How long should we mourn celebrities?

Look, I'm all for being sad about someone dying. When a loved one passes on, mourning is expected and called for. Same goes for a respected leader or role model.

But what if it's someone you only know through pop culture; someone who's house you were only invited in when you watched that episode of MTV's Cribs? What if it's someone who didn't know you, nor would they have wanted to? What type of mourning is expected of you when they die?

I'm talking about celebrities here. People that have done no more for humanity other than star in a couple films, hang out at oxygen bars, and sit courtside at Los Angeles Laker's games. One day they're found dead in a hotel room with a bottle of pills on the carpet, and suddenly they become nineteen times as famous as than they were the day before.

The TV networks then scramble to find a few photos of the dead celebrity that can be aired to the public. But that's difficult because the only photos they have are the ones that made the tabloids. Generally a DUI mugshot looks tacky when it's used in a eulogy slideshow on CNN.

Then we, the TV-watching or newspaper-reading public, have to suffer through endless questions raised by the media over the next three weeks: Is the celebs doctor at fault? What's going to happen to the celeb's illegitimate child? Which celebrities will attend the celebrity's funeral?

Eventually the controversy and the discussion dies down (no pun intended), and the funeral is finally had. Again, every major news network is roped into airing the funeral procession, then it's replayed several times over the next few days in case you only saw it twice.

It's unfortunate when a playboy bunny that ODs on pain killers gets more press than a life-long philanthropist that dies of a stroke. What's the saying? Live by the sword, die by the sword? Same goes with the flashbulb, I guess.

My worst enemy dwells in my car

My greatest enemy is not the state's safety & emissions test (but it is a close second, since it has conquered me and my car every year for the past three years). And my greatest fear is not fear itself; as much as Mandela suggests. My greatest enemy and my greatest fear is actually the spider.

Spiders scare the heck out of me, and just writing the word gives me the hebejebes. Give me snakes, scorpions, or socialists, just don't give me spiders.

A couple weeks ago my wife and I had pulled into the church parking lot. After I put the car in park my wife suddenly stiffened against the back of her seat and her face went blank, like she was staring at death's door. I'd try something like that as well, to get out of church, but she had real fear in her eyes. "Oh my gosh!" she yelled, pointing at the dash above my steering wheel.

There, perched above my speedometer, sat a spider the size of a small frog. In one fluid motion I flung open my door and army rolled out onto the pavement. My wife then made a few attempts to get it out of the car with an ice scraper, but that only made it retreat into the air vent.

I've been driving on pins and needles ever since, not sure when the spider would make another appearance. If texting while driving increases your chance of an accident ten times, I bet seeing a spider in your car while driving increases it a thousand. So I've been hoping it wouldn't rear it's ugly face when I'm doing 75 on the freeway

Well, last Wednesday I was running a bit late for work. I bounded down the stairs from my condo and hopped into my car, trying to make up time where I could. As I turned the ignition and backed out of my parking spot, cranking the steering wheel like crazy, I felt a stringy substance cross the back of my hands.

I looked down and saw the last thing I wanted to see: a giant spider, dangling above my knees. My hands had just mauled the web it had worked up overnight. In the heat of the moment I duplicated the move I made in the church parking lot, weeks earlier. Only this time I had to get my car into park before the army roll onto the parking lot was made.

As I knelt on the pavement with my heart threatening to pound out of my chest, I tried to figure out how I was going to get back in my car and on my way to work. I ran into the house and fetched a broom, and after a few minutes of gladiator-like battling I got the wretched thing out from under my steering wheel column.

I've got a re-inspection for the state safety & emissions test scheduled for later this week, after I get some brake thing replaced. I'd really like for the evil spider to crawl out onto the safety & emissions guy, while he's re-inspecting my car. It would be nice to have my first and second worst enemies meet, and see if the second is any good at the army roll.

A happy wife is sweeter than soda

A couple Sunday's ago my wife and I were taking an evening stroll through our neighborhood. I picked up an empty beer bottle on the side of the road. My wife scolded me to put it down, but I wanted to take it home.

I wasn't exactly doing a good turn by picking up litter, I just wanted to start working on my bottle collection. I then told my wife about a plan I had to start brewing and bottling my own soda. My plan was not well received, and she threatened death if I didn't put the bottle down. I argued my case until she gave in with an "OK, fine."

As my wife and I approach our third-year anniversary, I thought I'd pause for a moment and jot down the few things I've learned about women and marriage in that time. I know three years is child's play to some of you veterans, but sometimes rookies have good things to say...

First off, women don't like men to stay in their "caves." Men are naturally cavemen, not only in manner and eating habits, but also in how they deal with the day-to-day. Their cave is usually a hobby, an escape from the responsibilities of work and family life.

There are a lot of cave options out in the world; golfing, hunting, fist fighting, soda bottling, etc. Women hate all of them, but they can learn to deal with a few--as long as they don't become too time consuming and they don't prevent their man from bringing home the bacon.

Secondly, women are always lying.

• Example 1: "I made this casserole, but I don't think it's very good; you don't have to eat it if you don't want to." That's a lie.
• Example 2: "You don't have to get me anything for Valentine's Day." Another lie.

Thirdly, not only do women lie, they also expect men to read their mind.

• Example 1: If a man asks "Are you mad?", she'll respond with "No, I'm fine." That means she's mad, real mad. Just don't ask, "Why are you mad?" You're supposed to know why she's mad.
• Example 2: If a man asks "Honey, me and the guys are planning a road trip to Montana. Can I go?" She may reply with something like "Um, I guess so." In reality, the deal is not yet done and you don't yet have a valid passport. Go off to Montana on an "I guess so," and she'll curse your name the whole time you're gone.
  

Normally I would have taken an "OK, fine," and clung to that empty beer bottle, keeping alive the dream of bottling my own soda. But at that moment, I realized no bottle of homemade ginger-ale was worth my wife's discontent. I dropped the bottle into the nearest garbage can and walked on.

Now I just need to work on having more of those kinds of moments.

You're never too old for hand-me-downs

Sometimes I'm glad I didn't have an older brother. If I did, I know I would have never worn a new article of clothing. Nonetheless, my mom still trafficked most of my clothes down from older cousins or neighbors.

I'm sure my parent's thrift had a lot to do with that, but so did the way I treated my clothes. In less than half an hour of recess I could blow a hole in both the knees of my pants and have grasshopper guts on the front of my shirt. Buying me a new pair of Levi's would have been like giving a white suit to a chimney sweeper.

Now that I'm done growing, and so are the people I associate with, I don't see many hand-me-down exchanges. After childhood, if someone gives over a hand-me-down it's usually not because they got taller... it's because they got wider.

The other way to get a hand-me-down, though, is if the previous owner doesn't think it's in fashion anymore. That's where I come in.

A couple weeks ago my wife and I were visiting my wife's family. Her uncle was ready to get rid of a fine corduroy suit with leather elbow patches, and I was ready to acquire a fine corduroy suit--with leather elbow patches.

The thing is, I know it's a darn-good suit. It's been around for at least 25 years but is still holding up like a champ. Those suckers buying a suit down at Men's Wearhouse only know their suit has made it through a couple trips to the dressing room.

I suppose the biggest qualm people have about taking ownership of a hand-me-down or thrift store clothing item is not knowing where it's been. How do you think new clothes feel, not knowing where their wearers have been?

Whatever the case, I've never grown out of ruining my clothes (you should see me after a spaghetti dinner, I can give a white shirt polka-dots). But that's something I'm going to have to change. If I blow a hole in the knee of my "new" corduroy suit pants, I'll have to wait another 25 years before something that good shows up in my wife's uncle's closet again.

Things we shouldn't give up when we grow up

I sat through a city council meeting a little while ago, I was on assignment for my job. In such a meeting, or most any kind of meeting, it doesn't take long to realize that some people can be very boring.

In fact, while I was enduring the agenda, I started thinking about why it is that as we grow more mature, we also grow more boring. Adults in the workplace are like bread out of the bag; they go stale too quickly.

There are some particulars of childhood that--unfortunately--we grow out of. I think it would be good for human resource departments to look back at some programs enjoyed in elementary school, and consider implementing a few of them:

1. Yearbook signing. Sure, most full-time jobs don't have a summer break. But how great would it be if at the end of the second fiscal quarter co-workers met in the conference room to sign the back of each other's employee manual?

"Stay cool, Dean... work sucks but you don't!" or "You should have used up more sick days!"

2. Nap time. It's a no brainer. Nobody would object to rolling out a mat by their workstation at 2:00 PM and shutting off the lights for 15 or 20 minutes. If smoke breaks are OK, what's wrong with a nap break? But it seems only former presidents can nap on the job.

3. Show and tell. It would really improve employee relations if workers were able to bring something from home and show it to everyone in a formal setting. Granted, depending on employee makeup this may be risky; you don't want Deedee from mail services showing up with a bong. But it might be good for everyone if Chuck from accounting was able to bring in his tap dancing shoes and do a little jig.

4. Reading time. For HR manuals or policy guides that are never read, it might be a good idea to implement a time to gather together and take turns reading paragraphs. The lady from PR could help out anyone getting tripped up on big words like "harassment."

5. Last but not least, a shorter day. Start at 8:00 AM, but ring the quittin' bell at 3:00 PM. Just because you get older doesn't mean it's easier to stay put at a desk for another 2 hours.