VIP

Everyone wants to feel important, don't they? Everyone wants to carry weight in the mind of others. It's just something all people desire. No one wants to be perceived as unimportant (although there are a few folks who are so good at it, you have to wonder if they're actually aiming for insignificance). Feeling important is important.

But, oh, throw the adverb "very" in front of "important" and it's a whole new ballgame. It's like a phrase that signifies an echelon sought by most but attainable to few. Once the "very" is tacked on, "important" is no longer a feeling but a social status. People lose their friggin' sense for it.

Very Important People require very important things -- like very important areas, very important entrances, and very important company. An insecure state of mind needs such reaffirmations.

Take red carpets and velvet ropes -- they're hardly just tacky cinema décor or items that can be found next to the zebra-print couch in your sleazy bachelor pad brimming with polyester and shag. Lord, no, they're segregators of privilege, showcases of rank. They snobbishly declare that you, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, may step right this way, but please step aside, Mr. Bland-Scruffy-and-Mediocre.

Maybe the most quizzical dimension of this notion of VIP is that the value in being held in VIP regard isn't found in what you get to eat, where you get to sit, or where you're allowed to park, but instead the access to those things. You know, just the fact that you have a privilege that others can merely observe but not partake. That faaaaar outweighs all the bestowed "betters" -- the better tastes, the better views, the better service, etc. People want that social status imprinted across their forehead, large and legible for all to read and recognize. That's the point of VIP: not what you get but what you feel.

A perfect example: At any given professional sports team facility, there's at least one bar or area of bars that's reserved strictly for ticketholders deemed VIP. Those tickets are hot sales -- who doesn't want to be part of the ultra limited inclusion of invitees to the guarded bar? And then walk in there and find what? That, well, it's a bar -- a bar with dimmer lighting, slightly sleeker wall fixtures, stringy copper plants that aren't really plants, and higher-priced beer. The big win here? That I have access and you don't. Cool, thanks for the admission.

The V, the I, and the P are just marketing tactics, guys. The allure is fictionalized. I've been behind the velvet ropes and the tinted doors before -- the food ain't that much tastier. Sure, the interior design is less IKEA and there are fewer peopleofwalmart.com patrons inside, but all you bought was a fleeting state of mind that essentially means nothing.

I guess it's all in what you classify as important. And very important.

B-sides, vol. 6

Yep, you guessed it, some more "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:

• Remember those old, recurring Looney Tunes cartoon props? A huge, red rocket; a glass cutter; a box with a spring-loaded, fist-clinched boxing glove? I loved 'em. The fictional distributor of these animated common goods was Acme, but I have no idea where their existence and design was stereotyped. I mean, when was the last time you saw an actual red-painted, white-tipped, U-shaped magnet? Me? Oh, about the last time I came across a long-wicked black bomb shaped like a bowling ball/hockey puck hybrid.


• In speaking of Looney Tunes, I always thought as a little Claude that you could in fact pick yourself up by your shirt collar or the scruff of your own neck, as depicted by Bugs Bunny and friends. I tried this several times in the house -- and failed. I also thought you could actually burrow a treaded circle in your floor if you paced around long enough. I also tried this several times in the house -- and failed. Needless to say I thankfully grew too discouraged to ever try running off a cliff and testing my ability to suspend and return to the cliff before realizing my impending doom.


• I often hear people wondering aloud if God has a sense of humor. I don’t know, the fact that we lose hair where we want hair and gain hair where we don’t want hair seems like a pretty good sign to me.


• If being obese was considered attractive and healthy, how awesome and delicious would life be?


• Recently, while driving on the interstate, I saw a digital, flashing message board that read "Distracted driving is deadly driving" in scrolling text. Oh, you mean like trying to read a warning on a digital, flashing message board that also uses scrolling text while driving?


• I wonder if any Jehovah's Witnesses have one of those "No Soliciting" signs above a door to their house.


• We are such a nosy bunch of people, man. Whenever there's a car accident, traffic stalls. Why? Not because the mangled cars are in traffic's way, but because all the drivers in the traffic want to ogle the damage. They need that payoff glance, so much so that they're willing to perpetuate the delay for all -- as if they've never seen a car accident before. You know, it'd be one thing if the drivers were actually looking to see if any help was needed, but, nah, they just want to tap their brakes, survey the carnage, and hurriedly rush back to 80 MPH. It's like a tour of Christmas lights in the park suddenly popped up on the freeway. I actually make a concerted effort to not look if at all possible. What emergency response teams should do is bring out an enormous curtain stand with the ambulance to wrap around the entire scene like a surgery room so that there's nothing to see.

Halloween

If I may be unapologetically honest, I've really grown disappointed with how holidays have evolved. Commercialism and political correctness have successfully soured everything that was ever fun and personal about any choice holiday.

Except Halloween.

Halloween is one "holiday" that has actually benefited from the marketed hype. It's a day to not be taken seriously in any regard. With free candy, ridiculous costumes, a celebration of pseudo-sadism, and for many an excuse to combine "cute" with "slutty as humanly possible," All Hallows Eve is no longer a day of evil spirits and endless fear but rather just a running gag. It's a day that makes fun of itself -- a self-deprecating joke that never gets old.

That is why Halloween is phenomenal: it will never run out of steam because it only gets more absurd each year. And in Halloween's case, absurdity is the lasting tradition.

Take for example my grocery shopping trip on Halloween this year. While I'm pushing a cart of frozen pizzas around, I scoot past the following costumed people: a black cat, a Bob Ross imposter, and a very obese person in very, very short jorts. (Check that -- I'm not entirely certain that last one was a costume.) And my fellow shoppers' reactions? Complete nonchalance. There is no other calendar day where this happens. Wear an ultra-low-cut Rainbow Brite outfit on October 31 and you're hilarious and curiously sexy; wear it on November 1 and you're a sociopathic whore. And that's the beauty of it. You get one day annually to look, dress, and act as big a fool as your imagination can devise, and the general response from any given passerby is total tolerance. Suddenly the typical freaks are customary and the typically customary are freaks -- and lame.

Imagine working the 11pm-3am shift at Taco Bell or White Castle on Halloween night. Could that not be the greatest gig? Employees must fight for that shift. If I worked there, I'd put in my request for that shift around July. Of the previous year. Think of all the celebrity impersonators, fake blood, outlandish wigs, overflowing cleavage, and costumed innuendos -- most of which reek of booze and other influencing pastimes -- you'd encounter all night. Something about a guy in zombie flesh paint and a mullet made of horse hair sincerely trying to order a beef and bean burrito strikes me as endless entertainment and far better than any Halloween throwdown I've been to.

Which leads me to a shrewd, marketable suggestion to all the late-night joints: throw a Halloween party. Think about that, an all-out Halloween bash at your local Waffle House. Man, they wouldn't be able to cook the batter fast enough.

B-sides, vol. 5

Some "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version that hit me while on a road trip recently:

• What is the intrinsic interest in adult bookstores when driving on the interstate? Why does everyone feel compelled to look over at the big neon "ADULT" sign and the loudly painted aluminum-sided edifice as they pass by? It's astonishing to me, because I -- and seemingly every other driver and passenger around me -- do this without failure, and usually without commenting. We say nothing; we just look over curiously and nonchalantly. I'm not sure what we expect to see (a spontaneously naked woman running out of the store with sex toys waving in hand, perchance?), but they are definitely eye magnets. Try driving past an adult bookstore one day without looking over. Feels weird, really weird. Unnatural, even.


• There are three types of purveyors of unforgivable evil in this world: terrorists, rapists, and late-mergers in traffic. Seriously, who or what is more despicably sinister than someone who bombs innocent people, someone who forever corrupts the mind and body of another person with graphic nonconsensual force, and someone who flies ahead of all patient drivers by using a highway median, shoulder, or every square inch of the tapering lane because they're too important to wait out the construction or accident cleanup, only to somehow nudge his way into the narrowest of spaces between bumpers? Although there actually is logical rationale for waiting until the last minute to merge into a line of cars (the line will in fact be shorter and somewhat more streamlined), I can assure you with all that is sacred in my life that that is not the guy's reason for his NASCAR move. It's the most selfish non-criminal act I can think of. The hazardousness of the hurried move aside, we all want this guy to suffer like the rest of us. ...Perhaps the fourth type in this list is the sap who ends up letting this late-merger over.


• If during a breast cancer awareness convention a man unexpectedly comes to the stage and speaks about another form of cancer -- say, prostate cancer -- I wonder if he would be applauded or booed. If booed, would that be an appropriate reaction? I mean, cancer is cancer, and awareness of cancer is awareness in general, and a cure for cancer is just that, so... why segregate? Let the dude speak!

Ringtones

I've had the same cell phone for three years now. The once-impeccable, once-ground-breaking camera feature snaps only blurred, poorly pixilated pictures due to an unknown injury sustained by the lens at some point; one keypad button is finally beginning to not function properly, requiring multiple attempts to enter a '3'; and while others' phones come equipped with topographical maps of any geographical coordinate in the world, my cell phone's big bragging right is its E-Z Tip Calculator feature, which computes (1) simple money-related math that could be done by any fourth-grader and (2) the same answers for the same math problems that you could have used the regular calculator feature for. Its digital face and diminutive size are about the only things keeping it from being mistaken for a "Saved by the Bell" prop.

However, it gains my respect with its very limited selection of ringtones. All I have are the basics: the standard cell phone ring, a few more uptempo versions of the standard cell phone ring, and something that vaguely resembles the "Happy Birthday" song, I suppose to pathetically and self-righteously garner congratulatory wishes for your day-long celebration with every call received in that 24-hour period.

Personally, I like the standard cell phone ringtone. Why? Because it sounds like a cell phone ringtone. When someone calls me, I can't confuse it for a jack-in-the-box or a youth group trip to the roller rink.

I know this makes me unpopular, but, man, I despise those Top-40 ringtones. It's one of those creative, marketable ideas someone came up with and acted on without first experimenting with it in public. There's no 12-second snippet of any song's chorus that sounds good coming out of a Canadian dime-size speaker. And hearing the same, sudden blitzkrieg of noise repeat three to five times per call wears me out. And it's not even my cell phone on my hip -- I'm just the victimized bystander to the onslaught of noise pollution. I have no idea how that doesn't get on the owner's nerves for each call. Doesn’t the novelty diminish by the third phone call?

I suppose if we were in a club, or it was 1989 and we were playing basketball on a concrete court with chain nets, the ringtone would match the atmosphere. But the "ringtune" and the atmosphere agree maybe 2% of the time; otherwise, it sounds tackier than words can describe. Think of the last time you heard a random chorus blare from a cell phone in/at one of the following locations: church, class, work (especially a meeting), library, wedding, funeral, movie theater, restaurant, or anywhere wooded or outdoorsy. Tell me your blood didn't immediately curdle with animosity at the annoyance of that ringtone. And you're kidding yourself if you say the annoyance isn't worse when it's an actual song fragment.

As if I needed yet another reason to not like the Black Eyed Peas.

Ice Cream Trucks

Allow me, please, to once again find my perch atop my all-too-new old man soapbox, for some terrible carousel tune from afar reminded me the other day of the growing difference between generations, primarily the ever-widening gap between what was once never questioned and is now questionable at best.

For my generation, the ice cream trucks (which actually haven't been trucks for decades but rather retired Dodge church vans with a demented clown's face tattooed on the side) were the trustworthy godsends to summer break afternoons. They drove in like the Messiah on His white horse, redeeming all dollar-bill wavers from the tyrannical grip of the sweltering summer heat. They arrived in style, belting friendly chimes and donning tasty colors that matched the frozen treats they delivered. Like clockwork, the trucks came ringing with sugary refreshments at the most opportune moments, as if their drivers were watching us kids play neighborhood tackle football and sounded the alarm when they saw the game conclude. (Here's to hoping that wasn't actually the case.)

I can only imagine how much better it was for the generations before me, when milkmen and non-suicidal mailmen also visited the neighborhoods.

Now... eh, not so much.

The ice cream truck situation is just creepy today. For several reasons, really. The recent times that I've seen a truck ding-donging around are closer to bedtime than snack time. What are they doing driving around selling Klondike bars after 9 PM? Suppers have been supped. Desserts have been supped. Leave our streets alone now. And these "trucks" are deteriorating by the week; perhaps this is because a sign of success for the ice cream truck business is lasting longer than the first vehicle, so the drivers try to give the impression of success to their fellow ice cream truck-driving comrades by wearing the crap out of that first vehicle. Just a thought.

Those drivers are starting to mirror the roughness of their trucks, too, aren't they? I'm not saying I'd invite any of the ice cream men to play backyard Wiffle ball with us back in my childhood days, but I never felt unsafe around them. Now, I don't doubt a bit it's largely in part due to the rampant pedophiliac turn the news has taken in the past decade, but the idea of a stranger driving a vehicle stocked full with children's chocolaty delights around, targeting this innocent, uninformed demographic, nowadays is a shade unsettling. I mean, the ice cream man is driving a tackle box of bait for eager, helpless children. And it's hard for a parent or otherwise superior to be expected to supervise each extracurricular neighborhood activity, so what shinier opportunity could there be for a child-loving lunatic?

It's really too bad that the ice cream truck deal has lost nearly all of its allure. They were pretty cool, pun inten--

Wait, is that "The Farmer in the Dell" on a xylophone I hear outside?

I gotta go, I'm sorry...

B-sides, vol. 4

Yes, that's right, still more various "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:

• I think we tend to give too much culinary credit to the people in our lives whom we call "the best cook I know" because usually they're making the same foods we make ourselves, only they're merely substituting the main, typical ingredient for something incredibly obscure (e.g. fish enchiladas, chicken burgers, pasta with a red wine sauce rather than a marinara sauce, etc.) or just using double the butter and cooking everything bland but nutritious out of the food. It's not that these people are unbelievable cooks but rather regular cooks who make a particular dish uniquely. You're unbelievable when you throw a bunch of items in a bowl I would have never dreamt up combining and create something entirely original and its taste makes me feel like I'm going down a slip-n-slide naked into a pool of Jell-O cubes.


• The inventor of those laser pointer pens should be thrown in jail for crafting a device that resulted in at least 10 annoying situations for every 1 functional situation. Who didn't see the laser pointers going in that direction? You can't give the public free rein with a pocket-size device that shoots a red dot and expect them to not hide in crowds while aiming it on people's eyes and crotches.


• Sometimes my only motivation for completing my gym workout is the thought of rewarding myself with a pizza for dinner, essentially negating all wholesome deeds I just performed for an hour and a half. I'll actually catch myself trying to cut deals with myself, like, "Look, Claude, if you do 10 more reps, we'll celebrate over a large Hawaiian pizza tonight, cool?"


• Trying to describe my level of disdain for a person who is too lazy and disrespectful to not pee on a toilet seat AND not flush afterwards is like trying to play a word in Scrabble when I have 'J,' 'Q,' 'X,' and 'Z' tiles and no vowels: I'd really, really like to -- believe me -- but unfortunately it just doesn't seem possible.


• I don't care how many songs of theirs you can play on your guitar, lyrics of theirs you can sing from memory, or T-shirts with their logo you own -- don't say you're a real fan of the band if you spell their name "Led Zeplin." Or "Led Zeppilin." Or "Led Zepellin." Or "Lead Zepelin."


• Whenever a news station shows a video clip of a plane dumping that red powder on a blazing forest fire, I find myself suddenly yearning for a pack of Fun Dip powder candy with one of those chalky, white lick sticks.


• You may hear someone described as a "miser," a "cheapskate," a "penny-pencher," or a "cheap bastard," but you’ll never again in your life hear or read anyone described as a "niggard." That word is officially done, man. I almost felt guilty halfway through typing it.

B-sides, vol. 3

Yep, even more various "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:

• The fact that there are more than one "Definitive Collection" compilation album of Michael Jackson tells me that someone's lying.


• Call me 12 years old, but it takes everything within me to not laugh uproariously whenever someone is described as being "anal." Seriously, let's just retire any non-anatomical use of that word.


• If your pants have belt loops and you're not wearing a belt, just who the F do you think you are? I mean, really. Put an effin' belt on, even if you have no legitimate need for it.


• How can an item of clothing fit so well in a store, look so good on you in a mirror, but then look no better than a trash bag with sleeves the first time you wear it? It's a retail conspiracy, I tell ya.


• Anyone who uses iTunes will understand me when I say, back off, iTunes! I'll update you when I feel like an update bigger than a new line of text coding is necessary. Until then, just sit there in the corner of my desktop and keep your mouth shut. You're starting to make me wish we didn't begin a relationship in the first place.


• Let's give it up for the firefighters who have to show up at a college time and time again at all hours of the night, each suited up in God knows how many pounds of gear, with fire engines and full-blown lights and sirens, knowing darn well that nothing more than an old, senile smoke alarm battery or a lit candle is responsible. At those moments, they must be momentary misanthropes -- you can tell by their under-the-breath grumbling and lethargic, un-urgent meandering across the campus. Who could blame them? If a college fire alarm system signals help, firefighters should be able to ask, "But has anyone actually seen a fire? Because we'd really like to not wake up right now. Let us know when there's smoke."


• Wearing a seatbelt should probably be an immediate indicator that we weren't really created with the intention to do whatever it is we're doing that warrants the use of a seatbelt.


• How can sand feel so good to your feet but feel so awful anywhere else on your body? It's so soothing between your toes, yet it's like jagging thumbtacks on any other area. Sand has this uncanny ability to find a resting place in every bodily nook and crevice, whether your pits, nostrils, ears, or [use your imagination here]. And regardless of how much sand you think you've rinsed off yourself before leaving the beach, you'll still find it tumbling in your dryer a month later.


• What moron thought of saloon doors? What inefficient carpentry and architectural design those were... It's like someone started making an actual door and then halfway through said, "Eh, screw it." I mean, even tumbleweed that moseyed in underneath was laughing at it.

B-sides, vol. 2

More various "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:

• Is prison really that bad? You get free food, free clothes, a free gym, and a free place to lay your head. That seems pretty good. If they'd let prisoners wear whatever they want, I'd probably go kill someone right now.


• I would think the dumbest way to protest something is by setting yourself on fire. Why do people do this? Is this accomplishing something? I mean, if anything, I, your opposition, would probably feel a little victorious thinking, "Alright, there goes one more person against us."


• As I drive by people's houses and observe their scattered lawn ornaments, I can't help but wonder what internally triggers someone to proudly litter his/her yard with such shamefully hideous plastic toys and stone structures. Why would you do this to yourself and your yard? Garden signs, gazing balls, gnomes, flamingos... What did your yard do to deserve this? Sure, a fountain here and a statue there is fine, but several front lawns look like they're constantly celebrating the most God-forsaken holiday all year. The residents are like those people who force their pathetic pets to wear sweaters, only it's their lawn who is the unlucky recipient of its owner's unabashed taste for tackiness. I'm personally embarrassed for the yard. It's never a good sign when, on any given day, your house can be mistaken for having a yard sale.


• On a similar note, aren't bird baths and bird houses an open, cordial invitation for any and all birds to come poop all over your territory?


• Does it strike anyone else odd that all old people drive huge cars? I'm talking big ol' Buicks, Cadillacs, Lexuses -- you know the ones I'm talking about. It's like the more dangerous we become as drivers, the more massive the weapon we get in which to steer.


• If our elbows are wrinkly, shouldn't our knees be, too? Think about it.


• Politicians: You have got to stop dancing. One, it never turns out well; if you're a politician caught dancing on camera for any reason -- unless it's your inaugural party (and, really, dancing at that event should be omitted for these reasons) -- you will be subjected to mass ridicule, and no matter your patriotism, service to country, or acts of charity, your legacy will forever be cemented by your dancing clip accumulating hits on YouTube. Two, it's a direct contradiction against what we elected you to do: read bills, vote, and be wooden.

Speed Bumps

I have a degree in English, so I don't attempt to project that I know a great deal about civil engineering. I respect the mosaic of science, math, and indeed art that it is and produces. But I will say that much of civil engineering seems to stem from and correlate with social engineering. There's a lot of sociology and psychology poured in with the concrete in the cement truck's rotating mixer.

When you think about how many of our decisions in a day involve driving, traffic, signals, and yelling alone in our metal contraptions with windows rolled up, you realize the startling amount of our lives that are directly or otherwise controlled by civil engineers. It's a pretty powerful vocation. So much so that we all at one point or another try to fool ourselves and others that we totally could and should be one.

This is why we have speed bumps.

Without statistical data, I would bet that most speed bumps are not products of an engineer's blueprints or a scientist's studies but rather a regular citizen's outcry for control over human behavior. It's that "electric" idea that comes either immediately after or as a result of multiple experiences over time with someone else’s speeding violation. "Hey, people are speeding here, so lay a speed bump down." Speed bumps are the mindless solution to all parking lot/driveway speeding issues. To prevent people going over eight miles per hour, we have convinced ourselves that the perfect fix is to simply throw a long, miniature blacktop mountain range across the lane.

I'm sorry, speed bumps are the single most overused, most inane, most irritable copout of an endeavor to control behavior. If they slow traffic, they create a nuisance; if they are too high, they scrape cars' undercarriage; if they are too low, they influence nothing; if they are too wide, they hardly slow traffic but do create a nuisance and do scrape cars' undercarriage. And they all give the stink eye to a vehicle'’s suspension. They're basically punishment to all for the behavior of a few.

Look, it's simple really: people are going to speed. People are just going to drive at the miles-per-hour they feel comfortable -- speed bumps or no speed bumps. Rid the world of its speed bumps, folks! Quit trying to play traffic god. The parking lot is not your sanctuary. Unless of course you're homeless.

X Games

Thank God for the X Games.

Summer TV is terrible. Most summer shows are like the awful deleted scenes from a movie that were rightfully deleted. If it can't make the fall or spring network lineup, throw it in the summer's. Someone on his summer break is bound to faithfully tune in to the sub-par sitcom or the reality show reject.

For the rest of us, there's baseball -- which, don't get me wrong, I could undyingly watch every day, regardless of teams playing -- or the Discovery Channel. In my mind, neither is ever a bad choice.

But sometimes you just need something extreme (sorry, Discovery Channel, logging is never extreme, no matter how many degrees below zero the temperature). No, make that X-treme, with a capital 'X' and no 'e.' Like jumping ramps, unleashing flips and twirls, and hitting high speeds, all against God's plan of limitations for humans, via miniature modes of transportation intended for children ages 10 and under. (How much longer must we wait for events involving Power Wheels?) Small skateboards and bicycles, big air and risks of lifelong injury. The X Games comprise the best television entertainment you're probably not watching.

I find myself enthralled with what's either a heaping dose of audacity or unequivocal idiocy. Perhaps a blend of both. Whatever the building block for performing these lunatic feats, it's rather easy to withhold ill feeling for any of the contestants who shatters his skeletal structure on a stunt gone awry. After the knee-jerk grimacing "Oooh," I can't help but shrug my shoulders and immediately lose all empathy. I mean, you're sailing 30 feet in the air with a metal bar for your manliest organs to rest upon, for crying out loud. Or descending a ramp at 50+ mph while standing on a fraternity paddle atop golf ball-sized wheels. It says a lot about you when your profession solely revolves around doing activities that other people only do while drunk in order to go viral on YouTube.

But it's that lack of respect for their own bodies that I respect with everything inside of mine.

How long, though, is that cool? As my girlfriend accurately pointed out, as likable and indeed unbelievable as Tony Hawk is, it's kind of difficult to take a man who is over 40 years old and still skateboards for a living seriously. What will this man's walker at 80 look like? A skateboard with protective bars? Dude, hang the skateboard up. In your parents' garage. And put the yo-yo away and quit sticking your gum underneath tables if those, too, are issues that you're still struggling with surrendering from your middle school days.

Maybe he's holding out for the Senior X Games. I can't wait to see what can be pulled off in a Rascal. Now that's good summer TV.

Of course, there's always the WNBA.

Sandals

When I was a little Claude, I had a yellow threaded blanket (a "blanky," if you will), and I would NOT sleep without that thing. It was, in fact, my security blanket. It was so secure feeling that when my body outgrew it, my mind did not. I remember in my very early grade school years lying in bed under that blanket with my bare feet exposed because I was officially too big for it. In turn, I got used to sleeping with all but my feet under sheets, resulting in a slight dislike for covered feet.

There's a very good chance that that's why I prefer sandals. And I'm not talking apostle sandals that are more laced, enclosing leather with the equivalent of fish gills for breathability than open air. I'm talking a two-strap deal here: one strap over the big toe and another over the remaining four, joining together and bound just above that weird webbed portion of your first two toes. Flip-flops without the flip-flop sound.

(And, yes, I do fancy going barefoot when the conditions are right.)

Sandals are, for a lack of better, more definitive words, the best. To me, they signify freedom and comfort. What in the world do you need more in life than freedom and comfort? Aren't those the two universal goals we human beings set to achieve in our lives? Total freedom and total comfort? And there they are, evocatively present in each sandaled stride, just below your bunions. Bet you never knew you were signing a declaration of independence for your feet when you bought those sandals. (See, you were literally giving your John Hancock on that credit card purchase receipt.)

If weather, terrain, and social acceptability allowed it, I would probably throw away all my other shoes and wear only sandals. That's why I get a little irked when I'm told at the workplace and other public arenas that I can't, primarily when women are approved to wear high heels, which are really sandals' hot, long-legged cousin. C'mon, high heels are sandals on stilts. If you approve one, you have to approve the other. To not is showing a pedal prejudice. Look it up.

...Actually don't, because it doesn’t legally exist. But it should. Back me up, Al Sharpton! (And let me save you the smart-aleck suggestion by emphatically refusing to simply wear high heels in conformity.)

P.S. I still sleep with only my feet exposed.

Baby Photos

Who doesn't like a chubby baby? If you don't, you're a Satanist.

Actually, that might not be accurate. I guess if you're a Satanist, you could love a chubby baby. Let me think this through... You hate God, love Satan... Yeah, I guess you actually could love a chubby baby if you're a Satanist. So, we agree then, everyone loves a chubby baby.

I suppose that's why we photograph chubby babies. We humans love to take pictures of babies. AND we love to show those pictures off if they’re of our babies. Something about this makes all parties involved smile.

Maybe it's the babies' innocence. Or the babies' toothless smiles. Or feeling as if you can actually hear the babies goo-goo-ga-ga and smell their dirty diapers through the photo's resolution. Maybe it's all of the above. But, man, we love those pictures.

And a large quantity of people like said pictures so much that they saturate their lives with these images -- all over the home, all over the office walls and desk, on their hanging calendars, in their wallets, on their screen savers. Some of these babies aren't even of the same bloodline. I think some people, women in particular, actually feel that the more baby pictures they submerge themselves in, the more tranquility they'll be enriched with throughout the day. Which is funny to me because, calculating all the hours of crying, screaming, laughing, and mindless spoken gibberish, babies are loud. Cute but loud. ...I don't know, I like beach photos myself.

Baby photos also serve as a time capsule, locking in the freshness of "when all they did was crawl, drool, and poop." You know, a time before they aged and started chasing booze and hookers. But think about those baby photos you're taking. There are as many adorable ones as questionable ones. I've seen a lot of both, and the latter never get old.

Ofttimes, like a Saturday night memorialized by a drunken stupor and regrettable, erroneous decision making or that time you threw firecrackers out the car window on the street in front of the mayor's house, some baby photos can only be explained away with a disgracefully delivered "Well, it sounded like a good idea at the time..." defense. Professionally photographing your baby in a cat costume or outfits and colors typically reserved for the opposite sex are prime examples. Although teaching kids how to cope with failure is an important part of parenting, perhaps making failure their destiny before they even get off the nipple and try walking isn't the best route. As well, what's cute in a picture to the parent(s) early on rarely serves as a confidence booster for that baby in his/her teen years and beyond. Suddenly, that thumb-sucking sailor photo from Sears becomes your high school teen's bully's blackmail.

Another interesting quirk about baby photos is how perfectly fine and acceptable it is to have naked baby photos plastered everywhere. Why? And at what age is their nudity no longer cute but disgusting? Personally, I think it'd be hilarious to have pictures of random, naked, grown people scattered across your office without hinting at anything peculiar about it. "Oh, these folks? They're my friends and family. That one's Uncle Melvin laying naked on the farm. He's only 636 months old there. So cute."

Sort of goes along with the whole deal of seeing a naked baby photo of someone you now know as a grown adult. It's like, yeah, I know I'm not allowed to see you naked now, but I know exactly what you have under there and have a good idea what it all looks like, per the photo of you naked in the bathtub at 11 months.

Amusement Parks

Thanks to spare tickets given to me by some gracious friends, I got to blow the cobwebs off my adrenal glands recently by revisiting the joys and promised amusement found in an amusement park. While the roller-coasters indeed did their part, I encountered less amusement and more bemusement. Truly, the sights and smells that are most astounding at theme parks aren't the coaster corkscrews or cotton candy but rather the common carnival customer. It is the clientele that will make your head spin and want to vomit.

In my hometown of Frankfort, Kentucky, the amusement park equivalent is the annual Expo (or aptly nicknamed "Rednexpo"). Here, folks come crawling out of the woodwork, emerging like zombies, to introduce themselves to regular, old-fashioned society, while making sure there's enough time to sink their four teeth into a caramel-covered elephant ear or any battered meat on a stick and a belt buckle made with leather, sequins, and the utmost pride in the Confederate flag. Also omnipresent during this four-day festival is some serious ghetto fabulousness, which is curiously on display mostly by people who have never actually set foot within a ten-mile radius of a true ghetto. Pepper in a handful of normal people and you've got yourself quite the misrepresentation of a beautiful cultural melting pot.

Typically, I'd feel a little remorseful for that sort of unfair, unflattering characterization; however, there's nothing unfair about it. Quite true, honestly. Ask any "Frankforter" next time you run into one at the grocery. The Expo's demography is a laughingstock to an otherwise lovely capital city. In other words, it's worth at least one wasted evening of your life.

This inelegant proportion of attendance of freaks -- yeah, I said it, freaks -- appears to be the law of nature for all amusement park-like attractions/events. School festivals, county fairs, state expositions, and any other event whose rides require only an afternoon to assemble... they're all the same and thus seem to attract the same bizarre crowd. That's not to say you're bizarre if you like attending these; rather you know firsthand exactly who and what I'm talking about.

You've heard the theory that television adds 10 pounds, right? Pretty sure that same phenomenon applies to amusement parks. Either that or your clothes shrink two sizes. You might think I'm talking about obese park attendees only, but that's too limiting. While, agreed, there's an unreasonable amount of cellulite on parade all day, there are just as many fat people who feel they can and should wear skimpy clothes as there are boney people who feel they can and should wear nothing at all.

Whereas many people buy attire specifically for occasions like weddings, graduations, and vacations, I'm fairly certain some folks purchase an outfit specifically for their trip to the theme park, because I can’t think of any other lawful public sector where shredded, tattered "tops" with 85% flabby boob protrusion is acceptable. At a quick glance, any similarity between joyous park attractions and joyless, stark unattractiveness may initially be overlooked, but close scrutiny of the physics in both (for example, the defiance of gravity in both the roller-coaster loop and that chunky girl's skin-tight, faded denim shorts) will reveal the inseparable connection.

You just can't escape science.

PowerPoint Presentations

Picture this: There used to be a time when stapled papers were manually distributed in meetings and the only communal visuals attendees shared simultaneously were images shone on a white wall through a plugged-in box of lights and mirrors -- a contraption called, according to Wikipedia, an "overhead projector." No, seriously, no computers were used. I think this was in the same era as those landline phones and when the sales of alcohol were prohibited -- right after the Civil War.

And then someone came along and invented the personal computer. And then someone else came along and developed a software application called PowerPoint.

Your meetings and conferences have never been the same since.

When I show up to a meeting and the ol' projector screen is pulled down, I just want to shoot myself in the face. Nothing is more disinteresting, more cliché, more perfunctory than a PowerPoint presentation. The equally hackneyed adage "If you've seen one, you’ve seen them all" perfectly describes these trivial slideshows.

The unpleasantness about PowerPoint presentations can usually be summed up by any one (or combination) of these reasons: the font is too small; the pie charts and bar graphs are too detailed; the screaming color scheme hurts my eyes; the ClipArt graphics are cheesy; the sudden, crazed sound effects don't quite match the professionalism supposed within the delivered content; the presentation was made with PowerPoint; etc.

Why do half the design templates remind me of my last stay at a Comfort Inn? Maybe it's because their patterns so closely and inexplicably resemble cheap motel wallpaper. Apparently the artist who designed Genesis album covers didn't have a better offer after Phil Collins peaced.

Not all blame goes to the software alone; matter of fact, most of the shame should fall on the presentation creator(s). I mean, what's with this compulsory final presentation slide simply labeled, "Questions?" ...Really? Do we need an entire slide for you to click to (or left-to-right-horizontal-bar-transition to) in order to ask the audience, who by this point has probably hit the REM stage of their nap, if anyone has any questions to offer up? Is there something wrong with merely asking them without the slide? Or do you fear that they might get lost midway in your plea for participation without a one-word graphic projected on the screen?

It's not that a PowerPoint presentation itself is a bad idea -- it's just tolerable, and that's it. They don't revolutionize, they don't improve material, and they certainly don't secure to memory. As I asked a manager at my office recently, what can you recall from the last PowerPoint presentation you had to sit through?

I'm still waiting on a response from that manager.

Retail Security Systems

In every trip to the mall or mostly any retail store, I am awestruck at the lack of attention and credibility given to the security systems that were installed in order to elicit some sort of attention and credibility. An overwhelming response of nonchalance tends to be the reaction employees give to the various sirens and bleeps emitting from the tall, slender checkpoint security systems at the door whenever these go off.

These "Star Trek" gateway thresholds appear to really be nothing more than an intimidation factor. So, if you can summon up the gall to walk through with unpaid merchandise and endure some questionable looks from fellow shoppers upon the triggering of those obnoxious shrieking beeps, seems to me that you've got yourself a new sweater free of charge.

Now, please don't misinterpret this as encouragement to steal. I wouldn't dare say that. "Thou shall not steal" is how the ol' Commandment goes, I do believe, and that's what I live by. (Still trying to get that "Thou shall not kill" one down, though.) I'm just pointing out that the scot-free possibility is there. At worst, you might receive a "Hey, stop!" warning from the cashier from behind the counter, by which point you’ll be halfway to either your getaway Honda or your large cup of Dippin' Dots a couple shops down; but I'd say most sales attendants just don't view it as worth the chase's time and efforts. I think the general consensus of these folks is, "I’m just here to sell _______, not to chase criminals. F that, that's for the Blue & White." To an extent, I can sympathize with that. I mean, how's the shrink cost of that cardigan going to affect their hourly wage anyhow? Who really cares?

And what if the sales attendant is wrong in his assumption? What if he approaches someone in the vicinity of the beeping security system and falsely accuses this person of shoplifting? Whoa, big trouble. No one wants to shout a string of demands to open shopping bags, empty pockets and purses, unzip jackets, and unbutton shirts, only to wind up as wrong as leopard print fashion in front of his coworkers and surrounding bystanders -- not to mention making the wrongfully accused person momentarily look guilty and embarrassed. Unless you just enjoy being a big turd.

Wal-Mart remains one of the few exceptions to this joint retail security system disinterest, planting an employee at the front automatic sliding doors as the welcome mat. Though labeled "greeters," their ultimate purpose is served far less as a deliverer of insincere salutations but rather much more as a (typically elderly) hawk, encircling the entrance/exit area with a radio and yellow highlighter in hand, awaiting the sudden, rampant beeps that signal a possible shoplifter.

But isn't Wal-Mart always the exception to every societal norm that exists seemingly everywhere else?

Hotels

Unless you have a relative, friend, or a hookup on a free condo close by, traveling will likely result in a hotel (or motel) stay. There isn't a bigger gamble involved in traveling than exchanging money for keys to a hotel room, especially if you blindly booked the room over the phone or internet, and double especially if you know nothing about the area you're visiting. Even with a chain you trust, you're rolling the dice on a 50/50 chance of a pleasant stay or a scene from Psycho.

Pleasant or not, the idea of thousands upon thousands of people taking turns sleeping in the same bed is extremely weird to me, and to a point uncomfortable. We don't know these (literal) strange bedfellows, nor do we know the history of that bed. And, like the ingredients of a hotdog, those mysteries are probably best left unsolved. We instead just close our eyes and hold tight, horizontal between those Egyptian-cotton bed sheets, to the extraordinarily minute likelihood that perhaps the laundry detergent the hotel used eradicated every microbial bit of evidence of any previous human contact with those sheets.

The best part about staying in a hotel room is, outside of holding a rock star after-party, you are virtually free of any normal, humane responsibilities. Included in the outrageous price of the room (which somehow tends to rate about ¼ of a monthly mortgage payment per night) are limitless laziness and irresponsibility. Leaving the room looking like a train wreck is not only acceptable, it's expected. Not that I am encouraging anyone to depart from a hotel with their room resembling an al-Qaeda hideout, but the option is basically there. You just can't beat hotel housekeeping.

Now, that said, I personally try my very hardest to upkeep my room while visiting. Besides the fact that I prefer not to voluntarily subject myself or my living quarters to filth, even if only temporarily, I have immense empathy for people who are subjugated to housekeeping duties for 40 hours a week, cleaning up the mess and debris of others while trying to maintain their own self-respect, so I always put forth some effort in not coming across as a total slob.

I wonder how clean housekeeping employees' hotel rooms are when they're on vacation. It would make my day to know they unapologetically wreak havoc, strewing towels, bedspreads, and toiletries across the room in a free-spirited, rebellious rage.

Free Food

Already I bet you're alert and interested in reading because of the subject matter alone. Perhaps you're thinking about the last situation in which you encountered a smorgasbord of free food, or how freaking sweet it would be if you turned your head 90 degrees right now and saw a mountain of whatever your culinary vice mysteriously piled upon a plate with a small sign on top that simply read, "Free." Perhaps you're even salivating right now. Wait, what's that? Was that a stomach grumble I just heard electronically through the computer monitor despite the fact that that's impossible and also you're not reading this in real time as I write? Amazing.

If any of the above applied to you right now -- without so much as seeing a picture of anything edible -- you have just witnessed the power of food. Especially when the word "food" is preceded by the single qualifier "free."

So powerful is free food that it entices you to do, say, or attend things you normally wouldn't. I can't say with scientific certainty this is true, but I would guess there is more scientific truth to that claim than anything you tried proving with your grade school baking-soda-and-vinegar volcano.

Mmm... baking soda and vinegar. With rainbow sprinkles? For free?

Think for a moment about the last wedding you attended that you really didn't want to but did anyway because the food and beverages at the reception were both catered and free. Or how about that banquet or conference to which you begrudgingly showed up only because your taste buds talked you into it. Or that date you went on with that not-a-snowball's-chance-in-hell creepy dude because you knew you were getting a free gourmet dinner out of him (whatever "gourmet" means).

The folks at Klondike nailed it. They knew that human beings would do darn near anything for free food, primarily a chocolate-covered handheld square of ice cream. I mean, what would you do for a Klondike bar? Wrestle a grizzly bear? Call up an ex you detest just to say hi? Bungee jump into a swamp of alligators while wearing only the harness? Hmm... how many Klondike bars again?

Free food also just brings people together. It unites. I mean, how many conversations have you had in your life with people you honestly couldn't care less about but, hey, there was free food involved so... if having to listen to their family vacation story again meant an opportunity to enjoy some red velvet cake, you suddenly encouraged more wacky tales of that baby cousin's first attempt at putt-putt? Again, it just unites.

You could probably end a war if you posted flyers advertising "Free Peace Treaty Potluck" around war trenches or heavy combat zones. Maybe even advertise a "Free Enemy Mixer/Ice Cream Social." Military conflict resolved.

Coffee

To those whose offers for a freshly brewed cup of coffee I've denied -- nay, scoffed -- over the decades of my existence, I have good news: I'm slowly putting on my big boy pants and adapting a taste for coffee. I've been around its influence and propaganda for years, but its scent, its aromatic fumes I enjoy, is finally finding a soft spot in my gustatory system. This doesn't mean, though, that I'm seeing any further logic in the consumption of this dark bean juice.

Let's start there: bean juice. That's what it is. The ground extraction of a bean in a liquid format, supplemented with water. I guess that's okay. I mean, I like both chocolate and vanilla beans and their extractions. But, I don't know. Willingly drinking the juice of a pulp-free product just doesn't sound right to me. Makes me wonder when lima bean smoothies and pinto bean shakes will catch on.

Additionally, I partially fear materializing manila-folder-yellow teeth that so many coffee drinkers acquire over time. But probably not as much as I fear developing a permanent case of that horrendous halitosis yielded after downing a cup. You know these people (perhaps you even share an office space with them): they're carrying -- and cheerfully sharing -- coffee breath every minute of that 24-hour day, and they don't mind speaking closely enough for you to know it. I mean, how could a scent once so delectable, so inviting produce a "back the F away!" odor in a matter of minutes?

Now seems like a good time to interject a quick remark regarding the smell of urine excreted directly after drinking a cup of coffee. It's just... bad. No need to search for a grander adjective; "bad" pretty much sums it up. It's quite honestly disturbing. Let's be fair, I've not stood over a toilet of urine that I wanted to bottle as a fragrance (repulsive visual, my apologies), but I'm mortified by coffee's version. Again, simply bad.

Yet somehow this coffee stuff is growing on me. Gradually. Maybe it's the caffeine.

So, yes, I will take you up on your cup of coffee offer. The one I rejected back in the fall of '98.

Cream and sugar, please.

Pro Wrestling

It is with great pride that I can profess having no childhood obsession or even minor infatuation with professional wrestling. I recall several of my neighborhood buddies owning toy bins filled to the brim with WWF (as it was then referred to) action figures, masks, outfits, trading cards, video games, and other random bits of painted, polymeric paraphernalia.

The video games were always good. Quite honestly, 95% of the 3% I know about pro wrestling was learned through the early video games. The Ultimate Warrior, The Big Boss Man, Andre the Giant, The Undertaker, and of course Hulk Hogan -- these names, Royal Rumble, and a couple moves like the piledriver or the Boston crab are all I knew, mostly thanks to the Frankfort Wal-Mart's miniscule arcade. That's about as far as I got, though.

Something about grown men, who are otherwise overflowing with machismo, and their awestruck sons paying top dollar to see buff, festooned, long-haired men in skin-tight spandex is rather disturbing to me. Personally, the only air-tight packages I'm interested in paying for say "Rubbermaid" on the side. But, hey, maybe that's just me.

Growing up, I frequently played the role of the childlike equivalent to an atheist, trying to throw human reasoning as a nonbeliever at my WWF-smitten playmates to convert them to what science and the rest of the world recognized as truth: The wrestling events and everything about them were completely fake. I think, though, at the time there was still an air of mystery and confusion as to the proclaimed falsehoods surrounding pro wrestling, as if no one was entirely confident that the shows were merely theatrical productions. But now there's no question. In fact, the WWE, or whatever organization acronym the big dogs of pro wrestling are hiding behind now, make no bones about it: they openly admit each show is storyboarded. Yet this has obviously failed to soften the interest of its fans. I don't know the statistics, but I would venture to say pro wrestling is as popular as it ever was. To me, bewildering.

Critics to my bewilderment would probably argue that it's merely entertainment -- a testosterone-infused, Broadway-style show upon a stage enclosed with stretchy ropes. Still ridiculous, but okay. However, most fans call this a "sport" -- it's clearly not. Entertainment, sure. But there's no competitive event taking place. Find a new term.

Mostly I feel sorry for the wives and mothers who have to deal with this obsession in their households and/or are dragged to the shows and also for the parents who are still subletting their basements to their fanatical 40-something-year-old sons.

Facebook

I have a feeling this "take" will generate the most perusals.

And why shouldn't it? Facebook has taken over the world -- literally. It, with the combined forces of text messaging, literally has changed the way we socialize and, in some cases, rearranged our priorities. Not just we Americans, but we the world. Sure, there are other social networking sites, but I'm addressing Facebook as (A) it's the largest, most used one right now and (B) it's the only one I use; I haven’t yet ventured out to "tweeting" on Twitter or posting nude pictures of myself in hopes of seducing 11-year-olds on MySpace.

Facebook is the lazy man's answer to "keeping in touch." If you despise phone conversations, have little time for lengthy discussions, or only contact certain people at a certain frequency out of some amiable obligation, Facebook is there for you to sum up that hour-long call in 13 words and a smiley face. There you go, friendship intact. Matter of fact, thanks to Facebook, I hardly call anyone anymore. Sorry, but some acquaintanceships are really only worth an occasional approval of the other's status update.

But like pairs of escalators, there are downsides. (Get it?)

You open yourself to stalkers; beware, they no longer lurk simply in sunglasses and a trench coat (with Facebook, your coworker is probably one of them). Various relationships you have may falter due to Facebook content. You may see and read things that you had hoped to never come across.

Some people just flaunt their true colors on there, don’t they? Man... Withholding and reserved for years, but give 'em a keyboard and monitor to hide behind and suddenly -- [cue loud, explosive mouse click]!! -- they'll throw out their life wishes and sexual preference and relationship status and current employer and alternate means of being contacted and photos, hobbies, moods, fears, regrets...

Oh, wait. That's all of us, isn't it?

I mean, where's the bashfulness in Facebook? Nowhere. It's out the window. No physical space intrusion, no awkward face-to-face confrontations, no social demand for chivalry. And virtually no censors, baby. Post whatever the capital f you want. Go ahead, cuss someone out -- typographically key someone's vehicle -- what can they do? Upload a risqué (albeit within reason) picture, talk sensually to anyone you feel, adamantly promote any agenda you care to -- you can be the real you that you can't be at work, or you can be the desired you that you can't be when being the real you at work.

According to Facebook, as of this writing, I have 589 friends. I know I don't actually have 589 friends. I don't make enough money to have 589 friends. But Facebook has redefined the word "friend." A friend now can range anywhere from someone who knows all your darkest secrets to a friend's friend's friend whom you think is hot and with whom you happen to share equal interest in a local indie band. If you think of the reason why you initially got on Facebook, you'll probably laugh. Most everyone got on there to either find long-lost friends from yesteryear or to supposedly network. Or both. But here’s the conventional depreciation in Facebook friendship acceptance: childhood friends > current friends > people you sort of know > some chick with whom you hazily recall splitting a pitcher last night.

Tweet that.

Award Shows

And the winner is...

Not me. And not anyone watching, really. Or at least that's how I feel about award shows. What a waste of human existence those shows are. Oscars, Golden Globes, Emmys, Grammys, Tonys, you name it. I hate that they're occurring, and I hate that people are watching.

I already know this is an unpopular opinion, believe me, so don't bother attempting to "awaken" me from my discontent. I've (apathetically) heard every argument for award shows that there is. But my mind can never be changed; award shows are meaningless, self-righteous affairs.

There is not a greater ego-stroking exhibition than the telecasted award shows. It's one giant four- to six-hour catwalk in front of ogling cameras and cardboard-cut nobody "journalists" foaming at the mouth for a sound bite from a bejeweled, Botox-infused douche, wrapped in sequined den curtains and hiding behind sunglasses at the darkest hour of the night, and on display on a stage abundantly saturated with overproduction, lame one-line endeavors at comedy, artificial live-yet-pre-recorded-and-lip-synched musical performances, and lengthy, trite soliloquies of thank-yous and meandering political commentary. It's a celebration of pompous nothingness.

And they're just crankin' 'em out, baby: People's Choice, Kids' Choice, Animals' Choice, Ghostly Spirits' Choice...

I can't blame the networks; I mean, they'll broadcast whatever people will watch (essentially and justifiably, this is their approach to anything they air). Nor can I blame the individual institutions/academies; likewise, they'll push whatever sells -- and more appropriately, whatever reinforces their own agendas. The people I blame are we. Us. The audience. The "Access Hollywood" viewers. The checkout-lane gossip readers. The dress-alike, look-alike idolaters. They'll only continue the madness if we continue to support it. Sadly, I think most of us want to.

My point is we laud and applaud the efforts of people we laud and applaud anyway. We intertwine our lives with theirs, and we don't even know these folks. Frankly, I'm not the least bit concerned with who wins Best Actor of the Year any more than I am with who wins Best Auto Mechanic of the Year or any other profession's coveted annual recognition of great achievement.

But lay me down a red carpet on my way to tackle an Excel spreadsheet and maybe I'll reconsider.

Headlights

Lots of distractions for the common driver these days, aren't there? Cell phones, GPS devices, iPods, DVD players, etc. -- all on top of what we've already been distracted by for years, like stereos/radios, billboards, passengers, eating... among several other attention-grabbers. Last thing we need is one more distraction for our focus toward safe arrival at our destination, right?

Yet we have headlights. Yes, headlights. "Hold on," you say, "headlights are essential to driving. They’re a necessity. They keep us safe!" When used correctly, sure. But so is radioactivity.

The distractive half of headlights is when folks throw the "brights" on in your face. You know what I'm talking about -- you're driving down the highway, you've got everything under control, until suddenly someone steadily approaches you from behind or oncoming with their bright headlights unknowingly on. Now the focus is on trying to awaken them to their blinding traffic infraction while also trying to find the asphalt and keep your car continuing between the painted lines. Personally, nothing boils my blood like some moron's "brights" blocking my vision. I mean, it would seem to me that there's no driving miscue that's more blatant to the offender than having your bright headlights on in a non-bright-headlight-warranted driving situation. (A blinker when not turning ranks a very close second.) This tells me the driver him/herself is obviously distracted. That or just too stupid to hold a driver's license.

But we'll chalk that instance up to inattentiveness -- or, rather, a distraction caused by a distraction. It's slightly more forgiving that way.

What are beyond unforgiving are the headlight bulbs new to the market as of just a few years: purposely discolored headlights (usually some hue of blue) and ultra-bright halogen headlights. When the shade of your headlights could easily be mistaken for a cop's emergency lights, I question their legality -- oh, and usefulness. But apparently I'm the only one as I've never heard them questioned legislatively. Look, people, headlights are universally urine-tinted maize. Not blue. Not white. Like taillights are universally red -- imagine if folks started switching those up ("Does that car in front of me have green taillights? Couldn't be. Probably a green light. I'll just give 'er some gas and -- wait a seco--" Broken glass everywhere.).

And these ultra-bright halogen bulbs I've seen advertised now, where the commercial explains, "Now you can see farther"... Hmm, care to know why? Because they’re brighter. So, while you're now able to see that deer rounding the bend four miles up, you're killing everyone else's vision, blinding us all into becoming the multiple helpless obstacles you were trying to avoid by installing these National Guard floodlights in the first place, and, in turn, leaving us to use shoulder grooves and street reflectors as Braille.

Popcorn

Most snacks you can keep secret. Stash a few Oreos away deep in the food pantry, behind the oatmeal packets and sugar-free cereals, and unleash 'em every now and then -- who'll know? Keep some Little Debbie cakes in your desk drawer at work and munch 'em down when no one's near your cubicle -- you're in the clear. But with popcorn... the secret is out, man. With each kernel's pop and the scented trail of chemical buttery goodness, you're officially stepping out of your snacking closet. Popcorn is a public declaration that, yes, I'm snacking, and, yes, you know exactly what it is.

As long as you're okay with the outright attention, you get the green light on popcorn.

Now, to eat popcorn you must know that you face two problems right off the bat. The first problem is your teeth. No matter how delicately or strategically you attempt to chew popcorn, its pieces -- the popcorn shrapnel, as I like to call them -- will inevitably, indubitably find their way between your teeth. And they will not seek a gaping crevice or a moderate-size space between teeth; rather, they will unapologetically push and squeeze their thin, little way through the smallest of spaces, ensuring dental discomfort. If not painful enough, they will happily penetrate that ultra tiny crevice that separates your gums and enamel -- perhaps even pierce some surrounding flesh along the way -- really just to piss you off. Dental floss by your side is recommended.

The second problem is the odor. This is a big one. If you don't mind upsetting your own nervous system with the occasional accompanied bouts of pain from the shrapnel, then you must weigh the likelihood of upsetting the olfactory system of everyone around you with the lingering, overwhelming stench of popcorn, especially if this is in an office or otherwise public setting. It might smell good at first, but when the odor's intensity hasn't waned in a half-day, tempers tend to flare.

And if you burn the popcorn, whoa buddy, it's a whole new ballgame. Find a trashcan and sacrifice that bag of popcorn quickly -- and then just get the heck out of there. If you're spotted as the culprit, repercussions range anywhere from being the recipient of office contempt and cold shoulders to possibly being dragged beyond the city limits and stoned.

Enjoy with caution.

Children's Books

Much to my surprise, and truthfully personal satisfaction, I've recently rediscovered the joys of reading. I say "rediscovered" because, as an English major, I read an extraordinary amount of forced literature -- forced meaning I had no say about it. Basically, read it or fail. And I think I speak for most when I say it's immensely difficult to pleasurably benefit from reading when a metaphorical gun by way of a letter grade is held to your head.

I say "rediscovered" also because there was a period when reading was synonymous with enthusiasm, imagination, suspense, comfort, actual participation, and thus fun. I'm talking about the era of children's books, a time defined by sitting Indian-style (or whatever the politically correct euphemism in today's world) before a book with knees supporting elbows, elbows supporting open hands, and open hands supporting chin, signifying unmitigated awe and wonderment at the words and vibrant colors before me.

These weren't simply tales of a cat in a hat or a big red dog. I'm talking pop-up books, books with puzzles and sounds, and books where you got to determine the fate of the main character -- you literally got to play God -- by simply choosing to continue on page 14 or 39. It kind of makes me wish that all books followed suit.

Think about how much better every piece of publication would be if it was solely comprised of pop-up pages. Open that math textbook up and, POW!, the quadratic formula in your face! Unfurl the Wall Street Journal and, look out!, here come the stock indices! Unfold the church bulletin and, sweet Moses!, the dedication of today's flowers all up in your business! It would just never get old.

If you can walk by a pop-up book today without feeling the slightest temptation to open it up, lock yourself up in a morgue because you have officially taken life way too seriously.

Movie Trailers

I recently had a back-and-forth with a friend about movie trailers and how simply preposterously they've evolved. I'm not referring to the 30-second commercial spots that just show spliced segments of emotions and explosions; I'm talking about the full-blown mini-movies shown prior to your cinematic feature presentation on the silver screen.

I realize I may be coming across as if I don't enjoy movie trailers. False. I actually thoroughly enjoy them. Even more, I look forward to them and am immensely disappointed if I miss any. But I think I enjoy them for the same, ironic reason that they're problematic: Most of them are essentially a condensed version of the movie.

Let's see, they introduce the characters, reveal the plot, explain the ups and downs, unveil the special effects, and unload all the best scenes and quotes; and from there I can pretty much surmise the obligatory plot twist and conclusion in my head. All in two and a half minutes, or roughly 2% of the two-hour flick. Perfect! I mean, what's left to see in the movie? The unnecessary characters, the plot filler, the expanded edition of the ups and downs, the much less interesting special effects, and all the other scene moments and chiefly forgettable quotes that reinforce the good scene moments and funny/dynamic quotes divulged in the trailer.

You can view this through two different lenses: (1) Well, that movie is spoiled -- thanks. Or, my personal recommendation, (2) I more or less just watched six other movies at no additional cost -- I'm really efficient and shrewd!

And while some movie trailers are blatantly forthcoming about the content and script details, they seem to omit one important, specific item: the friggin' release date.

"In theaters this fall." "Coming Summer 2011."

What am I supposed to do with this info? Am I supposed to run home and start circling entire months on the calendar as a reminder and round up friends a year in advance? Should I set up a notification on my Outlook application to start looking for this movie beginning that season's solstice?

If I could crush grapes and let the juices age into wine in the span of time between the release of a movie trailer and the release of the actual movie, perhaps that's too much of a notice. Decide on a date and give me a two- or three-week heads-up. The least of my concerns right now is if that comic book movie's sequel is due in June or July of 2012.

Shop Class

I often look back at high school and just laugh. The laundry list of reasons why could fill your grade school Trapper Keeper. Scholastically, one class stands out: shop class.

What is the good expected from shop class? What is a student supposed to walk away with at the end of the semester? That wood can be cut and carved and filed and stained and -- yes, the rumors are true -- burned? That a hammer will drive a nail into wood, that a saw will cut a board in two, and that disciplining a student with detention in the same room as a hammer and a saw is pretty much a bad idea?

I don't want to say that the public school system failed me with shop class, but... the public school system failed me with shop class. I literally learned nothing. It's not that I was unwilling to learn and showed up to class daily with a bad attitude; it's that nothing was taught. It always made me laugh when my shop class teacher tried to give a written test, as if that was supposed to imply that there was actual teaching going on. C'mon, a test? You mean, with paper and a pencil? Who are you kidding, man -- shop class is recess with tools.

P.E. teachers are often classified as the easiest occupations and the laughingstock of education, but shop class teachers can’t be too far behind. Really, how strenuous is setting out some boards and a box of screws and ensuring that the power tools are returned at the end of the period? Is there a lot of lesson plan preparation to such a curriculum?

The only recollections I can recall with precision from shop class are throwing chunks of wood as hard as possible at a wall, skipping class at least once a week to play pick-up ball in the gym, classmates dipping and smoking outside the classroom's back doors, lots of Carhartt jackets, and actually making a heart-shaped coin bank with a scroll saw.

Unfortunately, I've not technically needed to recall any of this information in any life situations. Yet. I'm still awaiting the moment where my experience with launching wood blocks at painted brickwork at overhand high speeds falls to my advantage.

Drive-Thru Windows

Convenience can sometimes be really inconvenient.

Having a dry cleaners right by your house that starches everything regardless of your vocalized preference: conveniently located, inconveniently inattentive. Having a tee time that meets the schedule of everyone in your foursome but is directly behind a group of very amateur old women: conveniently available, inconveniently slow. Having a drive-thru window at your eatery of choice, but hating yourself for a plethora of reasons once in it: conveniently accessible, inconveniently... well, inconvenient.

And, boy, can that plethora of reasons run far and deep.

Yes, the drive-thru window: America's fat, lazy answer to fat, lazy people who want fat, lazy food without having to stop being fat and lazy. I include myself in that less-than-elite source of demand. And why not? The drive-thru window is actually a really good idea. Sometimes the weather isn't cooperative, making the dash inside overwhelmingly undesirable. Or you have kids in the car, and getting them out of the car and into the store and back into the car is hair-pullingly frustrating. Or, again, you're just fat and/or lazy. I have no problem with any of those.

What I do have a problem with are people who act like complete, selfish d-bags in the drive-thru. It takes one drive-thru order to see how people really are -- when friends, coworkers, and fellow church members aren't around -- when it's just them and Ralph with the drive-thru headset and crooked nametag.

What several drive-thru customers fail to realize is that not knowing Ralph or the other folks in line behind you by no means permits you to act like a turd. Whether it's placing four separate orders, or ordering the entire left side of the menu, or rifling off your barely discernible order in a fashion that's somewhere between a militaristic command and an auctioneer's blabbering, consider the employees and the other customers who are trying to use the drive-thru service for what it was intended: a service by which you drive "thru" -- not park and place a complicated order and park again and inch up and park some more and get your food and go and park to check the bag and... Just go inside and let me get my Value Menu sandwich already.

Snow Delays

There is no disappointment in the world like looking out your window and seeing serene, unwrinkled blankets of snow and ice and then reading "one-hour delay" or "two-hour delay" adjacent to your county, college, or employer on the news ticker at the bottom of your TV screen. For crying out loud... talk about anticlimactic.

Albeit I'm no meteorologist, or any other -ologist whose salaried and leisure time is dedicated to the study and advancement of a science that touches the stratosphere or the molecular activity within accumulated moisture, but I can't possibly rationalize the benefit of a snow delay. What in the world is one hour going to do? One measly hour? Two measly hours ain't gonna accomplish much more. Is the temperature rising 25 degrees in that 60- or 120-minute span, unearthing the roads and sidewalks from its wintry layers enough to suddenly declare them "travelable"? If it was too dangerous a soap opera episode ago, aren't you still running the risk of hitting areas that aren’t clear enough for safe passage now? It's absurd to me.

These snow delays only screw up schedules and throw your whole day off kilter, trying to make up five minutes here and eight minutes there, simply so that you could wait around long enough for the visible ice to melt down to black ice. And the false benefit to a snow delay is the implied "extra sleep." Bold face lie. Perhaps if you knew about this delay the night before, but c'mon now... You gotta examine the situation outside, check the TV, wait for your county or institution to appear, and by then you hardly have enough time to get back in bed and fall asleep. And if you're like me, once you're up, you're up.

Snow delays are like those low-carb, lettuce-wrapped Thickburgers from Hardee's: You think slicing off a bit is going to make a difference when it's really not any more beneficial to you -- plus it's not even as enjoyable -- so just say "F it" and go all out.

Magic Eye

I've always been a fan of puzzles and optical illusions. What growing boy hasn't stood in awe, mouth agape, at a card trick or a vanishing act of some sort? Something about the challenge of figuring out the hows and whys behind a tangible or visual conundrum have intrigued the holy crap out of me for as far back as my feeble memory recalls.

It's why I fell head-over-heels for Magic Eye pictures. Remember those bad boys? You know, the sinfully tacky color arrangements that contained a 3-D image somewhere within its pattern. Staring and crossing your eyes at the illustration long enough produced an obscure, shadowy shape -- in retrospect, a rather weak reward for the life wasted staring inanimately at a hideous spread of graphic art.

Was that a Tyrannosaurus Rex eating an ascending Pterodactyl or two koala bears performing an indecent act? No one really knew. But that didn't really matter. What mattered is that you were one of the few who could claim, "Ooh, I see it! I see it!" and then ridicule those who ogled the picture for seven minutes with head shaking and shoulders shrugged in frustration and despair. That's all any of us were really after.

You always kind of felt like an idiot staring at those illustrations, didn't you? I did. But it was like a bowl of M&M's: if it's there, I'm partaking -- you can't just walk by without indulging your senses. Arms folded, posture bent, eyes squinting, head slightly tilted, all in the name of feeding curiosity. And what did we gain in the end? Nothing. Usually disappointment in (a) our failure or (b) its lameness.

The real humor in Magic Eye is that so many people actually had the posters framed and hung in their house or office as if it was serious art. The designs, collages of repeated graphics or intersecting squiggly lines immersed in multicolored computer vomit, were undeniably repulsive -- too ugly to exist on the face of the earth for any other reason than, hey, inside it somewhere is a fighter jet in mid-combat.

And now Magic Eye is nowhere to be seen -- unless you look hard enough. Rather self-prophesying, wasn't it?

Office Refrigerators

Although I'd rather have one than not have one, a community refrigerator, like the one found at your office, screams disaster. It's where culinary packaging, social responsibility, and enzymatic browning all collide within a shared setting. It's where your evolved bad habits of uncleanliness and failure to timetable your expiration dates taint the sanctity of all other brown-bag brunches and leftover lunches. Simply put, it's where your mess is everyone's mess.

These refrigerators don't have to be like this. They can run and cool and preserve without the presence of vomit-inducing sights and odors. The problem is such refrigerators don't seem to exist in any office break room.

Every office refrigerator contains undiscovered horrors, where fruits and vegetables that once donned vibrant hues of red and yellow and orange have waned to greens and browns that Crayola has yet to name. Food textures have altered and grown fuzzier, with their cores and surfaces hardening where soft and softening where hard. And somewhere in the corner, behind that half-eaten office birthday cake and the bottle of lemon juice no one knows who originally brought in lies a small, cubed Rubbermaid container enclosing a now unidentifiable dessert with a questionable glaze and 5 o'clock shadow. Some of the dishes, beverages, and condiments have been imprisoned within the walls of the fridge for so long, for so many consecutive weeks, that they have better office attendance than their owners.

With just a few months of dedicated collective ignorance and rudeness, the office refrigerator successfully transforms from a temperature-controlled safe house for snacks and meals-for-one into a 24.9-cubit foot Petri dish. God knows what's festering on the surface of that chicken salad sandwich that’s been enclosed in a baggie since Labor Day.

If you're going to use the office refrigerator, use it like it's your own at home. And if you use your own at home the same disgusting way, then think about changing your fridge habits, or just scrapping the idea of owning a fridge altogether and relying on take-out nightly. No one wants to see or smell today what you brought in for lunch four months ago.