openings that long ago lost any semblance of being square, level and plumb. We bought some period correct bone white porcelain door knobs on this past summer's trip to Pennsylvania to trim them all out nicely.

Once that's all done, we can prime and paint which is so easy compared to all the work it takes to get there. And it will look great. So great, we will be able to more easily spot all the problems in the bedrooms; namely the painted over wallpaper, the popcorn ceilings, the paint glommed trim and the ill fitting doors. Sound familiar?

It's a good thing we opted for the 30 year mortgage. It is going to take at least that long to get it how we want it. This disregards the dyer need to restore all the wood casement windows (it took me all summer to do one, poorly, and there are 15 more to do) finish the basement (complete with new plumbing and wiring) and build a new garage and pour a new driveway. The latter couple items so expensive and time intensive I can't even wrap my mind around them.

I need to get back to work, this being unemployed is going to kill me.

The Shock of the Class of 1993

I have been recently thrust back into the early 1990's due to certain events that have caused a lot of us from East Kentwood H.S. to become nostalgic for the "good old days." It was enough to compel me to dust off my old yearbook and take a little trip back in time. This is indeed a rarity for me. I am not so misty for my high school days. In fact, I have said it before and I'll say it until I have drawn my very last breath; you couldn't pay me a million bucks to go back to high school. Not even knowing what I know while inhabiting the body of my former glorious (in relation to the present) self. Not as the mind of the older me but with the hair of the younger me; and the Mustang and the spending cash and the many soft lips of many pretty girls.

I hated high school. I suppose in that I am not alone. My dad used to revert to the old- "these are the best days of your life"- line that we have all come to know and love. It made me want to punch him. I am glad to say that these (the ones I am living now) are by far the best years of my life so far. My 30s have been mostly awesome, even though I am not wealthy as I had hoped, or famous as I had once imagined. I am happy. On that you cannot put a price.

Back to the yearbook. In the first pages is a small graphic called: How Much Was It? It goes on to tell me that gas was $1.03, a school lunch was $1.45 (and not altogether terrible for that price), almost all fast food value meals were $2.99 (it was the middle of the now infamous "burger wars" and I was on the front lines) and cigarettes were $1.99 a pack.

Let's pause here, shall we? What a different world it was that the cost of cigarettes would be referenced as a casual metric in a school yearbook! Imagine if you will the yearbook committee of any school in the land of ours doing this today! They would be on the six-o'clock news for Pete's sake!

Our class songs were Forever Young (and not the good one by Bob Dylan, but the shitty one by Rod Stewart) and End of the Road by Boyz 2 Men. This was back when Bobby Brown hadn't squandered all his talents and become the rusted out hulk of a crack-head he would become. Oh well, it's his prerogative. See what I did there? Two of you will get that joke and it isn't even funny.

Best hangout and worst restaurant honors both went to Denny's. That's like winning an Oscar and a Razzie for the same movie! We were slackers, indicating that "NO JOB" was the best after-school job. The beginning of the apathetic "so what?" generation had begun.

I am glad to say that by and large, except for some large-ish hair, we don't look silly and outdated like the yearbook pictures of my parents. Most of the fashions can be recognized as the progenitors of today's fashions. I smile when I see a lot of people I had completely forgotten about.There are others who I am Facebook friends with, today. Some faces pop out and still create in me an involuntary seizure due to the rushing back of some repressed bad memory. Dude, let it go. It's been almost twenty years.

Robert Gaines is one of the people pictured. He was (and I imagine still is) a big man. He literally stood head and shoulders above everyone in the school and was broad as he was tall. His skin was very dark and his smile was very wide. That dude scared me. He never gave me a reason to be scared of him, but he was a big black man and to the eyes of a mid-sized white kid from the 'burbs, he was scary. We were a predominately white school with a close knit African American population. Robert was a "crossover" kind of guy. He was revered by students of all races. In that sense, I suppose he was a unifier of sorts.

Robert had a lot of friends and was our Homecoming King. He was a state champion wrestler and a standout on our football team, which at that time was a perennial contender in it's division.

He was, I recall a nice fellow. And many people lately have recalled that, too. I don't remember having classes with Robert, or spending a lot of time with him outside of the weight room. I didn't know him well at all. But I knew him well enough to be shocked at the recent news he was being extradited from his home in Illinois in connection with an unsolved murder of an eight year old girl here in Grand Rapids all the way back in 1993, the year we graduated.

According to reports Gaines and another man, Bobby Brown (not the famous one from the song) were involved. Brown is alleged to have done the shooting into a house- a supposed retribution for being mugged earlier. It was thought, apparently that the muggers lived in the house. Instead of hitting any alleged muggers, eight year old Lativia Johnson was struck and killed while getting a late night glass of milk out of the fridge.The family has not been able to rest; and who could blame them? The tragic and random death of a young person is that hardest thing in the world to cope with.

Why this is shocking is Robert is just not "that guy." I know in my heart he did not do the shooting. I cannot say how I would have reacted in the same situation if I were present when that went down. It is beyond me to judge the actions of any man. It is my hope that Robert is heard in court and that he is to some extent exonerated. Surely if he was there and if he knew what happened and did not report it and withheld information during the investigation (he was investigated at the time) then he clearly did wrong. But that kind of wrong is a far bit off pulling the trigger and killing an innocent little girl and for the sake of Robert Gaines getting a fair trial, I would like the news to draw that distinction when they are reporting on the more sensational aspects of this tragedy.

As for the people on the various message boards who without information, without knowing the people involved, without having been there- you can all shut up. Withhold your opinions as you have nothing to add. When Robert's friends and classmates express their shock and disbelief that this was "their Robert", let them. It is shocking and it is unbelievable. And for those who would immediately judge and call these men scum and worthless, I say to you there is nothing to be gained from that debasement. Especially because you don't know the people involved. Lastly, I touch on this point again, you were not there. You don't know. You can't know everything that was involved.

I have done some things in my life that I am deeply regretful for and at one time or another I have said I would never do that. Then it comes time to walk in those shoes. I do not take away the grief or closure to the family of the slain little girl. I could not possibly understand their pain. I would never try to make it small.

But I also know that there is more to this story that no one but two people who are alive on this earth knows. One of those is my friend, Robert. I for one am sticking by him, regardless of what happened that night, what has happened since and what happens at the trial.

RISKy Business

RISK
I bought it for my computer since nobody will play with me in real life. I am very good. I only lost once, and that was to myself. So, I guess even then I was a winner.

Blogging
My carpel tunnel is keeping me from typing a bunch. I am wearing a brace now, which diminishes my already poor typing abilities. Plus I've been trying to get things done before starting the new job next week. I still won't get everything done and there has been considerable down time, but I feel the need to conjure some excuse. That's the one I went with.

Truck
Still want it. Can't have it. Still want it.

Taxes
Almost done. Need to double check my work... could I really be getting money back this year?
Too soon to say, but at least I shouldn't owe anything. We pay quarterly because Em is a contract employee and so no taxes get pulled from he check each week. This means we have to estimate and pay quarterly. It also means the government sticks us in the nether eye as for the amount of taxes per dollar. So, I have become a pretty good estimator over the last few years, which is good since we got really surprised a few years back and there were many tears.

So, even though we won't owe more, we also won't enjoy a windfall of a return. Any money we get back we just put toward next year's taxes. No going to Disney World for us, and no new pickup truck.

The Snow Plow (or That Goddamned Sonofabitch!)
You know, it's bad enough we have to shovel, but then you wake up in the morning and find that pernicious little bitch the plow man cut you off from the world, again! This time I got hit especially hard because the neighbor's daughter (bless her heart) parks her piece of shit car on my side of the street, causing the plow to have to veer off, thus allowing the accumulated snow of an entire city block to rest right in front of my five foot wide driveway.

Well, it took me forever to undo that, and caused my carpel tunnel to render my left hand a worthless and numb appendage suitable only for Bob Dole. This afternoon, the daughter (bless her heart) had some difficulty getting out of the spot since the plow did a number on her. I sat and watched, but I did not help.

Maybe the plow guy ain't so bad after all.

Dinner
I mentioned Florentine's. There was no argument. Motion carried. That is all.

The Marlboro Man's Truck

I don't want to be the Marlboro man, I just want to drive his truck.
No, I don't own a ranch and I don't haul a bunch of junk.
In fact if I had the Marlboro man's truck, there's nothing I would do.
I'd just know that if I wanted to, I could roll right over you.

Sure the diesel is a bit much, I don't need to tow 15,000 pounds;
But those big chrome wheels keep that thing way up off the ground.
Why drive with only two wheels, when you can drive with four?
It's not like it's a six wheel drive, or an eight wheel drive or more!

Sure, there are semis out there with less torque and horsepower;
And after you fuel it up, you need to take a shower.
It is so big that on the road I would be in a great big gleaming bubble.
I would have the excuse I crave to wear cowboy boots and stubble.

The towing mirrors are so gosh-darn big it is easy to look back.
The diesel engine throbs with it's staccato clickety-clack.
No, I don't need the Marlboro man's truck; it's a waste of hydrocarbons.
But I maybe could afford it if I cut back on my bourbons.

That big chrome grille in your rear view would express the world of hurtin'!
That one thing is without much doubt, in fact it's rather certain.
Because I've got the Marlboro man's truck and you best be out of my lane!
For if you don't I'll run you off and you'll be in much pain!
_______________________________________________________________

You may gather from the above rhyming couplets, that I want a truck. I had a pickup once which I loved, but when you buy a car for $400.00 you know it's not going to be a long-term relationship. Fred, the truck, was vaguely blue, but mostly rust. I am sure now that it is long since off the road, its buyer bought it for the fresh and strong 302 under the hood.

For what I used it, Fred was a good truck. I have always wanted a truck since. Last summer I test drove some. I liked them, but convinced myself I was not a "truck person" because I could tell Emily wasn't on board. She has a thing against trucks. She didn't understand Fred at first, either. She came around when she benefited the utility that Fred gave us.

But, to thine own self be true, I want a pickup pretty badly, whether the case can be made for need or not. However, though I have conveniently created an argument that is not predicated on logic, I feel compelled to insert some logic just for giggles.

I have arthritis in my upper back, neck and shoulders and I notice it is very uncomfortable getting down into a car of normal height. It doesn't seem like much at first, but if I am running errands or calling on customers, I am in and out a lot. My neck especially takes some beating as it doesn't like being "cocked" to the right. Emily's car has "fast" windshield and an imposing A-pillar which makes it very hard to get in and out of. My car isn't as bad, but the problem exists and the pain is very real. I could avoid the whole problem if I could climb up into a vehicle.

Being on the road as much as I am it is nice to have the view from up there, too. Instead of being bullied by the taller SUVs and minivans of the world that seem to be completely clueless of your presence and usurp your sight lines. Being a conscientious driver, I wouldn't be that guy. I like the four wheel drive part, too. Winter being what it is. And I don't need a big back seat, I don't have any kids.

I want a diesel engine for the economy and durability it offers. They are inherently able to go 250,000 or more miles without a hickup. And while all that is true, it's also a great big lie, because I really want a diesel because it is cool, it makes a cool noise, it is as powerful as a lineman on meth and you get to fill up at truck stops next to the big rig guys. I love the big rig guys. They always know everything. I guess driving all day with nothing to do but think and learn will do that for you.

Is your internet search about how to get to Mizzoula, Montana causing you annoyance? Go wait next to a diesel pump for five minutes and a trucker will be there to give you step by step instructions adjusted for seasonal load limitations; and they'll be able to tell you where all the cops are, too.

And to all those who would say I don't need a 3/4 ton pickup and that a half-ton would do, I say nuts to you. Why get something that is adequate when you can have something that is more than adequate? Since when was minimally acceptable, acceptable? The money it costs up front would be made back in higher resale value, longer use and lower service costs. So there.

Have I convinced you yet? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Catostrphic Marketing and other Shitty Things

Luvs brand diapers is proudly proclaiming to have the newest and greatest feature in the world of disposable diapers. Blowout protection. For real, that's what they call it- blowout protection.
This prompted me to do a little research. The disposable diaper was created by a woman named Marion Donovan. She holds twenty patents, the disposable diaper being the one we would know her for today. It was only through dogged determination and grit that her invention ever became produced at all. Incredibly, the idea was turned down by every major manufacturer of the day and it wasn't until 1961- ten whole years after she had patented the idea that someone took an interest.

That someone was Victor Mills who was a well known product developer with with Proctor and Gamble and was the one to market the new disposable product as "Pampers." Mr. Mills was nobody's fool. He was an excellent marketer and had a prescient hand on the pulse of Americans' wants and needs. He is credited with shepherding into being such well-known household products as Ivory soap, Duncan Hine's cake mix and, from my perspective the most important of all these, Pringles potato chips.

Pringles are of a singular genius because they are synthesized (which is to say mixed and molded and baked) from potato flakes that are essentially waste product from the manufacturing process of other potato products in much of the same way Medium Density Fiber Board (MDF) and Oriented Strand Board (OSB) are made from cast off shavings of wood mixed with resin. The man literally created a salable product (a delicious one at that) out of waste. It's a good thing he retired before Soylent Green hit the theaters. That may have given him too many ideas.

But that is way far off the topic. Sorry to go all Modern Marvels on you, but we owe a lot to the "Clark Griswold's" of the world and they seldom achieve the notoriety they deserve. At least all eight of you will know the rest of the story.

Back to the blowout protection. Mrs. Donovan thought the reason why disposable diapers were such a worthy invention was they were a huge time saver for the American family (the mom), they were hygienic (used once and done), safer (no safety pins), and a damn might bit more likely to be operated properly by a man the once or twice a year it became necessary for a man take part in the messy parts of child rearing (that weekend the wife had the flu).

And she was right. But I am certain that Luvs is making a big mistake with this ad campaign as, from a layman's perspective, blowout protection ought to have been first and foremost on their mind way when they were developing their product! What else could possibly have been of higher importance on the punch list during the development meetings?

Back to the research. Luvs, the brand, was introduced in 1976 and was developed in part by an astronaut Kenneth Buell. Since babies are not equipped to give a whole lot of feedback on these types of things, vis a vis market research and the effectiveness of design, who better than an adult who in his profession had occasion to wear and use diapers (in space, I'm sure- I am not assailing Captain Buell's continence)?

So, the big difference with Luvs when they came out, from a marketing perspective anyway, was additional padding. The trend of fat lazy babies sitting in front of the T.V. had obviously begun by that time and Luvs was there to capture the obese glutinous baby market with their heavily padded husky diapers.But apparently, it was not until the year 2010, a full 34 years later (in my case, almost a lifetime) that they got around to blowout protection as a priority.

I can see where some innovations happen over a period of time. Like having specific fitted diapers for boys' and girls' to account for anatomical differences. Some years back one of the brands came out with resealable tabs, presumably to check the load and see if it needed attendance immediately or if you could stay to the end of the movie without destroying the diaper or the closure tab. These are good innovations, but all the while, I'm thinking chief among the core values of a product like this would be blowout prptection.

Luvs introducing and proudly marketing this as a feature is tantamount to Goodyear marketing their tires as "Goodyear tires keep your wheels from sparking while you drive down the road." No shit!

What could possibly be more important than blowout prevention on a diaper for god's sake? Leak guard is nice to have, but since you are basically telling me that all these years I have been lucky not to be on the receiving end of a shit storm from the infant or toddler in the shopping cart in front of me, a little pee isn't so concerning to me now! Hell, who doesn't get a little dribble every other time they have a pee anyway? I am saying the leak guard thing could have been put on the back burner, especially in light of the fact it took 34 years to solve the blowout thing!

I think Luvs has inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, and has as much as admitted to the shocking lack of readiness of our nation's diapers. Each day that has gone by has been a miracle that some sort of massive broad based systemic failure of baby diapers hasn't left our homes and places of business knee deep in reprocessed pureed peaches, or that a coordinated attack from extremist terror groups hasn't taken place that would spread shit all over the country, all at once.

This all brings to the fore something that is a much larger concern, something that nobody seems to want to talk about. As usual, I will have to be the one to say it. Babies are gross! Everything about a baby, a toddler or pretty much every human until they learn how to wash their hands without being prompted is disgusting. Based on my armchair observations that is a large percentage of the population! I've seen things, man! Bad things!

I have seen kids drag a piece of cheese all across the floor and eat it, or rather gum it to death. And I have seen same said babies give the gummy melted gooey legionnaire's infected cheese to their parent who smiles and says "thank you" and eats it! Oh. My. God! What is wrong with you people?

I watched a father, my age or younger, pick up his baby's pacifier off the floor at a commercial shopping center, put it in his mouth to "wash it off" and give it back to the baby! What the hell? First off, there is nothing in your mouth that is any better than what was on that floor and you just put that thing back in your baby's mouth. Second of all, that thing was on the floor, in a commercial place, where hundreds of people have tread since it was last sanitized- and you put it in your mouth. Last, (and most important) before it hit the floor that thing was in your baby's mouth, dude! Gross!

Babies are like this century's equivalent of the pox infected blankets we gave to the native Americans who where just being nice in accepting them as presents. They didn't need any ugly knitted blankets that smelled like wrinkled old white woman, they had animal skins. They were just being polite in the same way that I should be when someone offers me their baby to hold.

But I won't do it! No! History unheeded is history repeated and I am not taking that little germ machine from you! You keep it! I don't care how much powder and how many baby wipes you use, that thing is a stinky cesspool of disease and death! You don't see it because you love your baby, but I can see the malevolence in his eyes when he is trying to shove a half-gummed slobber covered piece of floor cheese in my mouth.

"Oh, isn't that nice, he wants to share with you!" Yeah, but what does he want to share, Hoof and Mouth disease? Keep it! Uncle Bill can afford his own cheese! I don't want it. I can see the look in your eye you little devil child. I know what you are trying to do and I am out of here! I'm not entirely sure your diaper has blowout protection.

My Bloody Velentine

It never works out for us, this thing called Valentine's Day. Something always happens that leaves us scratching our heads and wondering why these things always happen and why they always happen to us. This year dawns with me being unemployed. Yippee! Lots to celebrate there. We went for a walk in the morning and Emily's schmootzy cold began to get worse. She was dispirited.

We got home, and after I made breakfast I completed the homework I had from my job interview last week and sent that on. Then, I began looking for other jobs. I found a couple I wanted to apply for and that's when things really went off the tracks.

I have a thumb drive that has virtually my entire life on it. It is usually a backup, but right now, it is the only medium upon which I have my important files (like my resume). Well, I couldn't find it. The search began. Up the stairs, down the stairs, under the bed, in my desk, in pockets of clothes I wore since the last time I had seen it. Furniture was moved, flashlights used to peer into deep dark corners.

Somewhere in the midst of all this searching I came to realize the thing I am looking for is virtually indistinguishable from the little gray cat toys in the shape of mice we have to entertain and astonish the cats. You know, the ones they incessantly bat around the house and manage to punt into the darnedest places, like the cold air return vents and same said deep dark corners. I surmised I had laid the thing on the side table and it got batted into the HVAC system, or under some furniture, or into the dread trash can.

There is nothing that says romantic so much as digging through many days old trash. One must act gingerly, slowly, carefully, so as to be thorough and not get dumpster funk all over them. It is a delicate and unpleasant operation, like changing the diaper on a parent (I imagine).

I did not find it.

Em was in on the search now in between rapid-fire calls from her boss. I was keeping her from her lunch and her cold was continuing to ratchet up in its quest for total domination of her body. Halfway through Valentine's Day I am up to my arms in trash searching for my "life", the house is torn apart, my wife is sick. No need to guess whether this night will end with a bang or a whimper (pun very much intended).

After remembering I wore a different pair of jeans than I previously remembered the other day, I found the thumb drive in the pocket and set about putting the house back in order. Thanks again to my great friend, Saint Anthony, who has never let me down, yet.

"Life" in hand, I applied for the couple jobs without a whole lot of hope that I would ever hear anything back. And went on with the afternoon.

Em was going to make a special dinner, but on account of her not feeling well, let alone not being able taste anything, she decided to make a somewhat less special one. I thought it was pretty special, as I marvel every day that anyone would ever make me dinner, let alone live with me, let alone alone be married to me. So on the scale of special, that's pretty much every day.

I had a couple of martinis, which is always good for the outlook and we enjoyed dinner. We were to exchange gifts after dinner, so while it was being prepared, I went to my dresser where I had hidden the gift with designs of wrapping it. It was the first time I had looked at the gift, having intercepted the box it came in and spirited it away on the quick in an attempt to keep it somewhat of a secret as the address label would have given it away completely.

I did not immediately find things as they should be. All I could find was the "free gift with purchase" portion of what I had ordered. My sister-in-law, from whom I ordered the Pandora charms (she is a regional manager for a retailer who deals in preciously expensive baubles which no one, anywhere, ever needs- in other words, perfect Valentine's Day presents) was called in on the case and was sweet and patient as she described what I should be looking for.

Eureka! Crisis averted, I found the small satchel that included the three charms and I put the whole works in a gift bag and clumsily stuffed some tissue paper over the top of it. How anyone makes these things look good I don't know. They always look like a hastily constructed project of a second grader when I do it.

Dinner was lovely, we exchanged gifts and retired to the front of the T.V., whereupon my martinis began sitting on my eyelids. Bed at Ten with a simple, drowsy smooch. Just the way the fates intended it to be.

Last year, I was sick, the year before we were accosted by a belligerent homeless man on the way to dinner, and I don't remember the year before that as I am not even sure we were together (in the sense of being in the same physical space). It just never seems to work out for us on Valentine's day. I think it has to do with expectations. We desperately want things to go well and be special, but instead of striving for that every day, we try to cram it into a day where everyone else in the country is trying to do the same. Costs for chocolate and flowers shoot up, reservations are impossible to get, Hallmark stores resemble Ellis Island or Night of the Living Dead with men careening around the racks wondering just what the best card will be. It really is a lesson in setting yourself up for failure.

If yesterday were any other day than Valentine's day, it would have passed as unremarkable as any other day, but in the context of the expectations of the day, it was a disaster.

This week, I have a second interview so that looks good. I also have some time to relax a little before working on scraping paint and doing taxes. Somewhere in there, I am sure Em will feel better and will make that special meal which I am sure will be lovely, like all the meals she makes. I will have to make sure that these days, and their finest points, don't go unnoticed or unappreciated, title be damned.

On Valentine's Day

I just wanted to take a moment and declare my love for something very important to me... gin. Thank you, gin for all your piny juniper goodness. Thank you for being so good in a martini glass with an olive or five. Thank you for slowing my mind and helping me understand that things are gonna be okay. In fact they've always been okay, and they always will be.

Sure, I love bourbon. But you can't bring bourbon home to your mom, now can you? With her smoky deep voice and her amber tones. Oh no, bourbon has been around the block a few too many times. Scotch and I have gone on a few dates over the years, but her attitude makes it so that I have to be in a specific mood to enjoy her charms.

Vodka? Don't even get me started. That slut goes with everything. One second she's with cranberry juice and the next second she's getting gang banged in a Long Island. Which one is it you lusty strumpet? No- vodka is like a woman in stilettos on a Vegas street corner with bright red lips and lashes as long as the ultra-thin cigarette she is seductively sucking. Sure, you're gonna have fun, but you're gonna have to pay, not to mention the immediate need to get to the free clinic.

We can't even mention beer, that farting, belching queen of the trailer park. After a night with her, you will only feel pain and regret. surely, beer, tattooed and acerbic cannot hold a candle to you my sweet gin.

Dear gin, my sweet girl next store. The simple sun dress only hinting at your sultry shape and the warmth of your innocent laughter. You pull me in with your come hither stare and make me work to enjoy your charms. It doesn't even matter that you have a chaperone (that pesky vermouth), I just want to be with you.

Oh, gin! Thank you for your simple elegant beauty. And by the way, you look smoking hot in that martini glass hugging on those olives, just a little hot, just a little dirty, just right. Thank you, gin for being my date tonight.

XXXOOO

P.S. From Poet Ogden Nash

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth--
I think that perhaps it's the gin.

Ogden Nash

My Favorite Authors

Aha Moments

I am presently reading on the origins of modern American English called "Made in America" by Bill Bryson and I am learning all sorts of things I didn't know before. Much more of our language than I ever knew is derived from the native American words the colonists bastardized. We are lead to believe that white settlers came in and after Thanksgiving basically wreaked havoc on the natives killing or moving them off immediately, (after all, what else was there to do before NFL playoff season?), which is not at all true. First we befriended them, stole their culture and language and skill and technique, assimilated the ones who could be assimilated and then we wreaked havoc.

Among the many words common to the colonists upon arrival to the shores of the new world that did not make it into the lexicon of today are:
Fribble, bossloper, bantling, sooterkin and my personal favorite, slobberchops. These would seem to denote in respective order, a frivolous person, a hermit, an infant, a lover and a messy eater. All of the original words are poetic beyond measure and I for one am hereby lobbying for their immediate re-inclusion into the common vernacular! Especially slobberchops! "Slow down there, slobberchops, that's the good tarp your eating over!"

Mr. Bryson has now taught me more about this subject and so many more than any of my college professors and has done so while making me laugh hysterically. He has the ability to put things into perspective that helps you comprehend what you are actually reading so that a full appreciation may be gained. If he is reading this, (you never know, it could be a slow day or maybe he Googles himself each morning), I want to be like you. Or exactly you. Anyway, thanks for the good reads. You are at the top of my favorite authors list.

Mr. Egan, I Presume

Similarly, Peter Egan is very much near the top. I have been reading his Side Glances column in "Road and Track" magazine since being an impressionable boy of 14 way back in the year 1989. I still own my original Road and Track magazine, thoroughly well worn, missing pages and replete with thumb smears on others.

Mr. Egan is a married man with no children who after a stint away from his boyhood home in the wilds of California, moved back to a farm in Wisconsin. He has a large workshop wherein is now or has been the greatest collection of automobilia, ever. I won't bore you with the details, but Egan's life of traveling to exotic foreign lands to cover wonderful and often untouchable cars and then coming home to his own projects and restorations is pretty much my dream.

Egan's road trip articles get past the pro forma normalcy and get right to the emotion of the event. Among his best is his two-piece article retracing of Hank Williams last road trip- in a very similar black Cadillac- as he was slowly drinking himself into hell. Poignant, funny, achingly beautiful and appealing not only to the music lover, but also the inveterate road tripper within me.

This is a guy who in the same issue of a magazine tells the story of his most recent automotive resurrection and has a story of eating dinner in France sitting between the amazing Paul Frere and Juan Manuel Fangio, (perhaps the greatest racer of all time), and wondering just how he got there all the while marveling that Mssrs. Frere and Fangio were each carrying on multiple conversations fluently in multiple languages all at the same time. Priceless.

Egan, like Bryson is an inspiration to me. Two people who take very seriously the work of having fun and doing what they love. Surely their lives cannot be perfect but from the outside, they sure look enticing.

I thank these two men for all they have given me and I hope, even if just a little, I can emulate them in my own words.

Xenophobia

It's highly unlikely that I know anyone at all, given my intense dislike for the process of meeting new people. I have a simple dinner to go to with friends and we are meeting them and some other people (presumably friends of theirs) and I am not excited. That's to say I am terrified. I don't know why I get into such a lather about these things as I nearly always have a wonderful time and the people I meet I am glad to have met. The mental preparation, though, is a bitch.

Some would call it social anxiety disorder, some would say shyness and most would say they can't believe I am either one. It is simple xenophobia, or fear of the new. I am after all, charming and ebullient. I tell a great anecdote. I am intelligent enough to carry on several lines of conversation at once. I do not lack confidence in my ability to make a good impression or to be likable.

I also do truly end up liking most of the people I meet. It is rare I walk away from a new acquaintance saying to myself, "Let's hope we never have to do that again, shall we?"

What I don't like, what I have never especially liked, is change. New things bother me. I get into a happy little rut, an encampment, an entrenchment. After all the work that goes into burrowing, why make an effort to get out of it? Is not your most comfortable pair of shoes the one you have done many miles in? Do you change where you sit in your living room while watching T.V. or reading? Of course not, because you have forged that ass groove in your seat, made the cushions yield to your shape, created a rut that is custom sized around your complex curves. That is the very nature and definition of comfort.

Meeting new people forces me to offer up my chair to someone new. To sit in a different place and look upon the world with a new perspective. That perspective may challenge the old perspective and lead to more change. It is a vicious cycle!

There comes a point in time in nearly every life when you sit down, or dig in like a defiant jackass and become immobile. It is at this point when the rest of the world zooms right by and you fade off into irrelevance, or you bray and kick at the changes you see around you. I noticed five years ago I didn't recognize anyone on the cover of any of the popular magazines on the newsstand at my bookstore. I don't own an iPod (though I'd like to, but I have managed to go without, so I am not in a rush), and iPad (ibid), or even a blue ray player (which oddly uses a red laser ray to read the blue ray disc, but I digress).

I am not the only one subject to this xenophobia. I recommended to Emily that we transfer all our financial information to a program like Quicken, because in the virtual computer world, I am a rock star of organization and productivity, but if you hand me a piece of paper, a pencil, a calculator and the checkbook, I will rock in the corner crying like a little girl who just found out My Little Pony was shot dead by Rainbow Bright in a drive-by at the corner of Candy Land Street and Cabbage Patch Avenue. See? Even my toy references are dated. My suggestion was met with not a little enmity. There was much questioning as to whether I thought she was doing a poor job keeping the books, and why I wanted to take an interest all of a sudden (which I had long ago divested) in the family finances.

Change is hard. It is hard to swallow, hard to accept, and after you fight so hard against it it is hard to admit that it wasn't so bad after all. Like a tetanus shot, or a Diet Coke. Each new person you meet has the potential to come into your sphere and pop that protective bubble and leave you exposed to the outside air where you are vulnerable to terrible things like learning something, or appreciating something that you did not notice before.

This is very dangerous. What if you learn what you thought previously was gospel truth was wrong? What if you thought you were a republican, but you met someone and now you are distributing communist leaflets? These things happen, people! You must believe me!

So I say to all you whom I know to be sanitary and appropriately fitting for my life, I am glad you are here. As for the rest of you, I'm sorry, we aren't accepting any reservations at this time. If you want to hang around a little bit on the fringe and see if something opens up, you may feel free to do so, but I must warn you, we are very, very busy.

Friday Miscellany

Reunited and it Feels So Good

I took part in a blogcast (meant to drum up support and dollars for their upcoming cross-country bike trip) last night for friends Mike and Jim of Mike and Jim at Stan's Bar in Spring Lake. We chose this venue because according to Jim it's halfway between Grand Rapids where I am, and Grand Haven where they are. With that kind of grasp on geography, their bike tour of the country can't possibly go wrong. (For those of you who don't know, Spring Lake is minutes from Grand Haven and almost an hour from Grand Rapids.) They are trying to make it all the way to Oregon. I wonder if they think Grand Haven is half way. I would send them a map, but I am sure it will have little to no effect. They don't seem to know how to read one.

All told, the trip is so far in pretty rough shape, just like Mike and Jim themselves. They only have one bike for starters. Jim's was stolen. I asked if they believed in signs from God. They are undeterred. They have no sponsors, (not even their parents) and are soliciting donations, $12.00 at a time. At this rate, all the donations they have taken so far will go toward buying a replacement bike. I asked about spares and they looked at me dumbly. Spare what, their glances seemed to ask? And given the amount of beer and pizza that was consumed last night, I am guessing their training regimen is on hold for the moment. Or maybe they were focusing on carbo loading.

They asked me if I actually thought the trip was going to happen. I told them I think they will get started and maybe make it as far as Holland, which has to be at least half way to Portland by their understanding of cartography and for a fat guy like me, that would be quite a feat.

They generously invited me along, since as of now I am unattached (see below), but I demured. I also don't have a bike and even more importantly, I look really, really bad in spandex! I also have asthma and an incurable dose of lazy. These things always conspire to put the brakes on my adventures before they even begin. Also, I don't have $12.00, having spent my last $20 on gas to get to Stan's Bar.

To show my support, I am going to mention Mike and Jim's plight to my friend who works for a locally based sporting goods company. Maybe there is a discount to be had on a replacement bike for Jim, or maybe his medicare will pay for a new power chair.

I would love to see them do this thing. You are only young once though neither of them are particularly young anymore, being 93 years old between the two of them, they are in a particularly good place in their lives to be able to do this. This is the kind of crazy I wish I could be, but just can't be. I am too prudent and boring to do something like this myself. At least I can live vicariously through them.

It had been a long time since we all hung out (over 3 years) and it was good to be back in the presence of greatness, or so they told me. We had a great time just laughing, which is something we did often- often for no discernible reason. We have always just found each other funny even when (especially when) we don't mean to be. I watched Jim (whose real name is Clayton but was changed legally from Jim just to ensure confusion) seriously lose his religion one day at work and all I could do was laugh. I can't remember why he could have been so mad, but he was truly, seriously pissed. It must not have helped that his audience was doubled over and in pain from laughing. He is just funny.

As for Mike, we have the same odd and sense of humor. We aren't actually funny in that we tell jokes, we just go off on tangents bringing in references from days gone by that create long non sequiturs we find hilarious, but most people just don't get. On top of which, we have an absolute inability to complete one thought without jumping to something else and then something else and something else. Therefore, even with 2 hours of recorded material, I believe there are all of 8 seconds of actually funny captured.

At one point last night, we started talking about Regis Philbin's impending retirement and ended up with a volley of faux Robert Evans stories culminating with Mr. Evans, Larry King and Leslie Ann Warren in a hot tub filled with apple juice. It is a wonder we even know who any of these people are at all, since they are all "before our time."

I was out of breath, my face was red, my neck burned. I had 7 out of the 10 signs of a stroke. But it was all from laughter and none of it was likely very funny to anyone else who may listen. Including the patrons of the bar who just looked at us as though we bellied up to the bar after nonchalantly parking our flying saucer and manifesting right through the wall. It didn't help we were wearing headphones and had enough wires on the table to make it look like we were jacked in to the Borg Collective (there's a joke only 3 people will get).

Driving back home the "937" miles (according to Mike, who was showing his navigational prowess one more time) I was very happy to have taken part. I don't know how the final product will turn out, but I hope they invite me again.

Stick a Fork in Me

I am done. My phone and e-mail are shuttered and I am having a very quiet day. I am still working on securing other employment with one hot prospect, one somewhat more cool and still a third that would be my last resort. I appreciate good thoughts and moral support in my search for gainful employment.

Confessional

I don't want to, but I find myself singing the J.G. Wentworth operetta sometimes. If you are unfamiliar with this I linked it here. This is in no way a plug for this terrible company who preys on the margins of society by essentially stealing from them, I just love the music, which I find embarrassing, but I can't help it.

Officially Ready for Spring

Ok, uncle. I am done. It is cold, snowing (again), and cold. Did I mention it is cold? I am ready for the temperate seasons to hasten. Old Man Winter, I have been a good sport, now I am inviting you to leave. Thanks for dropping by.

Super Monday

The "Big Game"

Believe it or not, the Packers win was probably a positive thing for our local economy being that Green Bay is close enough that people over here identify with the team and will therefore purchase all sorts of expensive goods emblazoned with the big 'G'.

Going in with no specific allegiance (I was rooting for the Greenburgh Peelers or the Pitts Bay Sackers) I was just hoping for a good game. I was not disappointed. I think both teams put forth a great effort and it was a classic case of the Packers "wanting it more." There was a great deal more total offense in the game than I expected as both teams were known for their stingy defenses. In my humble opinion, it was among the best "Big Game"'s I had seen in a long time.

But What About That Halftime Show?

Who dreams this stuff up? The Black Eyed Peas (I won't go so far as to say they are without talent) are not known for being a great live act. Nobody in that genre is, at least not from any musical perspective. I generally decry lip synching, but in the context of the venue and the acoustics, and given the technical necessities of their 'music', the Peas should have, could have done better.

My bigger beef is with the forced crossover they always try to do in a misbegotten attempt at appealing to a wider audience. You can almost hear the planning meetings now.

"Well, the Black Eyed Peas are confirmed so all the young people and black people will be accommodated, but what about the middle aged white man? After all, he is the one spending the dough-rey-me?"

"I hear Slash is free, you know, from Guns and Roses?"

"Slash and the Black Eyed Peas? Together? Brilliant! Get me Slash's agent!"

I love my hard rockin' hair banders as much as the next white guy in his mid thirties. I won't even interject the argument about being irrelevant, etc. Slash is was and ever shall be a truly intelligent man with manifold talents as a song writer and ax-man. Slash defined bad-ass for me growing up. The fact that he could string sentences together and speak the English language was a plus. But, what about this particular synergy made any kind of sense?

What will it be next year? Kanye West and Paul Anka? Harry Bellafonte and L'il Wayne? Oh, I know! Art Garfunkel, Jim Messina, John Oates, everyone from the Doobie Brothers except for Michael McDonald and whatever permutation of Fleetwood Mac they can drag up from the grave can all get together and sing the hits they are known for, like.... um. Well there's... I thought that... Well, I'm still working on it. I think some Bread songs just came into the public domain. If nothing else, it will be the cheapest halftime show in awhile and I am certain you won't have any trouble getting these people booked. They're all under various overpasses carrying signs that say "I used to be somebody (who knew somebody who was somebody)".

I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing (And Went Back for More)

I have spoken frequently about health in these blogs, namely me trying to be healthier as I slip into the golden years of my thirties. I often say if I knew I would live this long, I would have taken significantly better care of myself. I have enjoyed trying to maintain an exercise regimen and I am happy to report that the normal weight gain associated with winter inactivity has been mitigated to a great degree.

One of the downsides to eating better and trying to be healthier is when you go off the wagon, it really, really hurts. My gut has never been my friend, often rising up against me at the worst possible moments. IBS, or irritable bowel syndrome is what the medical community calls it. I call it irrational bowel syndrome because mine seems to foster a certain malevolence toward me. I don't know what I did to deserve the enmity of my gastrointestinal tract, but here we are.

I know that yesterday I did everything wrong and I am paying for it today. Lots of fatty spicy foods and beer. Oy. It is not good people. And I knew it wouldn't be, yet I grazed all night on delicious, delicious poison anyway. If they made cyanide that tastes like bacon I would be dead in a heartbeat (note for all you murderous chemists out there with an axe to grind). Seriously, can anything good come of eating a dozen of something called "Jason's Cheesy Balls?"

I can assure you, there cannot.

We walked anyway this morning, though I admit to only exerting half of my heart (or my shive a git) and it was therefore a somewhat leisurely stroll. At least we went. Ironically, the scale seemed not to notice my transgressions, so maybe, just maybe I'll get away with my behavior... this time.

From New Image to New Beginnings

This is my last week with New Image Building Services, at least in my current capacity. I have some prospects to stay with (or near) the company. I would like that as the people I have met are outstanding and I don't feel like starting over. For all its flaws, a job can seem like a well-worn shoe.

Besides, I have gotten used to the specific mental illnesses of my colleagues. Why start over with new people with an entirely different kind of crazy?

Anyhow, wish me luck.

Too Broke to Pay Attention

I mean no offense to my lovely wife in writing this. I tread lightly on this for I make no attempt at making her feel badly. But, I have an observation. My wife doesn't pay too much attention to what she watches on T.V.

Yesterday, there was a marathon on BBC America of a show we watch called Top Gear. They are all reruns, heck, they are reruns the first time they come here being they are broadcast for the first time in England. Some we hadn't seen. They were from 2006 when we were moving and had a lot going on. Not much T.V. watching happened in those days. But some we had watched. Together. And she simply doesn't remember them.

"Are you sure I watched them with you?" she asked.

"No, I guess not. I don't remember." conceding it is perhaps it is possible I had just inserted her into the memory of watching the episodes the first time. But I don't think so.

I asked her about another show she watches. I don't even really know why it came up, just dinner conversation. It was a question about back story. She could not really answer me.

"I don't pay attention to that part because it's politics," she said, "I just like the show."

Fair enough.

We had an argument once over an episode of House Hunters that I know we watched together. Leaving aside for a moment the abject inanity of having an argument about House Hunters (or any TV show for that matter) she was steadfast in her position she had not seen the episode. Until two minutes from the end when she saw something that triggered the far suppressed memory and conceded she had seen it.

Once she asked me what the song was that went "da dada da dada da togther" and was flummoxed when I had not the least bit of a clue of which she was speaking. It turns out after hearing the song on the radio some time later is was Island in the Sun by Weezer, a song with a repetitive line in the background of the song throughout the whole thing that goes "doot doot". Why she focused on the bridge of the song and not simply the "doot doot" I could never tell you. It is just the way she thinks.

So while my wife finds forgettable much of the minutiae that comes to her by way of media and crosses (barely?) into her consciousness, I am beset with the opposite problem. I remember everything! I remember jingles of long ago commercials that played for only a short time, I remember words to obscure television show themes (even second or 'lost' verses), names of producers and years shows were on or went off the air, actors, changes in actors, multi-season plot points, etc. Nearly 20 years on, I know that I should dial 772-9435 for the best pizza from Pizza King if I find myself in Mt. Pleasant, MI.

This is really a problem, because while neurologists and biological psychologists tell us the brain has an infinite storage capacity, I believe they just say that because they don't know what the capacity of our brains are. Maybe very important biblical or moral information I need to be a decent human being was overwritten by last night's episode of Red Green! Oh, God. What have I done?

I used to be able to recall with dead-on accuracy the lyrics of literally thousands of popular songs by all artists from all eras. I could do the same from music learned from my more formal musical training, (much of which was in foreign languages). I can remember much of Orff's Carmina Burana. It has been almost 20 years since I performed it and it is written in a hybrid language that is as dead as supermarket etiquette. Beethoven's 9th symphony, third movement? Carved into my memory like a Cuneiform tablet, never to be erased. Or will it? And I was mostly not sober during the period of time when I learned these the first time!

It is with not a small amount of horror that over the last several years I have come to realize that this very finely honed skill, once so natural to me, is all but gone. I find myself singing wrong words to songs I used to know in my sleep. I will place whole lines in the wrong order and, upon realizing I have done this will stare blankly at the radio wonder when they changed it and why?

If this skill is no longer one of the 'arrows in my quiver', what has replaced it? What am I now good at? What is my purpose in life if I can't be that guy?

I think we should have to authorize any information overwrite that may occur in our brain, like as with a PC. On second thought, I would prefer to only be asked once, instead of the dozen or so times Windows asks (Are you certain? Excellent... um are you sure you are certain? Splendid! Just click here to certify we asked you and you are certainly sure. We are sending some papers over and will complete your request upon receiving notarized copies - usually 4 - 6 weeks).

At least there should be a short mental conversation. "Dude, remember that memory of that night when (omitted) and then (omitted) and (omitted) with the whipped cream and the (omitted) and just when you thought it was over and you were congratulating yourself for a job well done, that's when the trapeze came into play? Do you really want to replace that memory with this episode of Full House?

Sorry, Uncle Jessie, you lose.

Travelin' Man/Beautiful Loser

I have been making chili for the "big game", (which we'll call it since I don't have express written consent of the NFL to use the other more official term), since the year 1994. That year, I was home from school for the weekend and got together with friends and made chili and watched the game. I don't know why I decided to make chili, it just seemed right.

My friends and I liked what I made, but my Dad would have nothing to do with it since it was too hot. Apparently he is not a fan. S'okay, more for me. I refined the process time over time and found out I made a pretty serviceable chili. Chili the meal grew to become chili, the event. It was a holiday unto itself. As such, I used to make it only once per year. In recent years I have made it more often. I drink coffee every morning, why would I limit myself to chili only once per year?

I begin by talking about chili because I made some today so it is ready for the "big game". We are going to a party hosted by friends Jason and Chandra. We are also bringing corn dip, which came into our lives this summer courtesy of Shannon Milinovich when we visited her and husband Greg this past summer. Em also made a cheese ball which may end up going, too. I guess we are catering this thing. That's o.k., I'll make it up in numbers of beers consumed.

But more to the point, or away from it, I don't know. I told the story in a previous blentry about being home for winter break in winter of 1994 and getting pulled over for going egregiously fast through a twisty portion of a local expressway after having had a beer or two while underage and getting away with a warning. The following story happened only weeks after that.

I had been dating a girl and immediately after winter break, we broke. Up, that is. It sucked. I won't get into it, but I wasn't handling it especially well. It was sudden, too. So the girl and I talked on the phone the morning of the day after the "big game" and she seemed to intimate that she might have changed her mind. Perhaps the fact that I hurriedly got in the car and immediately began speeding toward campus an hour-and-a-half away will give you unique perspective into my mental status at the time.

I dodged the cops all the way. I was very good at it and I had a very good radar detector, or as we called it "fuzz buster." I was on the last road to campus, almost home, almost there. Just up the road, happiness waits. What's that sound?'

It was the fuzz buster. The sound it made said "You're screwed." And I was screwed. The low profile cruiser was coming head-on and blasted me with instant-on radar as he came over a rise. I didn't have a shot in hell of getting out of it.

I stopped without being chased. He made a 231 point turn that seemed to last forever... I should have run. By the time he got his Crown Vic pointed in the right direction I could have been in the next county. But instead, I waited.

The fat cop sauntered up to my car, hand on gun... because after all, I had waited the 35 minutes it took him to get all turned around only to shoot him.

"Afternoon!" he said in a fake happy sing-song voice.

"It certainly was" came my glib reply.

"You know how fast you were going?"

"Yeah, 72..."

"72. Yep. 72. And do you know the speed limit?"

"Uh, it's fifty f..."

"Just fifty, son. Don't stretch it. It's just fifty. Junior!", he called now to his partner, "College boy here got himself one of them fuuuzzzzz bussssterrrrs!"

"Aw, hell," came back Junior's response as if something bad and well beyond his control was about to happen. "That's too bad. I thought college kids were smart."

"Well," big fatty said to me now, "I guess we can't let you go now, can we? Gimme your papers." he said with a heavy sigh as if to underscore I had brought this whole thing on myself.

My registration and proof of insurance were in a drawer that was underneath my passenger seat as my car was among the first generation with airbags and the airbag had supplanted the glove box. I explained this to the cop so he didn't get trigger happy with me.

"I am going to get my papers from the drawer underneath the seat. I am going to move slowly. Please, don't shoot me for speeding."

So, I removed my belt and slowly reached down and to my right to get my papers from the drawer. As I came back up with my I was facing the previously unseen Junior now at my passenger window, service revolver trained on me. The line in the Lynard Skynard song rang through my mind "I'm tellin' you son, it ain't no fun, starin' straight down a .44."

True that.

"Put that away!" I said, probably quite a bit more weakly in reality than I remember it being. "I told you what I was doing!" I said now, a little too loudly to the fat cop at my driver's window.

"I guess he didn't hear you." he said smiling.

"You think you could have given him the message?" I asked a little put off by the fact I had a gun in my face for no good reason.

"Papers." was the single word reply.

I waited an additional eternity while fatty and Junior sat in the cop car, probably looking me up in the computer ( or, SCMODS if you're Elwood Blues), to assess my threat level. No doubt they were hoping I was wanted in seven states for all sorts of unspeakable acts and capital crimes. I was not.

Ironically for a person who had not to that point (nor to this point) been arrested, it was not the first time I had a policeman aim a gun at my head.

I used to work third shift in high school during the summer. When I had a day off, I stayed on third shift hours. My friend Brian was the only one who was either intrepid enough or stupid enough to stay up all night with me. Brian and I shared a love of cars. We used to ply the avenues driving lot to lot looking at cars, smoking and talking. One night, I spotted an MG I wanted to look at. I pulled in around the back of the sales building where there was some parking. I left the car running as Brian was not interested in looking at the car. I left him and went around the front of the building.

I was bending over the MG, looking at the interior when I heard the unmistakable whine of a Crown Victoria's fuel pump delivering full volume to feed a hard working cop car engine. Thus is the level of my car sickness, I can tell the type of car it is by certain defining noises.

The car had jumped the curb and stopped mere feet from a very stunned me. The cop got out, gun drawn, which even though we were in a sketchy part of town was a bit of a disproportionate response to finding a suburban kid looking at a British sports car. Of course anyone who knows anything about cars knows that had I been thinking about buying a British car, the cop would have been doing me a favor by shooting me.

He got behind me after astutely assessing I was no risk to his life and spread my feet wide by kicking them with his and held my hands behind my back while going through my pockets. I feebly explained I was just looking at cars and why I was looking at cars at three in the morning.

Of course I had driving gloves and a Swiss army knife in the pockets of my wind breaker which he tried in vain to classify as burglary tools. I assured him I wasn't burgling anything and I hadn't done anything wrong and he should just let me go.

He did.

Brian sat in my car on the back side of the building, radio on, car running, with no idea of the ordeal unfolding only a few feet from where he sat. Of course, he scarcely believed me when I tried to tell him. Needless to say we were done car shopping that night.

So, here I was, a couple years later, a mostly innocent college kid who was love lorn and speeding his way back to his beloved. It was the second time in my life I had a gun pointed at me by a cop. I was beginning to feel put-upon.

Fat cop came back and gave me a ticket for the whole magilla. 72 in a 50. I don't remember what it cost, but for a kid my age it was a lot. It was a lot of points, too. I didn't like fat cop. I don't think fat cop liked me, too.

After my Homeric trip back to campus, expensive ticket in hand, it didn't take but five minutes to realize what an idiot I had been. There was to be no reconciliation. I was just being toyed with.

At least that snapped me out of that funk and I would no longer allow myself to be a victim of love. At least not until the next girl a couple years later.

I am happy to say I haven't had a gun pointed at me since. Even though I hang out with a fair amount of people with access to them and I have a license to carry one. Of course, I'm not about to point one at myself-that being pretty much the number one thing they teach in gun class. If you pull the gun and aim it at something, you better be good and damn sure you want it to die.

But, I've gotten off point. All I really wanted to say is, I love chili. And, um, RSL? Your loss. I was a catch.

An Open Letter to Mr. Plow

I wonder if they take sadistic pleasure in it as they roar down your street at a thousand miles an hour at three in the morning, orange strobe blinking to the beat, while the big plow launches all the snow from the street into a densely packed wall at the carefully cleared apron of each house's driveway.

The sound of the plow. Worse than the report of any alarm. To be awakened from sound sleep while warm in bed to the realization that someone is being paid overtime to undo the work you had to do for free. Your muscles still sting from that labor of clearing out the driveway of two feet of snow.

The damage didn't look so bad from inside. It was upon closer inspection that things became much more dreary indeed. From inside the depth and density of the snow wall at the end of my drive could only be measured against the already giant polygonal mounds of snow that served as reminders of the previous day's melee. It was all too easy to give into the optimism.

But things look different when you are standing next to them and can regard them up close. It was indeed much, much worse than it had looked the first time I saw it from the house, in my robe, drinking coffee.

My back began to ache anew. I hadn't even begun.

It was colder, all of a sudden, than it had been all winter. The wind blew stiffly. The sky was clear and while the sun shone, it radiated no heat. It served only to add harsh light to the situation at hand. This was going to suck.

I got to work. First chop the packed snow into manageable slices, then clear. Chop. Clear. Chop. Clear. Rest. Chop. Clear. Repeat. Nearly finished, the neighbor asked if I would like to use the snow thrower. I resisted the temptation to cry. The tears would have only frozen to my face along side the snot that was already frozen to my face. My asthma kicked in and I began to cough.

Time to warm up the cars. I sat in mine while it ran, and let the seat heater work on my back. My breath and the steam coming off me froze onto every surface in the car from the windows to the poorly wrought plastic wood trim. I just sat and watched my toil condense and coat the interior of my car creating a ghostly film.

I didn't realize until I moved the cars how much snow still remained on the paddock. My back again protested as I moved the powder that remained. I had now officially done more shoveling the day after the impressive blizzard of eleven than on the day itself. It hardly seemed fair. In fact, it was patently not fair.

But there are meetings to go to, committees to chair, work to do, lives to live. The slot now cleared at the end of my drive, barely wide enough for a car, is my portal to the world outside. I can't help but wish I still had the wall of snow there to act as a gate, an impediment, an excuse to stay in one more day. Put on another pot of coffee, mix in a little Irish and stare at the stark beauty of the bright sun reflecting off the freshly fallen powder. This type of beauty is best regarded from afar through the veil of comfort provided by knowing you can live among it, without having to live with it.

Mark My Words and Happy Birthday, Heather

"Mark my words..." I was heard to exclaim twenty-four hours before this photo was snapped, "They have no idea what this storm is going to do between now and when it is supposed to get here. I bet it will miss us entirely!"

Well, I am prepared to say I was wrong. I usually call it right. I was really pretty certain this was a largely false alarm. Does this look false to you? Me neither.

After a marathon mutual shoveling/plowing party, we all decided this would be a great day to get together and recreate a little. At three, we are getting together at the neighbor's across the street to eat and have a fire and play cards and talk. It is so amazing to me how thirty-three years ago, my family and I were doing the same thing with our neighbors after the blizzard of '78. In fact all I remember of that event is from stories I heard from my parents and the neighbors in the ensuing years of how all the neighbors in the cul de sac shoveled paths connecting the houses through the lawns. It was a progressive party, ending, like it usually did at our house for drinks.

There is one picture of a not yet three-year-old me in one of those shoveled paths, only visible due to the tousle cap I was wearing taken, I assume to add a sense of scale to the whole event. It has that 19070's orange-y patina that makes it look so much more vintage than it actually is. Or maybe it is exactly that vintage and I don't want to believe it is so.

The little neighbor girl across the street of about the same age as I was at that time is essentially experiencing the same thing now as I did then. And this time, I will be able to know what it is like from the adult side. I suspect I appreciate a snow day now as a grown up even more than I did as a young kid. After all, what is really tough about being a young kid, relative to being an adult?

A kid sees such great potential for fun on a day like this. Sledding, building snow men, snow forts and having snowball fights. Adults see their car in a ditch, a two-hour commute that should be twenty minutes and at the end of the day your rotten kid beaming you with a snow ball when you finally get home before you even get a chance to get out of your newly customized car.

So as an adult, getting a special unplanned for day off is among the rarest of pleasures. I am sorry to think of the number of people who would otherwise have some forced convalescence today are instead working from home. What a great capability that turned out to be! Em works from home every day. No snow day for her. I also maintain a home office, so while I am not out in the world dealing with the snow, I still have plenty of work to do. Yay!

But, at least there are very few expectations from us as a result of the snow. And that is the next best thing. I mean, I haven't been working too hard and I should be able to pack it in pretty early so in the end, it's as close to a snow day as I will ever see.

Groundhog Day

This is one of the dumbest things ever, but it persists. To me, February 2nd is much more significant due to the number of great people who have birthdays on this date. My late Grandmother would be 107 today if she were alive. I have three other friends who were born on this date as well. Heather is one of these.

I met Heather deep in the summer of 1995 at a party on the eve of the gay pride march on Lansing. We were in Mt. Pleasant, just an hour up the road from the capital and we were whooping it up. Big time.

Heather was then as now thin and tall. She was wearing some spandex thing that only she could pull off on account of the fact there is not an ounce of fat on her. It really was more like a rubber band than a piece of clothing. It was, um, striking. My friend at the time who I brought to the party was indeed stricken. He immediately set about maneuvers to get to know her better.

I on the other hand was holding court on the back deck, where a guy I knew was trying to be the center of attention as was his way. As you can imagine it was my way, too. We were playing the "who can hate on who more" game, trading barbs and witticisms back and forth. It was great, not only because it is one of my favorite things to do, but because I was winning soundly and impressing this large group of people who were mostly relative strangers.

The next day, we set off for Lansing in caravan. All was well until we got to the notoriously crooked police state of St. John whereupon we were immediately beset by multiple police units. My friend was behind me and a cop lit him up, the cop meant to pull us both over. I pulled over, he kept going. Seems he already had some trouble with the law and his right to drive a car legally at that moment was dubious at best.

After we got harassed and let go, (which I had gone through so many times in St. John it was like a right of passage), we all somehow managed to find each other and re-gathered in a parking lot. Somewhere, someone has a tape of my speech to the collected misfits of that gay caravan. It was up to then and maybe even up to now my finest moment. I wish I remember what I said, but whatever it was was hilarious, well aimed and hit the spot.

We continued undaunted. Later that night upon my return, or maybe it was the next day came the call from my parents who had seen me marching in the parade on the news. They wanted to know if there was something I would like to tell them.

Sure. I love gay people. Anything else?

I recall this story, because my life has been significantly more funny and way more colorful since the day I met Heather. She is a great friend, a great adversary ("so, do you want a hug, or....?"), and one of the finest people I know. Heather has been a co-writer, a creative co-conspirator and often videographer to some of the proudest and not so proudest moments of my life.

Happy Birthday, friend! I am so glad that after all these years and all the water under the bridge we are still friends. I am also so glad that you have traded the spandex for flannel... after a while that look just gets desperate.

Story Time With Bill

Once upon a time, in the village of Nibs, there was an ogre of below average intelligence but who looked just like you would expect an ogre to look. He had a mean brow and a skinny rat-like face and a big gap between his angry looking teeth. He was a mean man and everyone in the village knew it. But he was powerful and yielded strict control over all the villagers so that the mayor, who was really in charge of the never found out about all the bad things the ogre was doing.

The mayor hired a man to work for him and the ogre quickly discovered the man was very smart. he was well liked, and handsome with a winning smile, chiseled jaw and strong features. He was not perfect, this man, but he inspired people to do their best and encouraged them to admit their mistakes so they could get better. The man admitted his mistakes, too.

For a long time, the ogre would blame his mistakes on the man. Being a good guy, the man didn't say too much. He tried to explain to the ogre that the villagers would work harder for him if they liked him, but the ogre didn't listen. When the man would go to the ogre with his problems, because, after all, the ogre was his boss and that what he is supposed to do, the ogre didn't listen; even though he pretended to. The man tried so hard to make suggestions and make things work better between the villagers and the ogre, but it just wasn't working.

Nothing changed for the better. And not only did it not get better, it got much, much worse. Soon the man had been given so much work to do by the ogre that he was gone from his cute little home in his cute little village for a long stretch at a time in a far away city beyond the enchanted forest. It was a hard life, but the man knew he had to take care of his bride, a beautiful maiden with a pure heart.

He made the best of it. He worked hard and labored in the city beyond the enchanted forest, even though it was sometimes a scary place that smelled like stinkberries. He continued to be gone so much that his chiseled features began to sag, and he put on weight around his middle. Soon, he started drinking too much potion every night, just to get to normal.

He made a heartfelt appeal to the ogre and begged to be released from his clutches so he could go and be with his sweet princess in their cute little home in the serene little village. But the ogre went to the mayor and the mayor took the man and told the man all sorts of stories about how his work was so important and the city beyond the enchanted forest couldn't function without him.

The mayor made some promises to the man that if he kept trying real hard, he would give the man some help to make his life more comfortable. So the man relented, thinking the mayor to be a kind man. The mayor arranged for the man to have a nice place to stay in the city beyond the enchanted forest. Sometimes, the man's fair maiden would come, too. They didn't like being way from their cute home in their cute village, but it was better than being apart, for they were very much in love.

Soon, though, the ogre had the man going even farther away from his cute little home in his cute little village, all the way across a vast inland sea to a place so ugly, they called it Uglyville. The man was now forced to toil in Uglyville and the city beyond the enchanted forest and was home even less to his cute home in his cute village with his fair maiden wife.

This incensed the man who was now drinking potion even at lunch time! He was almost unrecognizable, his cheeks were puffy and his eyes had large dark circles around them. It was very bad. His patience was always tested and though he tried to find happiness, he just couldn't. Everywhere he looked, he only saw the ogre, laughing as he yanked the man to and fro, hither and yon between Uglyville and the city beyond the enchanted forest. It seemed the man would never get home to his cute village and his cute home with his fair maiden wife. And when he did, it was for so short a period of time it was almost like a dream.

The man had a little breakdown after a while of this, and the mayor decided he could spend more time in his cute home, in his cute village with his fair maiden and work more from there. But the ogre didn't like this and kept it so the man would have to spent time in the city beyond the enchanted forest. The man was sad. He was no longer kind and good looking, he was just sad and mean and fat and ugly and drunk on potions. his fair maid began to cry, for the man she married was gone.

The ogre promised the man every day that he would be able to work from his cute home in his cute village with his fair wife, soon. He made all sorts of promises like that. But the man knew they would never come true, for the ogre was a skilled liar.

Finally, the cute village began to grow and needed more attention from the man, so he started to go to the city beyond the enchanted forest less and less. He was starting to get happy again, although he still hated working for the ogre. He thought things were at least getting better when he was once again summoned to the city beyond the enchanted forest where he was told that it, not his village was to be the focus of his attention again!

The man began to wonder if it was worth living. He drank a lot more potion now than before and was chasing it with barley root to give it a new kick since the potion didn't work so well anymore.

Finally, the ogre sent a message one day that made the man finally lose it. He looked at the message and then in the mirror and saw he looked just like the ogre now, too. He began to despair and his fair maiden wife said it was time to tell the ogre he didn't want to work for him anymore. The man knew this was the only way if he were to survive, so he sent a letter to the mayor and the ogre telling them to stick it in their respective pie holes.

Immediately the man's world brightened and the sun came out over his cute house in his cute village and his fair maiden began to smile. He looked in the mirror and saw he was already starting to look like his old self again.

Many of the people who worked for the man, and with the man, expressed their sadness that he was going to leave. but they all understood. Just when the man thought things were hopeless and he would lose his cute house in his cute village, or heaven forbid his fair maiden, the black night rode up on his Arab charger and lent a hand to the man.

He said the man was too important to lose and that everyone knew the ogre had brought upon himself the problems that he was having. Even the mayor knew, though he was too loyal to the ogre to say so. The black knight benevolently asked the man to work for him, in the village of Nibs where he could be happy and not work for the ogre anymore.

So the story continues, since the man has so much to think about. But now his head is clear, his once illusive smile can be seen again on his face and you can almost see a chiseled jaw beneath his extra chin.

Did he live happily ever after? Stay tuned.