Happy Holidays to All!

Sorry, no post this week. But be sure to stay tuned in for the first post of 2009!

Covered parking is something special

I think the caste system for cars is this; top: garaged cars, middle: car-ported cars, bottom: uncovered cars.

My car is definitely in the bottom category. The poor thing has never been garaged. The only time it's shielded from the night sky is when it's covered in a blanket of snow or ice. Or tree sap. Or bird crap.

In nice summer weather, it's not bad at all for my car to have to sit out under the night sky. But in inclement weather, I feel bad for the little guy. For one thing, it's previous owner installed an aftermarket sunroof. When it rains, it leaks like photos of a celebrity checking into rehab.

And then there are the elements of winter. Snow and ice are horrible for the both of us; it has to be parked in it, I have to scrape it.

I don't know about you, but I have my morning routine down pat. Showering, dressing, eating, etc., are all allotted a specific number of minutes. If I schedule any slack into the schedule, it would have to come out of my sleep time. I'm not willing to do that.

Thus, if I wake up and it has snowed, I know I'll have to pick up the extra minutes needed for scraping my car windows from another essential task. Usually it's the soap lather in the shower that get's nixed; there's no way I'm cutting into my breakfast time.

Then there are the times that I don't look outside once I wake up. I carry on with my usual routine and head out the door at the proper time, only to see a build-up of ice all over my car. It's a race against time to create a couple peep holes in my front windshield.

However, this year I've decided to make the unplanned morning chore of scraping ice from my windows a little more bearable.

I'm going to keep a bottle of fruit-flavored syrup in my car, along with a stack of Styrofoam cups. Then I'll collect the ice shavings that fly off as I madly scrape away. A fresh snow cone could really make the morning commute more enjoyable.

Do-it-yourselfers have to bounce back

Photo: http://sportzfun.com/photos/boxing/boxing_giant

We were positioned a couple feet from each other, alone in the bathroom. With the door closed, we stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity--neither of us flinching, but one of us dripping.

I tried to mask the fear that swirled inside me, but I knew my facade was transparent. I was heavily unarmed, while it was decisively defiant. A fight was about to break out, and I was coming in as the underdog.

In my heart I knew I had a puncher's chance, and I've watched enough Rocky movies to know that kind of chance is worth something. The bell rang and I immediately went for the cold-water handle. I twisted and pulled until the decorative grip came off and the innards were exposed.

I was in a struggle to stop a leaky faucet, and it was obvious I had no strategy.

By some act of providence, I luckily remembered to turn off the water shut-off valve located below the sink. Then, with my makeshift tool set, I undid bolts and lifted flanges. I tweaked a few things, then put the faucet back together. I turned the water valve back on and took a step back, only to see the drip return.

I went back in for round two, and started to take the faucet apart once more. I freed a couple parts until I got to the faucet cartridge. I pulled up on it, and that's when it hit. A gush of water was suddenly shooting me in the face and drenching my clothes. For all I knew, I was standing over Old Faithful. I shielded my eyes as I tried to see where the attack was coming from.

Turns out I'd forgotten to turn off the water shut-off valve the second time. Little O-rings, springs, and washers were spread around me; I had no idea where they came from, or where they belonged. I was dazed and my clothes were drenched, as was everything else in the room. The match had ended by knockout.

A rematch was scheduled for one week later, and the sink was on lock-down until then. I prepped myself by making a trip to Lowe's to get several new faucet parts, as well as a couple more tools. I made it to the plumbing aisle, where I joined a couple other guys who were staring helplessly before an array of plumbing parts.

We each took several turns picking something off the shelf, looking it over, then putting it back. A drip of confidence couldn't be squeezed from the lot of us.

Eventually, a store employee came by and asked if we needed help finding anything. I glanced around at the other guys in the aisle, and they glanced back at me. Everyone was hoping someone would speak up and set a precedent that it was OK to receive help. But after several moments of silence, the employee shrugged and walked off.

I randomly grabbed a few things and headed home. I felt assured as I walked back into the ring with my new arsenal. I waited for the bell, then in a flash I had the water shut off, the faucet dismantled, and new parts inserted. I turned the water shut-off valve back on and waited, breathing heavily. No drip. I had come back strong, and I'd won by knockout in the first round.

If you don't want to pay a plumber $50/hour, you've got to be willing to put up a fight.

Figuring out coupon etiquette

Photo: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/43195

I was feeling a bit nostalgic last night, so I decided to take my wife out on a date like the ones I used to take her out on before we were married. The only things real particular to such a date are; 1) plan as you go (I'm rather charismatic under pressure), and 2) keep it under ten bucks.

Naturally, we started out at the Nickel Cade. Our time was well spent; my wife perfected her stroke at the skeet-ball ramp, while I broke the basketball arcade game with my aggressive play. We won enough tickets to cash in for a stretchy sticky-hand and a kazoo.

Afterward we ended up at the Sonic Drive-In, mostly because my wife had a coupon for 99-cent shakes. As we approached the order menu she told me I had to tell the cashier I had a coupon when I ordered. I froze.

No way was I going to announce over a speaker that I had a coupon! My mind raced back to a date I had early on in college, with another girl.

This girl had wanted to go ice skating, so I planned out a date down at the local skating rink. The day before the date, one of my roommates found out about it and gave me a 2-for-1 admission coupon he had lying around.

The dilemma arose: is it OK to use a coupon on a date? Would she think I was a cheap son-of-a-gun, and walk away? I had no idea. Highly concerned, I discussed the situation with a friend at work.

Probably because he was working the same $6-hour job I was, we concluded that I should use the coupon and save $6. However, we agreed that the transaction would need to be made without my date knowing. I'd have to secretly hand it to the cashier with a wink and a nod.

It was on. My date and I arrived at the front counter of the ice skating rink where we were greeted by the cashier. "Two please," I stated confidently. I then slipped her a five and one bill, with the coupon folded inside. I pointed at something to distract my date as the cashier unfolded my money and removed the coupon.

"Sorry, this coupon isn't effective until next month." Time stood still, while the word "coupon" rang loud and clear to me, my date, and everyone behind us in line. It was like an echo down a canyon: "COUPON, COUPON, COUPON..."

I knew the dang things had expiration dates, but commencement dates?

My date looked at me with sorry eyes while my mind raced in terror. She was looking at me like I was unable to pay for the date. I looked like a kid at a 25-cent gumball machine, trying to shove a nickel into the quarter slot: kind of cute, but also kind of sad.

So as I sat in the Sonic Drive-In with my wife, I crumpled the coupon in my clenched fist and called out our order. "Two shakes please, at full price."

I paid double that night, but sometimes that's the price of keeping a little date-night dignity.

Warning:

The post below (The Gift Cycle: I want out), despite it's healthy dose of cynicism, was written tongue in cheek. I exaggerated heavily to make a point about something I deem important.

Please know that I, the author, still love all the presents I've received and will receive. I also love Christmas, birthdays, and fluffy penguins--I'm not the cold hearted cynic the tone of the post implies I am.

Thank you for your loyalty to my blog.

Rock

The Gift Cycle: I want out

Photo: http://www.daylife.com/photo/0d6g1SP5XBgwU

I adamantly believe most gifts are given out of a sense of social responsibility. Yeah, I'm sure most of you are saying that is Grinch talk, but I ask that you hear me out before you say my heart is two sizes too small.

My main line of reasoning is that situations have been established in our culture that provide an opportunity, I mean... a requirement, to give a gift away.

Everyone is associated with a day in which their birth will be celebrated, a.k.a. a birthday. On that day gifts MUST be given to the person chalking up another year of life. Same with the Christmas holiday. On that day gifts MUST be given to everyone.

Where does the tradition of giving gifts come from? Perhaps it originates back to the story of Jesus's birth, where wise men came bearing gifts. (Note that the shepherds didn't bring anything, and they weren't turned away from the event.)

Actually, the tradition started even earlier. In ancient Rome people would exchange gifts on New Year's Day. These gift exchanges went on for a long time, but as Christianity expanded the church attempted to halt it, seeing it as a pagan tradition. However, the gift exchanges were too popular with the people so they decided instead to associate gift giving with the Magi at the birth of Jesus, rather than associate it with a Roman holiday.

So that's a brief background on Christmas gift-giving, which we as a culture have extended into birthday gift-giving, because one time a year isn't enough. Furthermore, there are baby showers, weddings, holidays, housewarmings, anniversaries, funerals, graduations, all of which stand as another reason for gifts to be given.

So for those asking what is wrong with established dates of gift giving, first I say it takes the logic out of giving a present. If every year your good friend is going to give you a gift on your birthday, then you in turn will give them a gift for their birthday, why don't you just save your time and money and each just buy something for yourselves? At least that way your guaranteed to get what you want.

Is there any charity involved with giving a gift to someone when you know you're scheduled to get a gift from them soon? Would people really head out Christmas shopping at 4 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving if they knew there wasn't going to be anything under the tree for them on Christmas morning? Would they really buy a birthday present every year for somebody that never got them anything on theirs? Perhaps some would, but I hope my questions make a point.

What's the common phrase heard when people are going out to get a gift for someone they don't regularly exchange gifts with? "I have to, they randomly got me something last year." Yes, most people buy gifts for someone out of the fear that that person might get them something.

Not only that, receiving gifts on particular events has become so ingrained in us that it has become expected. Why the heck do people send out graduation announcements? It's definitely not to announce their graduation; the announcers expect gifts. Why do people hold bridal showers? Why do people hold birthday parties?

And so I want out. I don't want out of giving gifts, per se, but I want out of the gift cycles society has created. I don't want some blasted store telling me when I should be buying someone a gift. I want to give when I feel the need to give, and that can't be pinned down to a day on the calendar.

Only problem is, I need people to join me. Until then I'll look like a jerk at birthday parties.

Then again, I don't know... maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we're not ready for truly sporadic giving. Take away all our holidays and anniversaries and birthdays, and we'd probably never give each other a dang thing.

Useless decorations

Cultures are distinguished by their living quarters. Many of those native to the North American continent made tepees and wrapped them thick with animal skins. The skins kept their house insulated from the cold. The early settlers of the Southwest caked mud on the inside of their walls. When dried, it protected the house from the blistering heat.

I worry that the current condition of our living quarters may throw some future anthropologist off. A few modern household decorations, in my opinion, are completely non-functional:

Lots of pillows on the bed. I don't know why, but for some reason my wife thinks our bed looks better when it's overflowing with pillows. If it wasn't for the purple and green pillow-covers, the bed would stand for a cumulus cloud.

The annoying thing is, you have to take them all off when you want to sleep in the thing. But that's the easy part--you can just chuck 'em on the floor. What sucks is placing them back all pack on in the morning in their appropriate order. My wife is trying to figure out a way to number them because I can't ever place them right; all I know is the cylindrical one goes last.

Along the same lines, our bed features a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. A "runner," I believe it's called. According to my wife's rules, it can't be used as a blanket. It's just placed after the bed is made.

So if our house were to sit as is and was unearthed later on, the discovering anthropologist would have to conclude we slept with our necks propped up at 90 degrees and our feet were always freezing. They would also assume our bodies were only about three feet long, since the pillows take up the other three feet of length.

The barn star hung on the house. You don't have to drive around suburbia long before finding a large and rusty star nailed to the front of someone's house. For those out of the loop, it may seem that someone just forgot to take down a 4th of July decoration. Not so, some people think it's a great way to add a rustic accent to their home. People who hang these usually have a kitchen themed after some type of farm animal (e.g., cows, pigs, roosters).

Future anthropologist will quickly realize the barn star served no structural purpose, and therefore conclude it was a religious symbol. They would figure inhabitants worshiped it as they came and went.

Fake fruit. Utilized as a decoration over real fruit because it doesn't draw fruit flies, fake fruit is found in many homes today; a bowl of rubber grapes on the end tables in the living room, a pile of plastic pears on the table in the dining room. No doubt, fake fruit has gotten amazingly realistic over the years. The real thing is mimicked down to the wood-grains in the stems, to the dimples in the peels.

This decoration will really throw anthropologist a curve ball. After much deliberation, you'd have to imagine they'd think the homes with fake fruit were homes of the peasants. They couldn't afford food, but they didn't want visitors to think their cupboards weren't stocked. So they'd form fake fruit and set it out all around the house.

Whatever the case, as a man I'd hope future anthropologist would realize we didn't adorn our homes with non-functional decor because we were a regressing society. We did it because we realized the best way to progress as a culture was by keeping the wife happy.

Photo 1: http://www.fdlhome.com/index.asp?PageAction=COMPANY
Photo 2: http://www.picanswers.com/questions/530-barn-stars-made-in-the-united-states-
Photo 3: http://www.seefred.com/cgi-bin/shop.pl/page=newfruit.htm

New Sport: Competitive Blood Donating

I'm a card-carrying blood donor. I don't donate as often as I should, but I usually do it at least once a year.

I got a donor card from the Red Cross on my first time. It says "A Positive" underneath my name. Whenever my wife tells me I'm being too negative, I pull out my donor card and correct her. "No, I'm a positive." That's about all I've been able to use my card for so far.

I had the opportunity to donate a couple weeks ago. As I'm sure you're aware, I started out by going through the rigorous screening process. I had to answer questions like...

"Have you ever made love to a cow from the UK?"
"Have you ever spent more than five days in Little Rock, AR?"
"Do you eat at Arby's more than twice a week?"
"Do you swim in public pools?"

I guess I cleared the screening, because I was sent over to sit in one of the reclining donor chairs. The nurse that was going to tend to me was just getting another guy started. He seemed rather confident, as the nurse prepped him for the needle. She worked mechanically, and it was easy to tell she was nearing the end of her shift

"This will be 6 gallons," he said proudly, and then waited for the nurse to give a compliment. It never came. "If you want to look away, now's the time," she said. "I don't," he said with a smirk, and he stared at the inside of his elbow as she inserted the needle.

He must have thought he could win a date with her if he came across as the bravest patient she's ever had, or something. Once she hooked him up he clenched his teeth, furrowed his brow, and started pumping away like he was in a competition.

The nurse walked over to me, went through my paperwork, and then started to clean my arm. "You're going to want to come over here, I'm almost done," the cocky guy shouted triumphantly. It looked like he'd broken a sweat. "Yes, you're about done," said the nurse. She then unhooked the blood bag. "What's my time?" he asked. Without emotion, she said, "4 minutes and 39 seconds." The guy's eyes lit up and he shouted "yes!"

I didn't realize they'd be timing me. I wondered if it actually was a competition. She walked back to me and again started cleaning my arm, then asked me if I was allergic to iodine. "No, I don't think so. What's it used for, anyway?" "It kills all the icky little germs."

I sure was glad she threw "icky" in there, because I wouldn't have understood germs were bad if she didn't. Apparently I look like an idiot when I'm about to give blood.

She placed a mini foam football, enveloped in a paper towel, into my hand. Then she inserted the needle and told me to pump away.

I was concentrating on two things; 1) trying to beat 4:39, and 2) trying to pump the foam football in my hand without having my hand come into contact with it. I figured the nurse must have placed it in a paper towel for a good reason; I believed the person before me had boogers on their fingers.

I finished, and the nurse unhooked everything. "6 minutes and 42 seconds," she said. I had thought everyone that donated blood was a winner, but at the moment I didn't feel like one. The donkey next to me had beat me by two minutes.

I sat in shame as I consumed my trail mix at the recovery station. However, as I moved on to my apple juice a thought came. I realized it was time for me to live up to my blood type, and be "a positive" person. I had just given life. I was a donor of a vital body fluid. And I'm sure the receiver didn't care if it took over 6 minutes.

Phot0: http://ia.utep.edu/Default.aspx?tabid=31047

Upset with any election results? Try out no-man's land.

The results of this past election seemed to have ticked off a lot of people. Now some people in the US are going to get taxed more. Now some people in California can't get married. Now some people in Michigan can smoke pot if they're sick. The list is longer, but in sum, a lot of things did or did not pass and now a lot of people are in an uproar.

I'm not president elect, but if I was, I'd have a solution. Our country needs a no-man's land, a safe zone between the trenches. It needs a place where people can be ruled according to what they believe should be the law.

First off, this no-man's land would require some land. I checked out a map of the US, and there appears to be a good chunk of unused land in northeastern Alaska. The map I looked at labels it "ANWR." I'm sure it's up for grabs. There's also a healthy piece of waste-land real estate in the middle of Nevada.

Let's go with Nevada--they're already flexible in their tax, casino, and prostitution laws. A large no-man's land in the middle of their state shouldn't phase 'em. So Nevada would be shaped like a doughnut, with its doughnut hole being the new no-man's land.

In the doughnut hole anything would fly. It would be the place for people to go who are ticked at what and who the majority of the people in their home town, state, or country passed and elected. It's citizens would each be governed by the laws and lawmakers they prefer.

In the no-man's land you'd have hundreds of thousands of little townships, and such townships would often consist of just one household. You could go over to your neighbors, who are from Nebraska, and they may be waiting for someone to sit in their electric chair.

There would be no mayor, governor, or president of no-man's land, because of course, everyone in the place has their own. In one household/township they'll call John McCain their president. In another they'll call Ralph Nader their president. Nader would of course stop by the Johnson's house in no-man's land every January to give the State of the Union Adress:

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to get much through congress so far, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson (lots of clapping). It's just that (lots of clapping), uh, they don't regard me in the same manner as you do (lots of clapping). Anyway, the state of our Union is, um, well how are you guys doing?"

"We're doing just fine, thank you."

"OK then, I'd say the state of the Union is, um, fine (lots and lots of clapping). God bless, and good night (lots of clapping)."

Don't think no-man's land would just be full of a bunch of no names. I'm sure Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, who will only get married when gays are allowed to, would be citizens. Yes, I believe no-man's land would be the site of the biggest Hollywood wedding ever.

Actually, as president elect I would be informed by my advisers that Area 51 is in the middle of Nevada. That would be a problem, because a number of "townships" I'm sure would make it legal to marry the aliens. Plus, I'm sure a lot of the Green Party folks would be upset about the bomb testing.

Maybe it should get moved to that ANWR place. However, if the government wanted to start drilling for oil there, we'd then have to worry about disturbing more than just caribou.

Photo: http://www.pierce-evans.org/Election.htm

I guess I just look suspicious

Photo: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/5353901/

I'm the slowest shopper in the world. The last time my wife sent me to the store for some cold-sore medicine, I came back 2 1/2 hours later with a case of ginger ale, some exotic piece of fruit from the produce section, and a pack of cinnamon graham crackers--totally forgetting the medicine. Now, when she sends me to the store, she packs me a lunch and writes the item she needs on my forehead, so the cashier will ask me about it as I'm buying a bunch of useless crap.

I just get lost in supermarkets. I'm wide-eyed and mystified by everything available for purchase. Not only that, every little purchase is a HUGE decision. If you're buying salsa, you'll need to choose mild, medium, or hot. Then you'll need to decide between the off-brand and the name-brand. Say you go with the medium name-brand. But then you notice the off-brand mild features a peach and mango variety. Well that, my friend, is a wrench thrown in your, uh, gears.

Needless to say my methodical shopping has gotten me into trouble, not only with my wife, but also with the law (kind of the same thing, though).

As you recall from a previous article, it's taken me quite some time to find a good deodorant. Every time I purchased a new stick, I'd spend a very long time scrutinizing all my options. One particular time, as I was taking forever as usual, I noticed a store clerk kept coming by the aisle I was in. She was acting very casual, but it all seemed a bit peculiar.

After walking by a number of times, she eventually came closer and started to look over the shelves next to me, as if she was scanning price tags or something. I figured I was in her way, and I knew I would need at least another 10 minutes to make a final decision, so I quickly left and walked over to the next isle to wait for her to finish. Just then she came full-speed around the corner at the other end and walked briskly towards me.

"Take out whatever you put in your pocket and give it to me!" she demanded. I told her I didn't have anything, to which she replied, "I've got security at the front door, you're not getting away." I handed her my coat and turned my pant pockets inside out for her to check everything out. "Obviously you already got rid of it," she scowled. We stood in silence for a moment, one as the accused and one as the accuser, then she stormed off.

While that happened a few years ago, just yesterday I was at a department store looking for a new set of hair clippers. I live and die by the buzz cut, so this new set of clippers I was buying was very important to me. Once I got to the aisle where they were sold a world of options was opened up to me. Did I need a cordless set? Should I pay another $8 for titanium blades? One set came with a nose-hair trimmer; should I be trimming those?

After a while I found one set of clippers that was in a partly opened box and I was able to pull out the user's manual to get some information that wasn't printed on the outside of the box. I put it back together and placed it back on the shelf.

About 30 minutes later, after carefully studying each one, I nailed down my choice and started to walk off with it. Just then I noticed two store employees waiting for me at the end of the aisle. They quickly turned away and acted like they didn't notice me. I got past them, only to have a security officer step in front of me. I knew right then what was about to go down.

"Do you need help finding anything?" he said, cynically. "No, I'm good," I replied. He followed close behind as I walked towards the nearest cash register. I looked around and figured that most of the store's employees were gathered to watch me.

I had wanted to look for a few more things, but I figured I'd be wrongfully arrested if I stayed around any longer. I checked out and walked proudly through the security beeper things by the exit doors. No alarm went off as my innocence was proved, and my refusal to make a rash decision, even if meant having a code red called out in the store, was sustained.

There are still good people in this world.

http://www.grimacenyc.com/Peeps.htm

It's amazing what every-day functions have become second nature. You sniff when your nose drips. You close a drawer after you open it. You put your wallet back in your pocket after you've paid for gas.

Actually, not so much on that last one. A couple days ago I was at the gas station. I had just swiped my credit card at the pump and was thinking very seriously about running into the convenience store for a Slurpee. But I was also running really late.

I drove off without the drink. About 10 miles down the highway, I also realized I had driven off without my wallet. Apparently my mind was unable to process simultaneously the decision to not get a Slurpee and the mental effort involved in putting my wallet back in my pocket.

Immediately I began wondering what my life was going to be like over the next couple weeks. Without my wallet I would be nothing. I'd have no power to buy, no power to vote, and no power to enter night clubs and get my dance on. Essentially, I had been stripped of all my rights and reduced to the social ranking of kindergartner.

Without a drivers license on my person, I flipped a U and headed back to the gas station. I was bracing myself for the worst. I figured my identity had already been stolen and the thief had already applied for a job as a porta-potty cleaner under my name.

Not only that, I knew darn well my credit cards had been maxed out to buy car parts for illegal street-racing. Plus, I assumed the thief had already used my insurance card to get a free doctor's visit, since robbers can't have much of a health plan (but I was sure the thief would regret it after finding out that doctor's visits are only covered in full every-other new moon by doctor's that went to medical school at a university that rhymes with orange).

The only hope I had was that the thief would buy one more sandwich at Subway to get the last needed stamp for my Subway Card, and as a token of appreciation mail it back to me so I could get a free sub. Even then I'd need some money to purchase the medium drink required to claim it.

Finally, I made it back to the gas station. Just as I had figured, there was no wallet lying around the pump where I had filled up. With a skeptic heart, I wandered into the convenience store--just in case the thief was like me and had forgotten his wallet, I mean my wallet, while he purchased a quick doughnut.

My wallet was there; someone had turned it in! All the credit cards were in their place. Even the $2 cash I had was untouched. Unfortunately, I still needed one more stamp on my Subway card.

The whole ordeal was a wake-up call. The world around has made me a hard and cold cynic. I've turned into a New Yorker (yes, I'm stereotyping). But all truth be told, when I lost my wallet my first thought was that it would be stolen, not that it would be turned in. It's time for me to start seeing the sunrise in people, and not just the sunset. There's good out there.

Mr. or Ms. Wallet-Turner-Inner, if you read this please contact me. I'd like to shake your hand and buy you a Slurpee.

As a man, I don't know what look to go for.

I'd love it if I could buy clothes just once and call it good for the rest of my life. Unfortunately I'm regularly ruining my clothes, causing my wardrobe to run thin. Just the other day I was tapping on my khaki pants with an ink pen, having no idea the lid was off.

I think buying clothes is a nightmare. Most the stuff in stores now a day is made for men that aren't really men. It all looks like it's trying to be too fashionable.

With that attitude, I was recently shopping at some outlet stores with my wife and doing my best to find something worthwhile. As I wandered aimlessly from store to store, I came to realize something. All the casual-wear clothes I was sorting through, from shoes to pants to shirts to hats, fell into one of three categories:

1) The prep-school/croquet look. This all-around look covers a man whether he's docking his sailboat in a New England harbor or playing a pick-up game of Lacrosse at the park. The key to the ensemble is the neck covering; in the summer months a popped collar will do, in the winter months a scarf is a must. Solid, assertive colors rule among men of this look. Not only should their conversation be about Thoreau's works and their late father's trust fund, but their fashion should be as well. Finally, the whole outfit is for not if the hair isn't combed and a bottle of sparkling water isn't in hand.

Vendors include Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, and Gap.2) The Northwest/outdoor/organic look. While the look poses as rugged, if any guy actually showed up to a real mountain-man's cabin dressed as such he'd be beaten to tears and thrown to the wolves. Inspired by pine trees, granola, and waterproofing, the clothes in this category are ideal for walking along a forest trail while eating a yogurt. Most selections are found in earth tones. If this look was a car it would be a Subaru.

Vendors include L.L.Bean, Eddie Bauer, and Columbia Sportswear.3) The California-dude look. It screams cool. Maybe too cool. The letters on the shirts and sweaters are always large, usually white. Most of the garb looks faded--suggesting that the individual is often out in the California sun. Belts are key, and they come in either brown or white. Slightly wrinkled is preferred. Footwear is usually in the sandal family. Many of the suppliers, by their ads, would have you believe you'll look just as good with their shirt off as you will with it on.

Vendors include Hollister, Aeropostale, and Abercrombie & Fitch.
To be honest, I don't want to join any of those ranks. Isn't there another option for casual wear? I know if I don't join one of the above categories, I'll have to continue cherry picking the border-line items from each one. I need some common theme in my wardrobe. What about the Australian Outback look, or the Norwegian/Slavic look? Have any stores popped up supporting those?

Photo: http://www.gamespot.com/pages/forums/show_msgs.php?topic_id=26548349&page=3
Photo: http://www.guardianecostore.co.uk/guardian/product.aspx?topGroup=106&subCat=0&subGroup=2707
Photo: http://blog.nj.com/fashiontoday/2008/06/summer_stock.html

Why do I live in a place that gets cold?

It snowed last night. It was the first snow fall of the season. So today I'm wondering, "why the crap do I live somewhere that gets cold?" I usually spend the first half of every winter pondering that question.

I just don't get it. It doesn't make sense. I live in a place where for half of the year it's uncomfortable to go outside. I suppose I, like most other people, live somewhere in the vicinity of where my ancestors settled. So why did our ancestors settle in cold places?

Of the 13 original colonies, only 3 were in the south. Here's the real kicker--Florida wasn't one of the original colonies! What were those Puritans thinking? Were Florida's sandy beaches and palm trees too extravagant for them to claim it? A life by the Boston Harbor where temperatures linger in single digits for several months was more preferred?

I know Christopher Columbus landed somewhere in the Bahamas. What did he tell all the Europeans when he got back? "Oh, we found some all right places, but if you guys go north when you make your pilgrimage to the New World you won't have to deal with all the mangoes and exotic birds and lush, tropical vegetation."

Whatever the case, they did settle in cold places and so now many of us have to deal with nasty winters. However, I'm still confused/bothered by those around me that are so chipper about the winter months.

"Oh, the fresh snow is so beautiful," and "it's nice to get a break from the heat" are phrases I often hear. Snow looks OK, I guess, but the knowledge that it's cold once you walk into it turns me off fast enough. Besides, it ends up looking brown and dirty by the end of the day anyway.

And I don't see how people would rather have it cold outside than hot outside. Your fingers don't get sore and numb when it's a hot day. And I've never had to spend the first five minutes of my morning letting my car run while I scrape the windows because it was a warm day.

Furthermore, the winter optimists around me lose all credibility because they still go on vacation to warm places. In January they take off to places like Cancun, Orlando, and Las Vegas. Show me a winter enthusiast that escapes to Fargo, ND in the middle of winter and then I'll be convinced.

I understand San Diego is already jam packed with people in my line of thinking. Plus a 1/2 bedroom, 1/2 bathroom apartment there costs as much as a the whole state of Wyoming does. So one of these years I'll just have to go settle in some little corner of the Amazon or the Sahara. The heat won't bother me, but the spiders or the dust storms might take some getting used to.

Photo: http://www.silive.com/news/index.ssf/2007/12/23-week/

Rubber cement boogers vs. cell phones in school

I recently read an article in the local paper about the trouble schools are having with students and cell phones. You've got 2nd graders texting in class, 3th graders checking stock prices on the bus, and 4th graders calling the weather hotline before recess.

Apparently a lot of teachers don't know how to deal with the new distractions brought about by the cellular telephone. I guess the distractions that were around when I was in middle school have taken a back seat to the new technology.

My schoolmates and I used pen and paper to draw Picasso-like pictures of our teachers, the nose and eyes exaggerated to the extreme. We used Elmer's Rubber Cement to make fake boogers. We disassembled spring-loaded ball point pens and reassembled them into small rockets.

We used our calculators to text each other. We'd write secret notes by way of digital numbers; "316008," turned upside down, spells "BOOgIE." Furthermore, "07734," turned upside down, spells "hELL0." If we were looking to stir things up, we'd leave off the zero and just write ""7734."

Our digital vocabulary was about as large as our verbal vocabulary.

In high school the distractions became even greater. Once we got into trigonometry and calculus, we were given scientific calculators. That's when all 7734 broke lose. They were basically little computers intended to graph curves on an x and y axis. But with their technological capabilities, they could also store simple games. Suddenly Tetris and Space Invaders was being played during every class.

What we were doing as students is nothing compared to what's happening now. The article I read said students are using their cell phone cameras to take dirty pictures and send them to one another. I guess that provides new ammo for students to use when they're arguing with their PE teacher about not wanting to shower after PE.

Teacher: "Everyone has to shower. If you're caught getting dressed without one I'll dock you 10 points."

Student: "But Chuck lurks behind the lockers and and takes pictures with his cell phone when we do."

The article also said they're using their cell phone's video cameras to record after-school fights. Frankly, I wish we would have that technology to record some of the fights I saw in Jr. High. The one where Josh Bell got punched in the face and had his glasses broken wasn't half bad.

Or, maybe recording such fights would be helpful to some students. In 5th grade, when I got in a fight with Aaron Bean by the tetherball courts, maybe I wouldn't have gotten detention if some student had recorded it. Then it could have been proved that I was merely fighting in self defense because he wiped grasshopper guts on my arm.

My final word to today's teachers: if you take cell phones away from students, they'll just go back to making rubber cement boogers.

A depression would take some getting used to

I always wondered what life in a depression would be like. Everyone is saying that we'll be in one if the $700-million dollar bail-out plan doesn't pan out.

What's that? It's $700 billion? Well, whatever. $700 mil, bil, tril... is there a difference?

So how do the legislative negotiations work on that, anyway? When negotiating the price of a new car with the dealer, you usually start wheelin' and dealin' with $100 amounts, or so.

What amounts do you start with when you're working out a $700-billion plan? If the senator from Wyoming stands up and says "we should shave $10 million off the plan," is he laughed out of the room for pinching pennies?

If the bail-out plan ends up being $701 billion instead of $700 billion, will anybody care? When did billions become such trivial common place?

Sorry, I got off track. So back to the depression. From what I understand, everything will be very dry. Dust will swirl around and plants will shrivel. Fashions will change. All males will start looking like washed up businessmen--top button undone, wearing a dusty, gray suit. I say "gray" because color will be gone. If you're attached to reds, yellows, and blues, get over them.

Dogs will just run loose in alleys. Wendy's chicken nuggets will no longer be "all-white meat." People will regularly sleep on park benches, whether they have a home or not. It's just what people do in a depression.

"Sorry honey, but it's my turn to sleep on the bench down at Cherryhill Park. I'll see you in the morning." Not only that, but when it's your turn for the bench you can't use a blanket. Only newspapers will do. Newsprint is the only cover that will keep the dew off, especially in a depression.

Lastly, TV, Wii's, and laser tag will be gone. For entertainment we'll have to gather around an old radio and listen to nothing but the news and boxing matches.

No, a depression won't be any good for anyone. For that reason, let's root for the bail-out plan and hope the legislators don't hold things up by squabbling over just a few billion dollars here or there.

Photo: http://library.thinkquest.org/03oct/01794/pictures_page.htm

The halfway hamper

Item #47 on my wife's list of reasons why I don't deserve to be married is the statement "he can't put half his clothes in the laundry after he's worn them."

Ok, so maybe that list doesn't really exist--at least on paper.

Anyway, I've explained the issue many times, with logical reasoning. Yet she still gets upset with the dirty laundry, or so she mistakenly calls it, that piles up in front of my dresser or on the closet floor. But the problem is not with me; it's with the system.

Since the introduction of the washer and dryer into the average American home, the domestic process has dictated that once you wear something you should put it in the laundry pile to be washed. Dirty clothes go in the hamper; clean clothes go in the closet or dresser drawers.

My wife--and as she claims, the rest of civilized society--sees no middle ground between clean and dirty. However, to me it's not all black and white. I see a large gray area.

Before I found a reasonably effective deodorant, pretty much every shirt I wore was a lock for the wash. But now that I'm staying dry for longer periods of time, a few shirts come off me at the end of the day with a little more life still left in them. They may be able to go another half a day, or even more.

Where can a shirt in such a classification go? It isn't clean, so I don't want to put it back on a hanger in my closet. It isn't dirty, so I don't want to put it in the hamper. It's in the gray area, and thus it is homeless.

To my wife's frustration, it ends up on the closet floor where it will remain until I can find an appropriate time to utilize its remaining life.

That's why I created the halfway hamper. It was a large bin for me to throw gray-area clothing into. It was a pit stop for clothes halfway through their wear-and-then-wash cycle.

Unfortunately, my wife found out about my clothing's midpoint and secretly began emptying the whole thing into the wash on laundry day. It hurt; my wife was washing the clothes from my halfway hamper behind my back, despite our relationship built on trust and integrity.

Now I'm going behind her back in publishing this post. My hope is that this article will inspire the halfway hamper's use in more homes until one day I can tell my wife we're not with the times by not having one.

Until then my clothes are getting washed excessively. Please help.

Getting carded for cola

I don’t drink, so I haven’t spent a lot of time in bars. However, last week I was on a trip with a few co-workers. They all drink, so I spent a lot of time in bars and lounges.

The non-alcoholic options are quite limited in such places. If I wanted something to sip on while I chatted with my co-workers, I’d order a water. If I wanted something a bit harder, I’d order up a Coke. But if I wanted to get sloshed, I’d get a Coke on the rocks and keep the refills coming like waves on a beach (I'm only a social soda-drinker; I don't drink it alone very often).

On one particular night, in a lounge at the hotel we were staying at, I was socializing with a glass of cola (on the rocks, of course). I had drank about two when the bartender walked up to the group I was with and asked to see my ID.

“I’m only drinking a soda,” I stated defiantly. The bartender, undeterred, remained until I grudgingly pulled out my driver’s license. It was the first time I had ever needed to prove I was over 21 in order to finish up a glass of pop.

It was a good thing that bartender was there to keep me on the right track. Nobody should be able to drink a pop and watch other people get drunk unless they’re of age.

Getting carded in that lounge got me thinking. Young people should be getting carded in other settings and situations. It could do them good.

The first place to start would be plays and musicals. I know I would have liked getting carded when my mom would talk my family into attending a play. I’d read the program from start to finish about 8 times and there would still be another hour until intermission. A boy at the age of 12 does not have the judgment necessary to agree to attend one of those things.

Another place to start would be sports-card shops. When I’d walk into those places as a young buck I had no self-control. If people would have carded me at those places my savings account would currently be double what it is. You have to buy a lot of packs of cards in order to find the one rookie card you're searching for.

The same goes for firework stands. If I would have been carded by the vendors who supplied me with explosives, the field above my aunt’s house wouldn’t have caught fire and I wouldn’t have gone deaf for a week after lighting a firecracker with a wick the length of a piece of beard stubble.

Yes, if you're going to require ID for a pop in a bar, you might as well take the policy further and really do some good.

What I learned from the conventions

The good thing is, no matter who wins we’re all going to be living in a utopia.

When the candidates were narrowed down to the two idiots we’re currently left with, I was rather disappointed. As a voter, I was going to have to choose between a grouchy war Veteran that married a beer heiress and a hip baller from Hawaii who won’t throw his terrorist friend under the bus.

However, my disappointment fell short at the Democratic convention. That’s when I heard Obama tell me everything was going to be OK. If he wins the presidency, we’ll all be swimming in the love of change.

From his speech, I understood we were going to the doctor for free. There won’t be any more poor people. Someone else will pay our credit card bills. Our mortgages will be forgiven. Everyone will get a college degree. They'll come in the mail to those who don't have them now, like a stimulus check. Nobody, except evil people, will have to pay taxes.

He also informed me, in his speech, that John McCain is horrible person that eats bunnies and puts people in slums.

Then I started to worry. What if he didn’t win? I’d be left without everything he was going to give. I'd have a bunny-eater as my president! However, my worry fell short at the Republican convention.

McCain guaranteed some good things. Based on what I interpreted of his speech, if he won we'd have a fully-decorated war veteran fighting for us. He'd snuff out evil and rip up opposing countries with his bare hands. On election day he'd walk into the White House and punch all the incompetent people in the face. He'd lower taxes even though he's going to go to war with every country that his advisers tell him exists. And McCain would do all this while still maintaining his reputation of a family man.

On the other hand, he indicated, Barrack Obama would flush the country and it's economy down the drain while starring in Hollywood movies.

They sure make themselves sound good in those convention speeches. So what's a voter to do? I don't think it matters. They both said they're going to win the election:

...I intend to win this election and keep our promise alive as President of the United States. -Obama

But let there be no doubt, my friends, we’re going to win this election. -McCain

So what we'll have on our hands, fellow Americans, are two winners in November. Yes, for the first time in history we'll have two winners, two presidents. We won't have to worry about the character of the VP candidates; there won't be any room for one.

A good ol' biarchy. Except we shouldn't get too worried about the new form of government we'll face. Based on what I saw from Hillary in the presidential race, I think we experienced a biarchy from 1992 to 2000.

Big hunting trucks don't scare me

A few weeks ago my wife's cousin from France was in town. She had brought along her husband and two little boys. We took them to several local places of interest, trying to show them what amazing lives we Americans live.

However, her two little boys were never that interested in the attractions we attended. They were more intrigued by what was in the parking lot, namely the big trucks. I guess in France you don't see many Chevy Silverados with extended crew-cabs, Vortec 6-liter V8 engines, and tires the size of Paris Hilton's sunglasses.

I was so used to seeing such rides that I never saw them as unusual. So earlier this week, as I was driving on the freeway, I took note as I was passed by a beefed-out truck [truuhhk]. After the cloud of black exhaust from it's six tailpipes cleared I noticed an elk-antler silhouette on the back window. Above the antler insignia were the words "ELKOHOLIC." A couple days later I crossed paths with a similar truck, but the elk sticker on the back of it read "RACK 'EM."

Even though I come from a country town where hunting abounds and "'em" is often substituted for "them," I never remember seeing stickers like that on the back of anyone's truck. If you shot an elk or a deer you would make jerkey from its meat and turn its antlers into a lampshade, but you never put a sticker representing its head on the back of your rig.

In an attempt to understand the psychology behind such a move, I've conjured up a few reasons why the hunting dude might be inclined to paste a big elk decal on the back of his truck.

One, maybe he put it there to let everyone know he shot a really big elk. It's the only way everyone on the road will know he's the big cheese and they should watch out. But unless he wrestled the elk to death with his bare hands, I'm not impressed.

Besides, can you really be proud of shooting a big elk, especially when a little elk is a smaller, therefore more difficult target? It takes the same amount of strength to pull the trigger on either one. I want to see a truck with a decal of a young, nimble elk on the back window, then I'll give the goateed, cut-off sleeved guy in the driver's seat props.

Or maybe it isn't an ego-supporting sticker. Perhaps the elk decal adhered to the dude's back window isn't boasting about the animal he shot; maybe it's paying tribute it. A guy like that values his truck, and he won't just put anything on it. He's paying homage to his kill because once he slayed the thing it became delicious nourishment.

In that case, I should put an Otter Pop decal on the back window of my Accord. I slaughter a couple of those each day... and reap delicious nourishment each time. Above the decal I could put the words "OTTER SLAUGHTERER."

In other words, maybe the "RACK 'EM" truck-dude has a chest freezer full of elk steaks, but he's not any tougher than a guy that buys his meat at the supermarket.

The night the tire won

My wife and I were on our way to dinner, celebrating our two-year anniversary. She was dressed to kill; my shoes matched my belt: all was set for a romantic evening. As I rounded the corner a block away from the restaurant, I turned my head to look at one of the stupid things I like to look at.

I turned my head back towards the road just in time to see the curb I was going to strike. A few days prior, my obsession to have one of the most fuel-efficient cars on the road led me to the gas station where I topped off all my tires at exactly 1 more psi than the manufacture recommends. Thus the air was frantically looking for a way out, and the hard edge of the curb provided an escape.

Upon my collision, my wife started to chuckle and immediately saw the moment as an opportunity to fire back for all the times I had criticized her driving. "Yeah, you'll really laugh when we have a flat tire," I said sarcastically. Just then we heard a rushing wind.

I pulled off the road quickly and parked the rig. As I stepped out, I realized I'd never before needed to fix a flat! I tried to mask my ignorance by walking around the car and grumbling about the wrench I thought I'd need.

I opened the cover at the bottom of the trunk and was delighted to find a spare. Even so, my disguise of competence withered quickly as my wife had to find the jack for me. But I recovered by using the term "undercarriage" as the we situated the jack.

Things went smoothly from there as the car was raised and the nuts were removed from the wheel. Then, just as I pulled the damaged tire from the bolts, the jack tipped over and the car leaped forward like Michael Phelps at the start of the Men's 100-meter butterfly race. My wife said "uh oh," I said "a bad word," and the bare rotor landed on the pavement. My dang car looked like a three-legged beached whale.

I guess you're supposed to set the parking brake when you change a tire.

The car was so low to the ground that the jack wouldn't fit under it any more. I needed to lift it a good inch. It would take a miracle, even an anniversary miracle. I heaved and hawed, and up went the sagging quarter of the car. My wife quickly slid the jack back into place, and I tried to put my back back into place.

On pins and needles we again got the car jacked up, the spare on, and then let the jack down. The spare was flat.

We jacked 'er up again, took the spare off, and tried to figure out where the nearest psi supplier was. I hoisted the spare into my arms and we walked about 6 blocks to a closed service station. Not interested in wandering around with the heavy spare any farther, I walked up to the front door and peered inside.

Luckily, there was some guy still in the dark place who either was a manager working late or a robber thumbing through the cash register. Based on his reaction upon seeing us, I suspected the latter, but he still opened the door and filled up our spare tire.

We trekked back to the car and put the newly-filled spare back on. We then went to dinner where I ordered my chicken curry to be made "spicy" instead of "medium" in an attempt to convince my wife I still had a measure of manhood. It took several return trips from the waitress to refill my water, but I think it worked.

Upon leaving the restaurant, I noticed the spare was looking low again. We held our breath as we raced home; I asked her to throw her jewelry out the window in order to free up some weight, but she wasn't interested in helping the situation.

Nonetheless, we made it back home where I could put the car down for the night. If the whole fiasco had happened when we were dating I probably wouldn't have been celebrating a two-year anniversary with her that night. And my shoes probably wouldn't have matched my belt.

Surviving Church

Every week I face a long, grueling battle, and the opponent has many facets. It's me against sitting for too long. It's me against hunger. It's me against boredom. Etcetera, etcetera.

Based on the medical knowledge I gained from ripping heads off grasshoppers during recess in the 4th grade, I diagnosed myself with ADHD a few years ago.

I should have been diagnosed earlier, by a physician, so I could have had an excuse when my mom and dad came home from parent-teacher conferences. Instead, they disciplined me as if I was perfectly capable of controlling myself.

School was tough to endure, but it was broken up by recesses, lunch, and pogs. The boredom found at Church, however, was impossible to overcome.

After observing the way I responded to boredom, my Sunday School teachers would become fed up with me. They attempted to punish me in all sorts of ways, and finally they just started kicking me out of class. But I quickly realized I enjoyed it more on the OUTSIDE of the classroom than the INSIDE.

I went on to milk that consequence for all it was worth. I'd sit in Sunday School for about 3 minutes, get bored, raise hell, and bam!, I was a free man in an empty hallway.

Now that I'm an adult, that strategy doesn't have the same affect. Everyone just looks at me funny, and nobody kicks me out. So I have to resort to other methods. Here's my short list of ways to get through it all:

1. Bring food. Once, right before Sunday School started, I told my wife I had to go to the bathroom. I ran home and got some fruit snacks. She was really mad..., until I pulled out a pouch of them just for her.

2. Create your own hymns. Being a seasoned rapper, I often compose my own hymns while sitting on the pews. Once I've made up enough for a hymnal, I'll submit them to be published for churches in the more urban areas.

3. Draw. Whether it's a depiction of a mighty war between two pirate ships or a portrait of the bishopric, a detailed sketch can make the time move along quickly.

4. Play the "Who'd Be More Likely To... ?" game. While sitting in church, look around and ask yourself, or someone next to you that is also looking for a mental escape, "Who'd be more likely to suddenly snap and start swearing like a sailor at the next church activity, Sister Jones (the 75-year old choir director), or Brother Hammond (the 50-year old high priest that claims he saw Jesus)?"

Heaven knows any soldier will need more than four ways to make it through a 3-hour set of meetings. But this is a quick list for all of you who'd like a starter-kit of ammo for this week's battle.

My nemesis, the blender

Most father-in-laws put their son-in-law candidates through some type of mental test to ensure they're qualified to marry their daughter. Mine put me though a physical screening.

It was my first time at his house, and I had recently proposed to my wife. I woke up to find him in the kitchen, running the blender. He didn't say much, just added a few more ice cubes, pureed for a couple more moments, and then poured me a tall glass of a highly viscous concoction.

"I made you some breakfast," he said with a smirk. "I drink this every morning." Understanding the task before me (and the award ahead), I buckled down, braced my spine, and started to gulp the drink of doubt. My spine almost gave way.

It was packed with spinach, but that was the good part. I assumed the strong tang to it was some sort of fish oil, but I couldn't identify the crunchy chunks that lodged in my throat. I was hoping they were some type of nut, but I wouldn't have been surprised if he had thrown in the skull of a dead mouse.

I continued to gulp it down. As I reached the half-way point he leaned in expectantly, waiting for it all to come back up. Little did he know, I had experience with such a texture and taste. Growing up, my mom went through some health phase where she'd regularly drink a similar blended concoction for breakfast each day.

My younger brother and I called it "The Green Devil." It was named by its color, and because we figured it was the choice of drink in hell. We used to dare each other to drink the portion remaining in the blender after she poured her glass. Being the younger, he was usually forced to take the dare.

Today he suffers from regular heart burn, a condition that could likely be traced back to "The Green Devil."

I went beyond the half-way point with my future father-in-law's drink and continued on until I saw the light at the end of the tunnel (i.e., the bottom of the glass). I couldn’t see it in his face, but I could tell he was amazed. He acted nonchalant as he grabbed the blender and filled my glass once more.

Yeah, I haven’t had great experiences with blenders. My wife and I still talk about “The Fiasco of ’06.” I was trying to make some frothy chocolate milk. The lid to the blender wasn’t on correctly, and I didn’t notice as I went on to hit the “smoothie” button. Suddenly I was getting showered in Nesquick, and so was the kitchen.

And just last night, my wife and I decided to make a couple shakes with some frozen fruit and ice cream. We loaded up the blender, and I placed it on the control station. But there was an error when I docked it. The flanges of the spinny thing that turns the blades weren’t in line with the flanges of the thing on the control station.

I turned it on full power and chunks of plastic and frozen fruit began shooting off in all directions. My wife took cover in another room. I ducked behind the counter and felt my way around until I grasped the cord and yanked it from the wall outlet.

Now we're without a blender, and I think I like it that way.

Passing the Safety and Emissions Inspection

I just got my Utah Motor Vehicle Registration Materials in the mail. I might as well have been given hell in a hand basket.

This horrendous undertaking first struck me last year. I had been going around with an out-of-state license plate on my car, so I was free from the stranglehold of the Utah vehicle-registration process. But after residing in the state for about 4 years, I decided I had better break down and get Utah plates.

I found out that in order to register, my wife and I's car would need to pass a so-called "safety and emissions test." I come from a state where safety and emissions inspections are unheard of.

If the thing moves, you can ride it down the road, whether it's an automobile, ATV, tractor, or some sort of livestock. Yes, you can ride a cow into town as long as you use the appropriate hand signals at 4-way stops.

Not knowing what to expect when bringing my car in for a safety and emissions test, I took my car to some shoddy looking building off the side of the road, paid the fee, and they passed my car. Figuring that was all there was to it, I had my wife take her car in a few days later, but to another location closer to where she worked.

Bad idea. The sleazy mechanics raked her over the coals. They looked for any and all reasons to fail her car, and they found plenty--all of which were "conveniently" able to be repaired right there in the shop. A $40 pair of windshield wipers. $15 to get the windshield-washer fluid level up to the "full" line. I think they even charged her for each psi it took to get her tires properly inflated.

A year later, it's time for round two. Only now I've got a crack in my windshield the size of The Grand Canyon. And when I first start my car in the morning, there's a noise in the engine that could only be matched by a rattle snake strung out on 4 cups of coffee.

My wife's car is fine, other than the squeal it emits everytime you make a turn. It's incredibly high pitched. Every once in a while you'll make a turn and not hear it, but at that moment every dog in a one mile radius sticks its head in the ground.

I have a feeling we're not going to pass. At least under the "standard inspection process."

Ever since moving to Utah I've heard of back-alley mechanics that will pass off your car if you hand them 50 bucks, followed by a wink and a nod. I haven't been able to find these underground ruffians, but they sound a lot less expensive than the guys at the local service station.

If I can't find someone to pass me off, legally or illegally, then maybe I can file a safety and emission inspection exemption with the State.

I could say the vertical crack in my windshield serves as a cross hair for aiming my way through traffic. I could say the rattle in the engine is meant to tell me my engine is running, because it's so efficient that you wouldn't know otherwise. Lastly, I could say the squeal in my wife's car is actually a glorified turn signal, making it the only car in the state that warns blind pedestrians when making a turn.

I can save the airline industry

Not long ago I was watching talk-show host Glenn Beck interview some CEO of an airline company. They were discussing the rising costs the airline industry is facing and how consumers will be affected. The CEO predicted that eventually ticket prices will get so high that flying will be something the average person does only once or twice in a lifetime.

I was astonished! If what I heard was true, it would be the end of regular vacations and business trips.

To keep from getting to that point too quickly, airlines have begun to take action. They're reducing the number of flights offered, cutting out snacks, and charging $15 per suitcase.

Well I'm here to offer some real help. I now direct my words to Mr. Airline, CEO...

Dear Sir,

I've brainstormed some great ways for you and your associates to come up with significant savings in the airline industry.

So you've cut the peanuts and pretzels, but you're still serving branded drinks, such as Coke and Pepsi? Come on, you're throwing money away! Next time a passenger requests a Sprite, hand them a Shasta Twist. When they request a juice, hand them a cold glass of Berry Blue Kool-Aid.

Next, why are you placing all the lowly coach-passengers in bucket seats? Give 'em benches. You can fit more people on a bench than you can in lined-up bucket seats. Would people complain about having to sit on a bench for three hours? Not necessarily. If they go to church regularly they're already used to it.

Furthermore, why are you paying workers to load your passenger's luggage? Make them walk it out and load it into the airplane themselves. Maybe they'll think twice about bringing home that bag of sand from the beach when they have to hoist their overloaded suitcase up into the cargo door by themselves.

On that note, you should take a lesson from the Unites States Post Office; charge according to weight. It's simple math. Starting from JFK Airport, flying the Clinton family to Arkansas is going require more fuel than flying the entire New York City Ballet to Paris. And it'll require more chips and dip.

So place a weighing mechanism at the boarding gate that everyone must walk across before they get on the plane. Kind of like a livestock scale, just not as nice (i.e. pricey). At that point, compare the passenger's weight with the normal body mass index for a person of their height, age, and gender.

If they're under, give them some in-plane credit towards earphone rentals, blanket use, and extra drinks. If they're over, make them shell out a few more bucks to get on board. Sure, you may have people throwing up their breakfast while they wait in line because they want to make the cutoff, but I'm positive you've got extra barf bags handy. Speaking of which, could those be reused... ?

To the future of affordable flights!

I, like Tiger, started golf when I was young

Where I grew up in Southern Idaho, we had one golf course. I think the only folks who played on it were out-of-towners. Farmers don't golf, and in my hometown you were one, were married to one, or acted like one.

Golf scores weren't shared at gatherings. If a guy said "yeseree, I shot an 8 yesterday," he wasn't talking about the number of strokes over par he was. He was referring to the number of points on the antlers of the buck lying in the back of his pickup.

If a guy said "I'm gonna buy me a new driver," he wasn't talking about a new club. He was referring to hiring a new guy to haul his potatoes.

Even though I'd never seen my dad play, one summer my brother and I happened upon his old set of clubs in the garage. We didn't know what the heck they were. So naturally, we lugged them out to the garden and started hacking squash.

One zucchini exploded after another. We liked the irons best--their flat edge and sturdy metal head did the most damage. The putter was used on the tomatoes. By days end, we had broke half the golf clubs and moved my family's vegetable inventory from one side of the yard to other.

With that as my background in the sport, I was at a golf scramble last week for work. A few of my co-workers and I are invited to a couple golf tournaments each year. Last year's was a disaster. After 4 or 5 holes I made up some excuse about a dental appointment and got the heck out.

This year, in preparation for another tournament, I went to the driving range the evening before. I brought my wife along to watch the other golfers. While I practiced I had her give me tips based on their swings. "That guy over there has his arm like this," and "I don't think you're supposed to contort your hips like that, no one else is."

Of the 50 balls I hit, 10 of them skipped out a few yards in front of me. The other 40 soared a good 250 yards, but they sliced over the driving range's fence and into the public park on my right. Not kidding.

I had hoped my time at the driving range would prove worthwhile at the tournament. It didn't. I lost an average of one ball per hole. I'd go wander through the rough and find another golfer's ball just outside the fairway, pick it up and tell my team "this one's mine, it was just off target," knowing full well my ball was another 50 yards away. Since we were playing "best ball," nobody ever noticed that I had a different ball on every hole.

However, I did have one shining moment of the day. It came when we had to chip a shot out of some dirt and onto the green. The 3 co-workers on my team all attempted, but had no success. I stepped up and chipped a beautiful shot within a couple feet of the hole. I looked down on the ground on which I stood... I was on garden-like terrain. If only my ball had been a squash, then I probably would have sank it.

The river wins every time

Every July "the running of the bulls" is held in Pamplona, Spain. Thousands of idiots crowd cobblestone streets to run in front of an angry mob of bulls. 33 were injured in this years’ run. 15 have died since the tradition started. To outsiders, the event may seem ridiculous. But to the participants, there is probably some intangible splendor that comes from getting mauled each year.

I think I can relate. Every July “the river run” is held in Provo Canyon, Utah. My friends and I, all idiots, set out to float the unforgiving waters of the mighty Provo River. To the casual observer, the river looks peaceful as it winds through the canyon’s terrain. But to us it is death.

The annual river run started a few years ago, in college. My roommates and I gathered up some flimsy inner tubes from a service station and entered the river as brave seafaring men. We came back as frightened little girls.

The water was frigid; as in it would’ve been one big block of ice if its temperature had dropped just one more degree. We were also not equipped for the rapids we’d face. Gripping to our inner tubes, we tumbled around like clothes in a dryer. Moreover, there were jagged rocks lining the bottom of the river, all of which laid claim to our backs, butts, legs, and arms. Many of us still have scars from that first run.

We swore we’d never do it again, but year two came around and we were once more summoned to “the river run.” We again took a beating. This last weekend marked the third annual river run, and it may go down as the most dreadful of them all.

The “proper” way to float the Provo River is in some kind of raft, or if not that a heavy-duty tube wrapped in fabric, like the kind you’d pull behind a boat. But this year many of us tried out pool toys.

One person rode down the river on an inflatable lobster that barrel rolled every time it hit rapids. Others rode on tubes shaped like lounge chairs, two of which popped on the first stretch of the river. I rode down on some little donut-shaped tube I got from ShopKo. I think it was designed for an anorexic child, because it sat about 6 inches below the water the whole time.

Most casualties on this year’s river run occurred at The Bridge. As the water rushes through the support columns of The Bridge several narrow chutes are created. As you approach you must decide which chute you want to run, and paddle accordingly. You always choose one, then at the last second change your mind and try to go through another, only to be flipped upside down and wrapped around one of the support columns. Then you drown for a few moments as your tube races on like an unsaddled horse.

When it was all said and done, everyone was miserable. Many were suffering from the first stages of hypothermia; many were bleeding from lacerations caused by wrecking on the rocks, and many felt like they’d been run over by a bull. I know I have a cut on my knee that probably warrants stitches.

It was another river run in the books, and in 12 more months we’ll be ready for our next mauling.

Celebrating the 4th, Miley Style

In economics a "free rider" is someone who enjoys a public good or service without paying a fair share of its cost of production. Among other things, I usually free-ride fireworks. Why pay to go in the venue when you can see it all just fine from outside the gates?

Every year, Provo, UT puts on concert/fireworks show called "The Stadium of Fire." It traditionally features some mediocre country star, followed by a surprisingly good fireworks show. Except the ignorant folks running the show always launch the fireworks above the rim of the stadium, so there's never been a need to pay to get inside the thing--except for this 4th of July.

Keeping up with tradition, the event managers invited Billy Ray Cyrus for this years' Stadium of Fire. But he, like Hillary Clinton on the campaign trail, was not very eager to come to Utah. So he sent his daughter Miley, who you may know only by her alias, Hannah Montana. And she was probably fine with it, because I doubt the 15-year old pop-star even knew where Utah was on the map.

At least that's how I think they got Miley Cyrus to come to Provo.

My wife wanted to go, and I'm not cheap and I don't care about money (cough, cough), so I forked out a stack of bills and picked up some last-minute tickets.

The show started out great; some sky jumpers parachuted into the stadium, I enjoyed a bag of gummy bears that I smuggled past security, and jets flew over the crowd.

Then a thousand or so youth dancers from around the area put on a show that was supposed to be a representation of Team USA in the upcoming Beijing Olympics. As long as Team USA looks like a bunch 11-year old girls in pig tails running around like lemmings, it was spot on.

Then out came Miley, who really knew how to wake up a crowd of teeny boppers. She effortlessly triggered one earth-shattering scream after another from every girl in the stands, as well as many of their mothers.

I quickly realized that the earplugs I had seen being sold at the concession stands for $1 weren't for the fireworks...

Actually, for a 15-year old she handled herself pretty well. Except for the time in between songs when she tried to get sentimental and said "I know God has a plan for us, and I'm stoked!!!" and other than the fact that most her songs centered around boys, sleepovers, and recess, it was a decent concert.

I went home with my ears ringing from pre-teen squeals directed at Miley Cyrus, ash on my clothes from sitting under fireworks, and a belly full of illegal gummy bears. And I wouldn't have experienced any of it if I had watched it from outside the gates.