In Defense of Holly Petraeus: Don't Vilify the Victim

As soon as I saw the first pics of Holly Petraeus surface, I knew someone would put it out there, the contention that, because of the way she looks, she is somehow responsible for her husband David's extremely over-publicized affair with his biographer. And sure enough, a couple of days ago I was caught in the crossfire of just such a discussion, with two people I know contending that if Mrs. Petraeus would've kept herself more attractive, maybe the General wouldn't have had to look elsewhere.

"I solemnly swear to serve this office to the best of my ability. Fidelity? Hmm, that's a tough one. Can I get back to you?"

Seriously? We're still vilifying victims? In this day and age? I mean, do we still think that a girl who dresses a bit skimpily deserves or is asking to be raped, too? I can't believe this attitude still exists.

Anyway, these two guys were saying things like, "How can you blame him?," and "Just look at her," making his infidelity an inevitability, the forgone conclusion of her "letting herself go." Furthermore, they went on to say that they've told their wives that they better keep themselves together, from an aesthetic standpoint, or all bets were off. The justification they provided: if they let themselves go then they would expect their wives to go get a bit on the side, too. "It's just human nature," they said.

So, that's what the bond of marriage -- 34 years in the case of the Petraeus' -- is all boiled down to? How fit you remain? How well you keep your hair and nails? How smooth your skin will be? How flat your stomach will be and

Hmmm.....I thought it was for better or for worse?

I know, I know. I'm just being naive, unrealistic. Maybe it's a sign of the times, when people are placated and placate themselves constantly, so that they never have to wait, suffer, try hard, work through things.

But I don't think so. Not when you hear stories of the the men and women out there who've helped their spouses through the worst diseases, become their caretakers, put the needs of their spouse before their own.

I'm sure the good General didn't mind his wife's big belly when she was pregnant with their two children. And, when the General was battling cancer, maybe Holly should've been given a license to cheat? I mean, she didn't sign up to be married to some sick cancer patient!

Hey, none of us know what the inner workings of the Petraeus marriage is like, which is a good thing. It's none of our collective business, as long as he didn't do anything to put the security of the nation in jeopardy. And I'm old enough to understand that things do happen between men and women that are good, not so good, and bad.

Maybe they, one or the other, fell out of love. Maybe he and Paula Broadwell, Petraeus' coital accomplice, fell in love. Maybe the General is just a weak man. Whatever way you slice it, he did break the vow of marriage.

Holly appears to be a smart, productive woman. Summa Cum Laude from Dickinson University, an impressive career, mother of two, wife of someone who's probably been away more than available for most of their marriage. Maybe that's the problem too. While the General was off playing war games with the other boy soldiers of the world, she was left holding down the fort.

Further, don't put such words into the mouth of the General. He knows why he did it; he knows what he's all about. Don't make assumptions based on your own failings.

5 Things That Really Irk Me: Singing Retail Clerks, Socks With Sandals, Escalators, and More

As a crotchety old man in the making, there are many things I out there that annoy me: politicians, telemarketing, people who drive too slow or too fast. The list goes on. But those things are obvious; everyone hates politicians and bad drivers.

The following list, however, features some of those things that maybe go unnoticed or are forgotten, but  still have a way of settling just underneath my epidermis, and probably yours too, if you’re normal like me:

Hip retail clerks who insist on singing in the store. That skinny hipster with the spiky hair, thin beard, tight reddish jeans, and plaid shirt is supposed to be folding the clothes in the dressing room, or getting a pair of size 12s from the back. Instead, he’s crooning in an annoyingly airy falsetto along with some neo-soul song playing over the store’s stereo system as if the store is his stage and the merchandise is his audience.

People who drag their stuff around behind them in wheeled pieces of luggage. Did you really need to pack so much stuff that you’re unable to carry it like a normal person? It’s bad enough that you exist in the space already granted to you by God and nature; now you want the three feet or so behind you, too, all because you’re too lazy to pick up your bag and carry it at your side. I think it would even make more sense to push the thing out in front of you – at least that way you’d be able to see where you’re wielding that thing! And you gotta love when they decide to release or retract the handle – at the bottom or top of an escalator or stair case – right in front of you. Get a clue, and out of my way!

People who whistle their esses. I don’t know what they’re doing differently than the rest of us to form their “S” sounds, but it’s annoying! Maybe they need to their mouths just a bit more, or open them. Or, try moving your tongue away from your bottom lip, or purse your lips a bit less. Whatever it takes! Just please stop whistling every time you pronounce an “S” sound. It’s like you’re calling your dog 50 times during our conversation, or like a stuttering tea kettle that never quite boils! Seriously (that’s not a good word for you, by the way), I find it distracting and impossible to pay attention to what you’re saying. Here are some other words I think you should stay away from until you figure this out.

Succinct, success, sauces, saucy, Sausalito (in fact, never go there), San Francisco (don’t even try spelling that), recess, abscess, sausages, Caesarian, feces, isthmus, secede, sustain, tresses, trespasses, Mississippi, resonance, resistance, persistence

There’s plenty of other ones, and keep away from pluralizing anything!

Socks With Sandals. Thanks Sudoku-playing dude on the train this morning for reminding me of one of great pet peeves. I almost forgot about this one, but I happened to look down and saw those cotton-covered toesies poking out of the sandals’ front holes. But please remember this simple rule next time you decide to violate this simple rule of fashion:

If it’s chilly enough for socks, it’s too cool for sandals.

Sandal season is officially over at that point! It makes sense, doesn’t it?

Listen, if you have some funky foot ailment that precludes you from exposing them in public, we all thank you for using discretion. But sandals over white tube socks do not a fashion statement make. And any….shoe would be better in that situation.

Escalators. For the majority of people I see using escalators, it’s simply out of pure laziness. Most people who use them are young enough, fast enough, and mobile enough to take the staircase. There’s no evidence of time-saving. In fact, I’m sure it can actually take longer, depending on the circumstances, like when that jerk stands in the “left lane” (the escalator passing lane) just so he can talk to his buddy, rather than move over to the right. My real problem with escalators, especially when ascending, is that you’re way too close to parts of people that we spend our whole lives trying to avoid. Who knows what smoky, gaseous emission is about to emanate from the ass in front of you, which just happens to be perfectly lined up with your nose. I don’t take that chance.

Don't Be That Dude: You Put a Calvin Peeing Decal on Your Car?!

Oh my God, dude!

I thought that was your car the other day, but I said to myself, "Even that dude would never be so corny."

Alas, you are. Why did you do it, dude?

Why did you put that stupid decal on your car that shows an evil Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes on your car? It just doesn't mesh with the whole mini-van, two-kids-and-a-wife, picket fence routine.

The worst part is where you placed it. It looks like Evil Calvin is peeing on the similarly corny white stick figures that are supposed to represent you, your wife, your two kids, and the dog. What is wrong with you?

You didn't realize that? Well, guess what? Your wife did.

What's next?

The bull balls under the rear of the car? Or how about those reflective naked women stickers?

Anyway, I'm very surprised at you, dude!

That's just not you! Do you desire to be some musclebound, meathead, Guido who drives around cutting people off, giving them the finger, and spreading ill to your fellow man? In a mini-van?

Hey, look. I'm not saying you gotta put on the bumper sticker that spells out "COEXIST" in various religious symbols. But this Evil Calvin thing has got to go. It's not you. You were never that little mischievous kid who wreaked havoc on the neighborhood. And, sad to say, you never will be.

So, take it off dude.

And, while your at it, get rid of that sticker that says, "My kid beat up your honor student." Just because your kids aren't bright doesn't mean parents shouldn't be proud of what their kids have achieved.

Don't be that dude.

No Good Excuse for Long Island Rail Road

The customers are onto you, Long Island Rail Road (LIRR). Switching problems, lightning strikes, track fatalities, slippery track conditions, signal failures, police investigations — these are just some of excuses you pawn off on us as reasons for late or cancelled trains.

But as far as excuses go, they’ve become tired and lame.

If you’re going to keep us locked up in one of your frozen, stinky cars for four hours or more during a snowstorm, or turn us into crispy hot dogs on the Jamaica station platform as we wait for phantom trains, then we deserve better. We want to be entertained.

This is a more sophisticated, more jaded society Helena Williams, and we will not be treated like children. Don’t pander to us with these lame reasons for the failure of you or your equipment. Give us what we want!

I mean, I was once trapped inside a train sitting at the Penn Station platform, while we waited for a late conductor. No one ever said word, until we started moving, and they said there had been some “confusion.” Oh, truer words were never uttered from the LIRR.

But there is hope.

What the Long Island Rail Road needs is to establish a Department of Excuses. It could sort of be a covert arm of the current, useless marketing department.

Think of it. You could bring in some of the greatest minds we have from sales, advertising, marketing, politics, and the legal profession, and you’ll have yourself one heck of an excuse-creating machine.

You see, you guys have it all wrong. The trick is not less communication when something goes wrong. You have to give the public — many of whom happen to be your customers, not sure if you know that — what we want to hear, and in huge, heaping, triple-shot-sized doses.

We don’t want reality; just look at what’s on TV. No, we want to be entertained, even when our train is going to be two hours late, and we have to shell out $75 to ride in the back seat of a cab driven by a psycho muttering about terrorists.

So, for once give us what we expect. Give us the best damned excuses you can think of, and then beat us over the head with them.

Once this program becomes a success at the LIRR, and I know it will, you’ll have the perfect “excuse” to raise the fares again. The great part is, none of the commuters will complain, because we’ll be magically quelled by some grand excuse. It’s a win-win really. And then you can roll it out to the rest of the MTA, or even franchise it to other companies.

I mean, Verizon has been telling me for 4 years that my landline keeps going out because the copper cable is susceptible to the rain. How lame is that?! They can do better, and so can you.

Let’s start right here, and right now, LIRR.

Hey everybody on Facebook! Guess What? I’m at the Shake Shack!

So, I finally made it to the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park yesterday, with a bunch of friends from work.

It was OK, we left work early enough to avoid the crazy lines. The food did not live up to the hype, but how could it? The burger was fair. The shake, in all its sugary shakiness, was superb, however.

Anyway, when I got back to work and checked my e-mail, I noticed one from Facebook:

XXX tagged you at Shake Shack, Madison Square Park

(the names have been removed to protect the guilty).

Sure enough, the link took me to a little page on Facebook in which everyone who was at lunch was tagged.

Now, it’s really no big deal. I wasn’t trying to hide the fact that I was scarfing down tons of calories, sugar, cholesterol, and fat during lunch. I am dreading having to answer questions from my relatives and friends…”Ohhhhhh, you went to the Shake Shack? How was it? Was it good? I heard it’s good. Are you coming over this weekend?”

I hope this breaking news does not go viral, but I’m sure it will. I mean, who will not be interested in the fact that six co-workers went to the Shake Shack for lunch on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon? I didn’t see anyone else there who fit that profile, so I could see how important it was to post.

Is this really what people do with their smartphones, and Facebook, and all the other groundbreaking technologies that have been invented over the past decade? The hell with curing cancer, feeding the world’s homeless, or improving nutrition choices; I want people to know where I am and who I’m with. So worried are we about the nanny state, but we’re creating it for ourselves.

I shutter, just a bit, when I think about it. Maybe I’m just easing into the role of crotchety old man. Sounds good. Give me a porch, a swing, and a rum and coke!

Don't Be That Dude: Speaking in Movie Quotes

Dude, when you got pulled over that time, and the cop asked you if you'd been drinking, and you said, "That's the fact, Jack!" like Bill Murray in Stripes, that was legendary. You solidified your place in the folklore of stupid things guys do. It's a classic tale.

And when you were at the bar, and that girl asked you what your name was, and you go, "Keyser Soze," that was pretty funny too. Totally unexpected and off the cuff. So what if she called you an ass and hooked up with Sluggo.

But you gotta stop with the movie quotes, dude. Like always, you take something pure and good and organic, and overdo it. You run it into the ground, and drive it like a nail into your own comic coffin.

Oh no? You don't? It's good material?

Uh-uh, dude. No one thinks it's funny, especially when you do it all the time! And you use these lines when they don't even make sense, with bad impersonations too.

Yes you do! Yes you do, dude!

The other day, at work, we were in that meeting. You got up to use the restroom and you announce, "I'll be back," and wink at everyone in the room. Then you start laughing to yourself as you walked out the door.

Then, Joe told me that when you were standing at the urinal, you were still laughing about it, and you go, "Say hello to my little friend" in that stupid Scarface accent. That's disgusting dude!

One of the worst examples, was when we were all over by the water cooler a couple of months ago. You overheard someone talking about a tumor, and of course you pop in and say....

Right! "It's not a tumor" from Kindergarten Cop.

What's wrong with that? Dude, it is a tumor! A brain tumor. We were all talking about why Jen P. hasn't been at work in a while you dope!

And when people ask you how you're doing, you have a bunch of canned responses, most of which make no sense in context to the question. You either say, "Kowabunga, dude", "I'll make ya famous", or "You had me at hello." What the hell does that even mean? Don't you have any original thoughts up in that gin-soaked cranium of yours? Have you really drowned your own reality that deeply in the black waters of Hollywood fantasy?

Well, it's gotta stop, dude. We've had enough of "Go ahead, punk, make my day," and "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse," "Wax-ah on wax-ah off" in that horrible Mr. Miyagi accent, and "It just doesn't matter!"

You really need to get this under control. It's over. It's over dude.

No, don't go into the Belushi speech from Animal House!

Just don't be that dude.

The Mosquito: One Boy’s Losing Battle

My previous post got me thinking about how much I really despise mosquitoes.

A Hatred I Need
I’ve hated the tiny, bloodsucking predators since I was a little kid growing up in the humid, hot, marshy south shore of Long Island.

I remember doing battle with these parasites almost nightly as summertime established itself in late May through the final days of September. Go out after 6:00 p.m. and you risked becoming a universal blood donor to every mosquito within a 10-radius. Your ankles looked like a red, skin-covered mountain range and the itching could drive you to check yourself in at Bellevue Psychiatric.

My mom always told me I was just sweeter than everybody else, but moms are biased.

Let the Buzzing Begin
And just try to go to sleep at night. As soon as the lights went out, and my head hit the pillow, the buzzing began. Like a dentist’s drill in my ear, the mosquitoes would attack, relying on their keen sense of CO2 emissions, and my inability as a human to function at all in the dark.

A slap to side of my head, hoping to trap them inside my ear. Ha! That’ll show em! And then a slap to the other side. Was that the same mosquito, or are there more than one, I’d wonder. I’d itch all over, convinced that there were scores of mosquitoes plunging their malaria-laced sabres into my young, delicate skin. I’d begin kicking at the covers, as if I were drowning in a see of 200-thread-count cotton.

A Desperate, Foolish Attack
Finally, I’d get the courage to leave the bed. I needed to attack, so I’d stumble to the light switch, flick it on, roll up a magazine, and begin the hunt. They were nearly impossible to track down, crafty little bastards, but after a while I’d become somewhat of expert mosquito hunter. Inside a lampshade, out of reach on the ceiling, motionless and camouflaged on a poster or painting — like I said, crafty.

When I’d finally locate one, I’d creep on it, covert and slow. Gripping the magazine, I took aim and prepared to strike…Thwap! But the S.O.B. would inevitably dodge the fire. I’d return, dejected, to my foxhole bed, covers pulled up over my head and pillow over that.

This process would typically repeat several times before I’d fall asleep. In reality, I was only relinquishing my body to their sick mosquito science experiments.

Can’t We Just Eradicate Them?
I’d always figured that, as annoying and even deadly mosquitoes can be, they serve some small but important purpose in the global ecosystem. Turns out, that may not be so, as this article from Nature.com points out: “…In many cases, scientists acknowledge that the ecological scar left by a missing mosquito would heal quickly as the niche was filled by other organisms. Life would continue as before — or even better.”

Danger in the Men’s Room: A Mosquito Stares Me Down

I have “much love,” as they say in the hood, for most of the creatures that walk, crawl, fly, flip, flop, march, sleep, eat, and mate on God’s great earth.

The mosquito, however, does not show up anywhere on that “nature love” radar. But their tenacity I do respect. Think about this:

I saw a mosquito…in the urinal…in the men’s bathroom…on the 27th floor…of a building…in Penn Plaza. Midtown-freakin’-Manhattan!

Now, I’m not that stupid. I know there are mosquitoes on Manhattan island, but I can seriously say I don’t remember ever encountering one there.

I don’t have to spell out the potential ramifications of a mosquito being in a urinal, do I? Good. Let’s just that there was some panic involved.

My first thought was to try to figure out how to kill it by flushing the water. But thankfully, it just flew away.

As I left the bathroom, though, I began thinking about how it got there, the possible journey which this insect had gone on.

Somehow, it had escaped the frogs, bats, sparrows, and other predators out there in the big city. It made its way into the building, without an ID card, got into the elevator, exited at 27, waited for someone with an ID card to open the door, zipped through, flew around a bit looking for something to eat, found its way into the bathroom, and settled in that urinal until I shooed it away. Before he bit me, for the record.

Where did it come from? Long Island, Staten Island, Jersey? Or was it a native New Yorker? Did he hitch a ride in the pocket of some fine Italian silk suit? Who knows? Who cares? I still hate mosquitoes, and you should too.

Overpackaging: When Is Enough Enough?

So, in preparation of this past weekend's Perseid Meteor shower, I decided I'd need several accessory items for my photographic endeavors: a bigger SD card and a shutter release cable. I shoot with a Samsung NX100, and use an adapter to support my old Canon FD manual focus glass.

Anyway, that's not the story: the cloudy night precluded even any attempt at seeing a meteor, star, or the crescent moon.

The crux of this article is the products I purchased: a Lexar 8-GB SD card and a Vello remote shutter release.

The Lexar was packaged in a big, square, cardboard box that, when opened, revealed a similarly sized plastic holder. In this holder sat my new card. Really, Lexar? Similarly, check out the Vello remote device I bought. Doesn't it seem like they could've gotten away with a much smaller package? All that real estate is just being used for labeling, promotion. I'm sure that's what it's all about. Making sure one's product stands out in the crowd, on the shelf, behind the counter.

Lexar 8-GB SDHC Exterior Package

Lexar 8-GB SDHC Interior Package

Vello Remote Wired Remote Switch Package

Sad, huh? Is all that waste really necessary? Maybe it is. Maybe I'm not seeing the big picture. But it seems like the packaging could be more efficient, cost-effective, and environmentally friendly. And maybe it would be reflected in the cost. Neither of these products broke the bank, but a little here and a little there tends to add up. Same goes for the packaging.

Don’t Be That Dude: Bathroom Chatterbox

Shhush up, dude! Not in here!

Zip your lip, then zip it up, and meet me over by the sink.

I refuse to talk to you at the urinal, dude.

When guys step up to the urinal, it’s for one thing and one thing only. Eyes on the wall, concentrate on the task at hand, wash up, and get back out there. This goes for when you’re at a bar, at work, the baseball game – anywhere you share a restroom with other people.

Don’t start talking to me about last night’s game. Don’t strike up a conversation about that girl you’ve been talking to all night. Don’t tell me about some great new investment that you really think I should get in on before it blows up. And especially don’t make any idle chit-chat! I hate that dude.

If you’re bored in the restroom, it’s because you’re supposed to be. Oh, and what’s up with that pose? You have your hands on your hips, as if you’re superman. Hilarious, dude! In a bad way.

Anyway, how are you not grossed out, talking to me while you’re, you know, and I’m, well, you know?

I’m even uncomfortable chatting with you over here by the sinks. Can’t whatever is so important wait, until we’re outside?

Oh, and by the way, same goes for when you’re in the stall. Don’t be talking to me through the stall door. And stop making cell phone calls in there too. That’s disgusting, dude. You spend way too much in the bathroom. Are you dealing drugs again?

Just kidding. But I'm not kidding about your bathroom etiquette. 

Stop thinking the restroom is for socializing. Don't be that dude!

Don't Be That Dude: The Speedo

That is just disgusting,dude!

I know you recently lost weight. You look great! But you're not exactly sporting a David Beckham body!

Your body is covered with a brown pelt, and your ass cheeks swallow just little more material each time you walk. No one needs to see that dude!

Especially me. You've betrayed me.

Last night, at the bar, we were saying how great it would be to go to the beach in the morning, and sleep off our hangovers. I even agreed to do the driving.

This is how you repay me? Sporting a neon yellow banana hammock?

Dude, now my hangover is back, and I think I'm going to throw up.

Huh? You wanted to what?

Whaddya need a tan ass for?

Forget it. I don't want to know. But you need to set up your blanket way over there or you can find another way to get home.

Don't be that dude.

To(o) Many Words. Really

 A couple of weeks ago I posted my final original writing post to my Tumblr account. Not by design, or with any forethought, but it became my last notwithstanding.

It all happened because of "To Many Words." Three grammatically incorrect words meant to critique a post I had written about the abuse of the acronym LOL.

The post topped out at 333 words, including the 5-word title -- not terribly long in the old-school world of publishing from whence I have come. So I asked a Tumblr friend of fine, "What gives?"

"Tumblr as a whole is supposed to be more visual," she says. Oh, now she tells me.

To be serious, that kind of confirmed what I had been sensing about Tumblr for some while. I've been pouring my editorial heart out on Tumblr and no one is reading. Great! Well, at least there's a reason. So I switched it up and made Tumblr a photo posting spot.

So, hopefully the "to many words criticism was just from someone trying to clue me on the fact that Tumblr readers aren't really feeling the "longwinded" posts.

What I dread about "to many words," however, is if this is indicative of some greater loathing toward reading by a society more accustomed to 144-character Tweets and staccato, fragment-sentence Facebook status updates.

Really no way to be sure. And if even if that is happening, who's to say whether it's a good or bad shift.

But maybe, just maybe, if people did read more, they would know the difference between "to" and "too" and even "two.

Just my (too) cents.

Don't Be That Dude: Dancing at the Club

Dude, what the hell are you doing over there?

Get off the dance floor right now!

Why?

Because you can't dance, dude.

What's that? No, guys on the dance floor don't always get chicks; guys on the dance floor who actually know how to dance get chicks.

Guys who do what you're doing get laughed at, get pissed off about it and curse out some girl, get escorted out of the club, and get to go home early - by cab.

Uggh! I couldn't believe what I saw. You got your arms bent at the elbow at a ridged 90-degree angle, hands tightly knotted in a fist, head titled back, and your eyes closed. You pick up your feet and move them from side to side, and you might as well not have a torso - cause it ain't moving at all dude.

And that girl you were dancing near…

What?

No, not with, next to…Well, that girl wants to dance, with a dancer. And you ain't one.

So stop embarrassing yourself and the rest of us. Get off the dance floor, go grab a Rum and Coke, and Don't Be That Dude.

The Pregnant Woman Refused My Seat, and Another Guy Took It

I remember reading a really great post from the Chocolate Belly recently about pregnant women not getting the seat privileges on mass transit -- being lumped under the moniker of disabled. The post also posed the question as to whether one would give up his, or her seat to a pregnant woman.

Not to pat myself on the back, but I am a big proponent of this. It makes me feel good, and is respectful to the woman and the precious cargo she carries. But I've been burned before, and last night I got burned again.

On an ultra-packed, standing-room-only 5:38 train out of Penn, I had a seat - a prime commodity, like beachfront property in the Hamptons. I saw a woman get on the train, who looked pregnant. She wasn't showing amazingly, but she was pregnant.

I deliberated for a few seconds, and got up. I tapped her on the shoulder, and offered her the seat.

She turned me down. It turned out she was getting out in a few stops and would probably be harder to get up after sitting down.

I didn't want to sit back down; that's kinda rude. In case she needed the seat, the offer would stand for as long as I was on the train. Turns out, so did I - stand, that is.

What's worse than that?

Some other bonehead who happens to call himself a man gets on the train, spies the seat, and claims it. Not once did he consider the fate of this woman with child.

What is wrong with people these days? There were many men sitting down, and none of them even flinched to give her the seat.

Men: Give up your seats, before you give up your souls
Pregnant Women: Take the seat.

Don’t Be That Dude: Using Big Words

Dude, you know I love you, right? Like a brother. We’re bros!

So that’s why I got you the hell out of there. You were making a fool of yourself!

I heard you tell that guy you were kind of obsequious about going on that Mediterranean cruise in the fall? Huh?

Why did you use that word, dude? You sucked in English, and you’re no better now. Dude, that guy is an English professor at St. John’s. Now they’re all laughing at you. What? No, it does not mean unsure, brother; it’s like, when you’re overly attentive to someone, like a kiss-ass or their slave or something.

Oh, and then I thought I heard you use the word “retinue” in a sentence? Did you? Huh? I thought so.

It doesn’t have anything to do with going to see a movie at night. It just refers to an entourage, or a group of people who follow you around and cater to you.

Whaddya mean, why am I getting all upset? This is serious stuff.

By the way, Lucky Charms cereal can never be magically and loquaciously delicious. That just means you’re talkative.

Anyway, stop with the big words. I know, you’ve been seeing them in the elevator on your way up to work, and they show up when your iMac goes into screen-saver mode. Actually, I’m impressed that you remembered the words; but you need to retain their meaning or refrain from using them.

We both know you’re not up to that task, so don’t be that dude.

What If I Were President: A Vote for Me Is…A Vote

The smoke from my Independence Day barbecue wafted into my brain, changing my genetic code for good, somehow, and I began to focus on the race for President of the U.S. What I really started thinking about is how bored I am with the tired, staid agendas of our two traditional parties. Even formidable third-parties and fringe candidates pretty much repackage points from the platforms of the big two.

A new candidate, in a new party, with a new platform, with new, big, crazy ideas. That's the kind of politics we need. That's the kind of platform would I run on...if I were to throw my proverbial hat into the ring, and join in the race for president of these United States.

You see, I think outside the box, so far outside the box, in fact, that I end up back in the box – though it may or may not be a different box.

Anyway, I have a 6-point plan that covers how I think we should be handling the top issues the country is facing.

• Healthcare
• The Mideast
• The Economy
• Education
• Taxes
• Immigration

And if there’s a party out there that will have me, maybe I'll actually run, because: A vote for me IS a vote.

A Vote for Me: Healthcare - Just Don't Get Sick

This is a very divisive issue, despite the Supreme Court’s recent ruling. I deeply believe that there is no right or wrong solution, but I think we can all agree on one thing: If none us got sick, we wouldn't need healthcare. Right? Are you with me?

And that's why, if I were elected president I would put forth a simple mandate to the American people:

Please do not get sick during my term as president.

Really, it’s only four years; how many times do you typically go to the doctor in a four-year span?

And not going to the doctor is the first step to better health. I mean, people are never sick until they go to doctors, who always seem to find things.

That means not going out in the rain, and wearing a jacket when it's cold outside. Drink plenty of orange juice, and, first and foremost -- eat an apple a day.

Now, avoiding doctors may mean we lose some of the innocent people, who may have been able to be cured through the modern marvels of medicine. But every good cause needs martyrs.

A Vote for Me: Education - Let's Relax, Everyone!

Kids today are way overworked. They have no energy to devote to important stuff, like gymnastics, dance lessons, vocal and acting training, skateboarding, video games, listening to music, blogging, Tweeting, Facebook, or just plain hanging out at the pizza place.

That’s not right.

How else is a little child to realize his or her full potential unless that child has some serious down time?

As parents, how often do you find yourself wondering: “I don’t remember having that much homework when I was in school.” I don’t either.

What are we trying to prove, anyway, with all this education? That we can keep up with China or India? Fat chance. Good luck. Let’s face facts: they’re just smarter, more committed, and more disciplined.

Plus, part of the new Immigration plan will include an intelligence threshold, for which any new immigrants cannot exceed. That’ll show ‘em. And then our kids won’t have so much pressure and will maybe be able to find a job.

What we do best, as a nation, is prepare our kids to be really involved with popular culture. What’s wrong with that?

A Vote for Me: Taxes - Tax the Homeless, Seniors, and People Who Walk

Many of us are feeling way overburdened by taxes. But the answer is not less taxes, it’s more.

There are some key areas of taxation that we’re missing, which could be generating a lot of revenue – if we can get the Supreme Court to go along with it.

First off, we need to tax walking. All walking and running too. A flat tax, no matter how fast, how far, north, south, east, or west. Walkers and runners do a lot of damage to our lawns, roads, parks, and it’s about time they “step up” and pay the piper. Haven’t they ever heard of treadmills and elliptical machines?

I also want to establish a senior citizen tax. Progressive, based on age, relatives will have to pay for anyone in their families who is age 65 and over. This will really help families of the future to determine just how important old Uncle Billy is to the rest of the family.

Lastly, we need to tax the homeless people. States would be forced to pay this Federal tax for each homeless person living in their state. This will not only be lucrative, but will help us to solve the homeless problem. States will compete for great prizes, like iPads and gift cards, to see who can lower their homeless populations.

A Vote for Me: The Economy - Wait Til We're a Third-World Nation

Patience is the order of the day when it comes to the economy.

You see, this recession we're going through in America is only going to get worse. But once we become a third-world nation, we’ll have growing countries like China, Brazil, and Venezuela beating a path to move their businesses over here for the tax breaks, cheap labor, and a new market.

Sound familiar?

For our part, we need to be prepared for when this starts to happen. We’ll need to encourage all the beautiful but poor citizens of our nation to reproduce like jackrabbits, so we can meet the demand for future employees.

And then we’ll also need to accommodate tourism. We’ll need to set up marketplaces at all our ports, so when giant cruise ships dock and let off their fat-cat travelers, we can sell useless arts and crafts, which they’ll break shortly after they get it back on the boat. Hair-braiding is also a key skill for this effort.

And we’ll have to become better at haggling. I know we’ll do fine.

A Vote for Me: The Mideast - Just Switch the Country Names

OK, I’m tired of all these middle-eastern countries squabbling, bickering, and just being downright nasty to each other. What’s up with that? You're tired of it too, right?

I mean, we just want their oil. There's no reason we should have to put up with that.

That’s why the solution here is to simply switch the names of all the countries.

I don’t care what they say either. If we stand firm on this one, it will work.

Here's how it works:

Let’s say we changed the name of the country that is now known as Israel to Iran, and vice versa. If you live in, say, the land of Israel, your new country is really Iran, which was once your sworn enemy. Only now you live in Iran. Conversely, the old Iran is now Israel. So, the Iranian government, formerly Israel, could never attack a country called Israel. It would be like attacking itself. And it wouldn’t be able to attack itself, even it’s now it’s own mortal enemy.

Think about it…Yeah, baby, I know!

A Vote for Me: Immigration - Only Let the Hot People In

"Only come in if your good-looking."

That's what my mother-in-law always says when I come over. She lets me in anyway.

But that's basically the crux of my Immigration policy.

When it comes to controlling immigration, I contend that we only let in people who are hot.

I mean, how great would it be?

Everywhere you go, totally good-looking people are there. No more letting in ugly people to taint the country’s genetic code. And I'm no chauvinist either. This goes for all sexes, as well as races, religions, and ethnicity. So put that in your pipe and smoke it!


And once those immigrants start mixing with our own beautiful people, we’ll all start to become hotter.

Of course, we’ll need to establish a department of exterior beauty and personal aesthetics, but we’ll figure it out – together, as a nation of really hot people. I’m thinking that Paris Hilton might want to serve in my cabinet and head up that department.

I know: it sounds a bit superrace-ish now. But you need to look to the future. I give it about 40 or 50 years, and we’ll have hotties running around everywhere. Everyone will be part of the superbeautiful.

That is awesome, isn't it?

Booty Pop? Sinking the Good Ship Lollipop

Have you ever heard of Shirley Temple? Not the non-alcoholic red drink with a Maraschino cherry that parents used to give their kids on special occasions, but the child star from the 1930s. We also knew her as the singer of "On the Good Ship Lollipop," a cutesy-ootsey song about a world of candy and sweet foods, where "bon-bons play, on the sunny beach of peppermint bay."

I thought about her when I saw a news article about Albert Roundtree Jr., a 6-year-old rapper who has gone viral with his song and video, "Booty Pop." During the course of the song, the kindergarten casanova raps about seducing women, and makes his case as to why girls should go out with him. The chorus refrain is pure poetry, with Roundtree singing, "I can make your booty pop, booty pop, booty pop."

All the while, bikini-clad girls shake what they got, just like in regular rap videos. At one point, there's just his tiny head bobbing between two close-up rump shots.

If this is done in jest, as some type of satire on the rap video genre, then it's brilliant. But something tells me its' not. And if it is real, the video is really disturbing on many accounts.

• First, there's Roundtree's bully button. What is up with that outtee? He may as well still have the umbilical cord attached.
• Who are these girls who have such a low self-esteem that they feel it's OK to be seen gyrating that close to a little kid?
• Whose idea was it to have little Albert hold a water gun from his crotch and shoot water at the dancing girls? I mean, c'mon now.

But, in this day and age, this video makes perfect sense. Just like parents were willing to exploit Shirley Temple, Michael Jackson, and a host of other child stars, these parents are looking through their children to find the gold. In fact, according to the Huffington Post article, "...Albert's parents...paid for the video in the hopes that their son would become a famous rapper."

And to be in that game, this is the kind of video you need to produce. No matter what the age, and no matter what the cost.

Don’t Be That Dude: Air Guitar Concert

Dude, didn’t you hear us stop laughing after about 5 minutes into your Air Guitar performance last night?

No? Maybe your Air Guitar amplifier was cranked up too loud.

Whatever, my friend, it’s no biggie. But the Air Guitar concerts are played out, especially since you never really made it as a musician. It just makes it sadder.

And what were you doing? It’s one thing to Air Guitar on a righteous Santana solo, or when that Stevie Ray Vaughan song came on. But you were playing Air Guitar chords. Air Guitar chords? How is that even meaningful to people who don’t play an instrument? How do you even think that is funny?

And then you started strumming Air Guitar along with Jim Croce’s “Don’t Mess Around With Jim”? That’s when you really lost us, bro.

And you must’ve sensed something too. That was right around the time when you mooned everyone, in a last-ditch effort to get a laugh. Then you gave us all the finger and started in on the hard stuff.

Oh, and that chick you were checking out, sitting on the red cooler, she was checking you out too – until you busted your head on the garden hose reel when you tried that behind-the-neck Air Guitar move during Foxy Lady. She just looked at her friend, rolled her eyes, and left. Uggh! Hendrix would not have been proud, and neither were we.

Dude, chill with the Air Guitar. Don’t be that dude.

Shocking Study Finds Americans Love Christmas, and Other Holidays Too

Wow! I never would've guessed this in a million years, so let's all be grateful that Gallup research can finally confirm:

Americans love Christmas Day.

I was listening to NPR last night and heard Gallup's Frank Newport chatting it up with host Sarah Gardner about this groundbreaking study. Gallup asked Americans: "What are the happiest days of the year?" Newport told Gardner.

He went on to explain that not only was Christmas Day the happiest day of 2011; the holiday has ranked number one since Gallup has been conducting this important research. And the surprises don't stop there: Thanksgiving Day and Easter Sunday ranked second and third, and July 4th and New Year's Day tied for fourth place.

It's no wonder that all of our fave holidays involve either stuffing one's face, gorging on sweets, getting and giving gifts we can't afford, blowing things up, drinking heavily, or some combination thereof.

The kicker was when Gardner said that her happiest day of the year is "the first day of vacation." Newport retorted, "Vacations, clearly based on our data, are something people really enjoy. That comes under the category of what we pollsters call a 'duh finding.'"

Seems like this whole study could be placed under that category, no?

Keep up the hard-hitting research Gallup. We need to know, the things we already know.

Safety Not Guaranteed, But Your Enjoyment Is!

Note: this is not my attempt at using my blog to review films. But this blog is about truth, and Safety Not Guaranteed has truth overflowing from its indie pockets.


My wife and I do not get out to the movies much. It's expensive, and most of the time there's really nothing that interests us. Put it to you this way: the last film we saw in the theater was Avatar, because of all the hype: "If you're going to see Avatar, you gotta see it in the theater."

Safety Not Guaranteed is not that kind of movie. You don't need to see this on the big screen. But that's not an indictment; it's part of this movie's charm.

Because, in fact, this film is really big. It's got big heart; big, real emotions that are played out by a bunch of newcomers and fringe actors like Aubrey Plaza, Jake Johnson, Mark Duplass, and Karan Soni.

The film's main story revolves around a Seattle magazine editor (Johnson) who takes two interns (Plaza and Soni) on a road trip to track down the author of classified ad searching for "someone to go back in time with."


The idea of going back in time to fix the blunders of the past, on its surface, is a well-worn path in Hollywood. But time travel is so peripheral to this film. It's what these characters are able to do in the present -- address and resolve the issues they've created and dealt with in the past -- that makes the entire trip like going back in time.

And the ending, while subdued, is as stirring as watching ET say goodbye to Elliot. 

Hope that makes sense. If not, sorry: Sensibility Not Guaranteed.

Just see this movie if you want to feel better than you did when you walked in.

How Are You? How Are You?

Hey, I just asked you how you were doing. And your answer: "How are you?"

You answered my question with another question, the same question. Did you not hear me, soldier! I said, "How are you?"

Maybe you were about to ask me, just before I asked you. But I asked you first, so now it's time to shift the gears of your brain in a new direction and come up with an acceptable response.

"Good." "Fine." "Beautiful." "Amazing." "Crappy." "Horrible." Any of these would've fit the bill. And, if you wanted to ask me a question, here's one: "How Am I What?" It's a bit sarcastic, but it would do.

Now, by returning my question back over the net to me with the same question, we're caught in an endless volley of "How are you." Way to go, guy! Now, my response can set off the conversation in a thousand different directions. I didn't want that responsibility.

I just wanted to know: "How are you?"

An Appointment, Not Destiny

Appointments, these days, seem to be exercises in theory; like, “…if we hadn’t scheduled all of these other people at the same time we told you to come in, we could’ve honored your appointment.”

No bigger perpetrator exists than the medical professional. Doctors overbook and cross-book patience to maximize revenue, all with the arrogance of knowing that we need them; so we wait, and if we don’t like it, we can leave.

At a recent 5:00 p.m. apointment with an eye doctor, for which I showed up 10 minutes early to complete the annoying paperwork, I didn’t get called in until about 50 minutes later. Now, by medical standards, that’s not bad. But the exam literally lasted 15 minutes. A puff of air, an eye chart, and I was done. So for every minute of that short exam, I had to wait three. Something seems wrong there.

Rental car companies and hotels often commit similar abuses, only they distort the meaning of the word reservation. Haven’t you ever shown up at the airport car rental desk, only to be directed to a competitor because they didn’t have any cars left? Huh? I thought I made a reservation, as in, I reserved a car from you?

And look at what the Long Island Rail Road does to the word schedule. At my connection in Jamaica, NY, the 8:25 a.m. to Penn Station arrives like clockwork, consistently 3 minutes later than the 8:28 a.m., which has already left.

My brain hurts from trying to wrap my head around all these numbers.

I understand. Things come up, and as a member of the public that is being served, I am totally OK with this and am prepared for it. But this shouldn’t be how businesses operate.

Why are we so willing to put up with this behavior?

Lost in Transition

Remember that eye doctor appointment I mentioned in the “Appointment Not Destiny” article? It was all with the intention of replacing my existing, perfectly good pair with something more like what the hipsters are wearing: you know, those big, black, thick-framed numbers that look curiously similar to what my grandfather used to whip out in the 1970s to read the paper. Just another gross case of the Fashion Burrito del Grande repeating and eating itself, I guess. But I do digress!

Practicing efficient time management, my wife and I were able to narrow the selection down to about three frame styles, and by the time the associate came over to assist, we had basically figured out which one we wanted - a funky pair of specs under the Blue Moon label (BM1002 - couldn’t really find anything on the web about it). Thankfully, the associate agreed with our choice, and we sat down to discuss options - the first of which being that I wanted to be able to see. One of the options on the table: transition lenses.

Transitions, in case you don’t know, change from having no tint to practically a full sunglass tint in a matter of seconds when exposed to UV rays. Pretty cool, right? No need to purchase a separate pair of prescription shades, or get those tacky clip-ons. These babies are ready for action.

My only hesitation was cost, so I asked the associate to give me an estimate with and without. The price was pretty unbelievable through my health insurance, so I gave her the go-ahead. Bring it on, Sun! All in all, they’re a nifty piece of technology. In my car, I’m just some nerd with glasses; give me 30 seconds in the sun, and I am too cool for an iceberg!

There’s a problem, though. As fast as they are able to change, I find myself viewing life through a constant state of mid-transition. So, instead of either clear glass or black sunglass, I’m looking out a world that has a purple hue. Violet you’re turning violet, Violet! And, instead of Top Gun, fighter piolet rugged coolness, I kind of have this permanent raccoon look around my eyes. I look like like I just got beat up by Kimbo Slice in some backyard YouTube video.

Plus, I don’t think they’re the best for photography. They kind of give you a false sense of color and light.
But I’m sticking with my transitions. They look sharp, and will help my eyes in the long run. And, when all is said and done, life is change, isn’t it?