Gift Wrapping

When you're a kid, "gifts" is a very single-minded, one-way word, as it refers only to things you receive. There is zero stress around this narrow concept of gifts, as it merely requires you to sit with your eager hands out awaiting something to unwrap. Matter of fact, during those early years, neither Christmases nor birthdays nor any other gift days bring about any forethought or level of burden outside of having to wait out the dreadfully lagging, comparatively tepid days weeks months leading up to those glorious days.

Age changes that. The specific age it changes seems to be different with everyone, but in us all is some particular age when the giving of the gift becomes the more satisfying side of the exchange. But with that satisfying, but fleeting, gift-giving moment tends to come days weeks months of monumental amounts of self-inflicted anxiety. We want the gift to be creative, we expect the gift to exude thought and care, we need the gift to be affordable -- and, let's face it, we prefer the gift to be something we like and in our size in case the recipient doesn't want it or already has it.

Also, there's the added task of gift wrapping.

As a heterosexual male, my skill in and tolerance of gift wrapping lacks much depth. ...Actually, it lacks existence altogether. While I can appreciate one's aptitude for turning any gift, good or bad, into a piece of art that should be guarded and cared for by a museum curator, I view gift wrapping as simply homework. I'm not good, nor do I have any remote desire to be good, at gift wrapping. It almost sours the thought of giving someone something knowing that, in order for me to do it right, I have to wrap it up, tape it up, and generally suck it up.

Women see gift wrapping in an entirely different light. To them, the presentation is almost as important as -- maybe even more so than -- the present itself. The wrapping paper must radiate elegance, and no gift should dare be bestowed without a ribbon -- nay, a curled ribbon -- and a bow. And not some pre-made bow with an adhesive underside but rather an authentic, hand-crafted, ostentatious bow -- a bow that has some body and sass to it. Think Aretha-Franklin's-hat-during-the-2009-presidential-inauguration kind of bow. A bow that is in your face and just won't apologize.

Me? I buy whatever wrapping paper is on sale that day. And my ribbon is Scotch tape. Lots of it. The wrapping is loose, the corners bubble, and the edging is crooked. But, see, I don't care. I just don't. Why? Because gift wrapping is garbage. It doesn't matter how pretty, pristine, and perfect the wrapping job appears, the recipient is just going to rip it apart in seconds and toss it in the trash next to old lemon rinds and coffee grinds. Unless he/she is one of those weird people who actually carefully open it in hopes of retaining and reusing the wrapping later (does it ever honestly get reused?).

In college, partially because I was a poor college kid but mainly because I simply couldn't care less, I used my graded-and-returned college tests and papers as wrapping paper. And you know what, it worked. It covered the gift and thus created suspense as to what the gift was just as well as anything coming out of Neiman Marcus's customer service counter. And if someone actually did keep those tests and papers for future wrapping, they also had a lot of answers to general biology and philosophy questions on hand (granted, the answers were mostly wrong).

I think we could all lessen the effort placed in wrapping up gifts and still enjoy giving and receiving the gifts all the same. Unless the gifts suck and, well, make sure you wrap up the receipt, too.

Handkerchiefs

Is there anything more inconvenient than a common cold? Half the time you have one, you don't even feel that badly -- you're just annoyed at its seemingly endless list of symptoms. For give or take a week, you (1) can't taste food, (2) sleep terribly, (3) have to actually think about breathing, (4) disturb everyone's peace wherever you go with disgusting throat and nasal sound effects, (5) battle a nose that seamlessly and inexplicably fluctuates between runny and stopped-up, (6) can't find a comfortable room temperature, (7) sound like Ben Stein, and, maybe worst of all, (8) kind of look like Ben Stein.

And so, for give or take a week, you have to carry around tissues as if you're on the fringe of an emotional breakdown around the clock. Or you can be a guy with a handkerchief.

Never a handkerchief-type of dude myself, on the surface the idea makes sense to carry that cloth backup in your pocket. And in the breast pocket of a blazer, it can be quite dapper (a word that doesn't get enough play if I do say so myself). But all the allure of a handkerchief is lost when you weigh its deliberate, functional purpose, which is to capture and store your discharged snot.

Yes, that square stitching of 100% cotton was woven with your mucus in mind, covering your sneezes and coughs and batting literal cleanup to your face's many obscene, uncongealed emissions. And, I agree, that is repulsive, which is why I don't keep a snot rag fabric in my pocket. No, no, I'm not blowing my nose and wrapping up the surprise in something that I'll stuff and conceal in my pants, only to reach for it and reuse it later. Once that textile touches my nose or mouth, into the trash it goes. I'm not keen to revisit that released respiratory residue.

With that in mind, handkerchiefs in my world would be used once and then permanently tossed. ASAP. They don't need to linger around, rubbing against and smearing across your clothes, even if only on the inside.

Obviously that approach is not ideal, nor might it be cost efficient. So, I say just stick to a tissue -- and only one use per tissue. We're potentially talking about a lot of tissue here, true, but under these circumstances, I propose wastefulness over distastefulness.

Ditch the handkerchiefs for any reason other than cranking up your dapper factor. Close calls in sports, beautiful women in skin-tight leggings, and your poker hand after the flop all deserve a second look; your phlegm and mucus, however, do not.

Phone Books

There was a time when I relied on the telephone book. It was a time when I also relied on Saturday morning cartoons, Fruit by the Foot, blanket forts, and my imagination. Beyond a few friends and the time & temperature line, I knew no phone numbers by heart and instead flipped the pages of the phone book in a kitchen drawer religiously.

And then the mid '90s came around, and Al Gore single-handedly built the internets in a garage using duct tape, dental floss, and pixie dust, per an article posted on Wikipedia that I wrote earlier today. Suddenly, dial-up service and its fax-machine-suffering-a-seizure sound effects took residence across the globe, as did online chat rooms, thousands of free AOL trial hours on individual discs, and a new breed of textual, sexual predators.

Oh, and every phone number within a few mouse clicks.

The phone book turned obsolete overnight.

So, why do I still once or twice a year come home to a stack -- a stack -- of various phone books outside my door? And how many phone books does a single home need? You have a city phone book, then you have a greater metro phone book, then you have some yellow pages only, then you have what appears to be an entire phone book devoted to an exorbitance of clean-cut, family-owned insurance companies juxtaposed with action hero-nicknamed attorneys. What am I supposed to do with all these phone books -- even if there was no world wide web? Yes, I'm only 5'9", but I don't think I need 14 booster seats around the apartment.

I'm not much for tree-hugging, but I also don't support the needless waste of a natural resource, primarily when maybe 3% of the recipients of that processed resource actually use it for its intended purpose (so, not as a spanking tool for children, a lopsided table corrector, or a massive paperweight for all those gusts of wind blowing through your kitchen).

Yes, I get it, senior citizens and/or those without internet connectivity will be more inclined to welcome these free, alphabetical indices of phone numbers, but does that truly warrant a delivery to everyone with a door? The ratio of phone book users vs. non-users has to be heavily skewed toward the latter. So, why not only deliver phone books to those who express interest? Perhaps instead of dropping off phone books, flyers with a lone phone number to call to get a free phone book can be left at doors ("Like phone numbers and paper? Call the phone number on this paper to receive a whole book of more phone numbers and more paper!").

Ironically, the only phone number of use but not listed in these delivered phone books is one that you can call to request the ceasing and desisting of their delivery.

Laundromats

As previously divulged, I'm not so good at running laundry; you might say it's not my strongest suit.

[Pausing for groans]

There is, of course, my uncanny ability to shrink the perceivably unshrinkable -- but it's more than that. I don't have the patience to run laundry like a normal person should, centralizing all focus on the minute details of how long articles of clothing should run in this and with that. And I feel enslaved indoors, locally repressed to sprinting distance of the washer and dryer for the two hours or so required for a full cycle. To me, it's simply annoying.

But it ain't like doing laundry in a laundromat. God, no. Now that's miserable.

Talk about enslavement, at laundromats you are bound and confined within three feet at most of your most precious, cotton-threaded commodities on spin cycle. Bring a book or a smartphone that's not a Droid Eris because it's about to get boring, folks.

While studying abroad in London for a semester in college, the hotel in which I slept, discovered Facebook, and gambled away entirely too much of a friend's monetary credits on an online poker site (sorry again, Tanner) had a laundry room, but a predetermined pink soap automatically fed into the machines without the launderer's objection. So, because I have hypersensitive skin (as if regular skin layered beneath my natural red hair wouldn't be faint and feeble enough), I have to use that "free and clear," a.k.a. raise-a-white-flag-to-eighty-five-percent-of-the-periodic-table-of-elements, formula with which to wash my clothes, which also meant I had to weekly travel by bus to a laundromat and pay higher costs while guarding my clothes like they were the crown jewels a river away. Needless to say, I had a tremendous amount of time on my hands to ogle Londoners, practice my British dialect by calling the most ordinary things "smashing" and "brilliant," and stare deeply into the tumbling clothes while wondering why I crossed an ocean to sit and guard laundry for several hours each week.

Similar feelings of valuelessness, discontent, and general banality followed me to my first apartment out of college, which had no washer or dryer connections -- an amenity you think I'd have nailed down by then as a must-have. So, I spent each Sunday afternoon in the communal laundromat. I didn't just memorize the number of ceiling tiles (86 1/4); I knew the ceiling's every imperfection and splotch of mold by heart. Those hours of the week sucked. Probably the worst way to come off my Jesus high from church that morning.

And so with these and other less-than-pleasant visits in pocket, I am convinced that you cannot have fun in a laundromat. It harbors a constant state of mental and emotional anguish. Seriously, have you seen the people waiting on their laundry in one of these places? They're frowning with facial muscles they didn't know they had. It's about as much fun as a dry county.

I guess it could be worse -- we could be scrubbing our clothes with a bar of soap against a washboard in the middle of a creek. Then again, that's probably free of detergent perfumes and dyes, isn't it? Hmm...

Hot Tubs

Although no holy scripture explicitly states it, every day should end with a toasty, bubbly seat in a hot tub. I think that's the way God designed us. How do I know? Because it feels too darn good for that to not be true.

Hot tubs are proof that we humans, to a certain extent, were created to periodically be pampered. We require an occasional wallow in a lethargic, carefree salute to the bodily senses. Hence the congenital need for hot tubs. (Doesn't "Jacuzzi" just sound like an onomatopoeia for the sound of a body relaxing?)

Unfortunately, I don't own a hot tub. Double-unfortunately, I don't have access to one either. So, in order for me to submerge myself in the warm effervescence of a hot tub, I either have to befriend the right people and invite myself over or be on vacation at a destination with such a convenient amenity.

Now, the friends' hot tubs I trust. I have virtually zero problem with the friends' hot tubs -- so long as they are good, clean people and understand the delicate nuances of properly treating and caring for a hot tub.

It's the vacation destinations' hot tubs that make me cringe.

Why? They're public. Any Joe Shmoe can jump in there, suitably swimsuited or Adam-and-Eved, and blend his carnal chemicals with the foamy hot tub's, forming a more imperfect union of dirt, grime, and dare I say fecal matter floating and merging and boiling together into an unknown, vile layer of film atop the water that resembles Mickey Rourke's complexion.

If that was disgusting to read, then I've painted a very accurate portrayal of the thoughts behind my sour facial contortions upon approaching one of these public hot tubs. Hey, I don't know the history of that hot tub. I don't know the rigor with which the staff custodian cleans the impurities of that hot, germ-friendly water. Maybe it's because I've gone to beaches, hotels, and resorts with less-than-constrained friends too many times, but my immediate thoughts when nearing a public hot tub, like when I first enter my hotel room, scream, "What just happened here? What is the story of this tub? What do I not know about and don't want to know about but am nevertheless wondering about? What were its previous occupants wearing? Anything? Were they just talking? Were they a romantic couple? Or just a couple of friends? Or a couple of friends who were getting romantic -- with complete strangers??"

This is what races through my head when the hot tub is vacant. It takes all of three seconds. And if the hot tub actually has people -- total strangers -- in it, whoa... forget about it, buddy.

That's about the time I turn around and dive in the swimming pool instead. Only to emerge for air with a floating clump of leaves and tangled strands of a stranger's long, detached hair on my face.

Limousines

I like going out and I like having fun. If you were to ask me my top three favorite things to do, going out and having fun would probably take two of those positions, with the third likely being a "going out AND having fun" hybrid of the two. And if the going-out-AND-having-fun situation is for a special occasion, a great way to do it is via transportation with someone else behind the wheel.

Now, by default most people would think, "Oh, a limo is the way to go then." Okay, why? Isn't a taxi cheaper? Yes. And if you want to incorporate a party environment into the transportation, isn't a party bus more conducive to partying? Yes.

So, where does the limo fit?

Aren't limousines just pretentious taxis? Sure they are. Because when you're in a limo, it's like, hey, I need a ride somewhere -- as well as the attention of total strangers driving or walking by. There's absolutely no other reason to take a ride in a limousine. It's stretched-out, tinted showmanship -- typically, and ironically, for people who can barely afford it for three hours.

The only remotely justifiable situations for riding in a limo are if you're arriving to (A) an awards show as a star, (B) a movie premiere as a star, or (C) prom as a misinformed teen who is about to find out that limos don't actually make people feel that much like a star. And I say "justifiable" quite liberally as even these come across to some extent as inane reasons.

I think limos give people that temporary sense of wealth, class, and regality that they've heard about on "Access Hollywood" or seen in a paparazzi photo of your given underwear-less celebrity, as if the presence of a limo conveys affluence beyond the need to drive oneself around. But when a limousine drives you, your date, and your pimply friends to a lamely themed school dance, just who are you fooling? You're wearing a wilting corsage over a rented tuxedo that includes a clip-on bowtie. Everyone knows you don't own that limo and that driver isn't your 24/7 chauffeur. It's a one-time ride somewhere for which you paid far too much and likely reaped zero benefits.

Every occasion in which I know I'm getting into a limousine is preceded with a feeling of mild but unsure excitement, only to find myself thinking once in the limo, "Well... this is overrated. Whoopty crap." This rush of disappointment usually overcomes me around the time I look over at the perpendicular backseats where popped champagne and scantily clad blondes should be flowing and flirting respectively but instead are replaced by empty cocktail glasses on display and overdressed male buddies awkwardly looking at one another, inaudibly wondering, "So, what do we do now?"

Even worse is when the limousine falls under a whole other dimension of impracticality, like the stretch Hummers. I mean, unless you're going on a classy excursion through wild, rugged terrain or to an Ed Hardy outlet store, let's just drive these right into the scrap yard and throw the keys and fuzzy dice into a lake somewhere.

No, I'll just catch a cab driven by a guy whose name has seven consecutive consonants and spend the majority of my money at the destination rather than on the transportation to it.

Grandparents

What makes you proud right now? What is it in your life in this very moment that burgeons forth a rush of pride, a feeling of personal satisfaction?

Here, I'll take a stab: It's your job, right? You dig your job, you feel like you got a great career on your hands. Or, no, it's something tangible -- your car, or your closet of clothes, or your vast collection of whatever oddball artifact that's keeping you perpetually single. ...Wait, I've got it, there's some talent or physical trait that you love about yourself, like your face. It's your face. Nailed it, didn't I? Knew it. (Look, I don't mean to disappoint, but that face of yours... it's only, eh, okay.)

Now tack 30-50 years on to that, throw in some grandchildren -- heck, sprinkle in a dash of great-grandchildren if you so desire -- and forget whatever the source of pride that came to mind a few moments ago because it doesn't matter anymore. Boom, you're now a grandparent.

Unfortunately my grandfathers nearly entirely survive in my mind through series of storytelling and not from a wealth of firsthand experiences. One died before my worldly arrival and the other died when I was of a young age where I could only focus on his dentures. But from what I understand, these guys were two workhorses full of virtue, savvy, respect, and raw, unadulterated manliness (I'm actually not sure if that last one applies, but it sounds good, doesn't it?).

Therefore, "grandparents" for me has almost exclusively referred to grandmothers, as they were seemingly always around, spoiling me at Christmas; keeping their candy dishes full; stuffing cash in my pockets; profiting Hallmark by sending cards on nearly every holiday, save for maybe Canada Boxing Day; letting tons of mysterious refrigerated beverages and condiments expire; and granting me all the wishes to which my parents otherwise objected.

And then there was the cooking. Man, oh man... What age is it when a woman's cooking goes from pretty good to everything she touches in the kitchen turns to succulent, salty gold? Meats, rolls, side dishes, desserts -- you name it, grandmothers universally can whip it up beyond your taste buds' wildest dreams. Maybe it comes with cooking for children and then their children and then their children's children. I don't know, and quite frankly I don't care. The fact remains that grandmothers always unfailingly churn out the tasty delights in the kitchen. You see someone's grandmother standing over a stove and you just know good things are happening. Mine were no different.

Above all, though, my grandmothers laid it all out when it came to showing loads of love and imparting equal loads of wisdom.

This was all until the passing of both within a two-and-a-half-year span. Sure, it's not ideal, but, man, they lived astoundingly full lives at 90+ years each. You can't be mad at that. If I make it to 50, I'll wonder how; as stated in a previous "take," it's just too darn easy to die.

But what grandparents leave behind is the legacy they created in the branches stemming out of the family tree. And, as I've recently learned to appreciate, these branches are the source of their pride. All that other crap from 30-50 years ago faded away, and now it's all about the direct and indirect offspring. It's gotta be a good life to sit on a patio, soak in the rays of retirement, and watch your family carry out everything you instilled.

Maybe that's not exactly how it plays out in your tree, and if not, I hate that for you. But I'm blessed that the collective trunk of my tree was strong, was sturdy, was very giving, and, as a result, bore happily intertwining branches and some really beautiful fruit.

Cheers to grandparents.

Restrooms

People who know me know I don't typically subject myself to filth on any level. I keep a relatively clean home, a relatively clean car, and a relatively clean demeanor. Which is why I hate visiting most restrooms.

Whatever happened to restrooms being a room of rest? Shouldn't each visit to a restroom be relaxing, stress-free, and comfortable? If I'm in a state of rest, I have to be positioned in a means where all three of those descriptors depict my current condition. The presence of filth tends to serve as a rest blockade.

My second crap job out of college was working in a lumber yard, and since I didn't know jack squat about lumber other than it floats and burns (c'mon, people, I was out of college with an English degree and just needed a job), I opted to daily clean the two poor excuses for restrooms in the warehouse that otherwise probably wouldn't have ever seen a bottle of Comet in its life span. Now, I didn't daily clean the restrooms because I have some sort of restroom-cleaning fetish; rather, I couldn't stand knowing that there was bound to be a day where I, while on the clock, would need a true closed-door restroom session while also knowing there would be a very strong likelihood that both restrooms would be coated with grime, mold, urine, and tobacco spit, unless someone intervened beforehand. So, there stood I everyday with a sponge, a brush, and a bottle of chemicals. It also served as a convenient escape from having to answer inquiries about what size of galvanized nails someone should buy.

And while we're on the topic of restroom aesthetics and the general environment therein, why do restrooms have to be so darn loud? The echoic reverb bouncing off those porcelain commodes and ceramic tiles is unsettling. Shouldn't restrooms be engineered to yield the least amount of noise of any other room? But, no, rather than suppress the usual sound waves commencing from stalls, the room amplifies them for the adjacent world to hear. That's comforting. And by "comforting" I mean quite contrary to its "restroom" name.

I love how Britons cut to the chase and call it a toilet. "I need to go to the toilet." There's no beating around the bush there. To us Americans that somehow comes off as a bit crass and unrefined, as if we know what's in there but would daintily prefer to call it something prettier and much more polite. But Britons understand that acknowledging the room encasing the commode isn't what's important. There's one goal of everyone going into the restroom and it's finding that toilet, so why call it anything else? It is what it is. Thankfully they stop just short of calling it by its bodily purpose.

You know, the pooproom.

B-sides, vol. 7

For your leisurely pleasure, some "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:

• If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, where are hermaphrodites from?


• I feel sorry for bagels. They so badly want to be a doughnut but end up falling immensely short. They're round, they have a hole, and they even don that fresh tan, all exactly like their enviable breakfast counterpart, the doughnut. But they know good and well that if they're sitting on a table within an arm's reach of a doughnut, they're going to be ignored, shunned, and counted as a shamefully inadequate plan B -- or a plan C if an apple fritter is in the vicinity.


• Anyone who has ever sent an e-mail has sent one with a typo or bad information or the wrong attachment. It's bound to happen. But the worst next course of action you can take is to try recalling that e-mail because, buddy, I'm all over it now. There's a good chance I wouldn't have noticed whatever typographical error or nonsensical ClipArt image you mistakenly included, but with your self-admittance of fault and simple plea to cover it up, you've just sparked my full curiosity in your initial, doomed e-mail. Requesting a message recall is like having a pimple on prom night that may drive you crazy but is likely unnoticeable to most people and yet insisting on wearing a gigantic sandwich board sign that reads, "I HAVE A ZIT ON MY NOSE BUT PLEASE DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO IT." I've actually deleted an e-mail without reading it, received a request to recall, and sifted through my Deleted Items e-mail folder to peruse the credibility-damaging evidence. If it's a small error, let it ride -- most people probably aren't reading it anyway. If it's a major error, follow it up with a self-deprecating joke about how stupid you are and, hey, here's what you meant to send. But don't request to take it back, because, hahaha... no.


• Is it just me or do you find yourself thinking every time you see a person with a turtleneck that there's probably a hickey hidden under there?


• A word we for far too long have taken for granted is landlord. Isn't "landlord" a bit of a pompous title? I mean, lord of the land, really? What are they, a bunch of hobbits on an adventure? Most of the landlords I've had are barely lord of their own grooming, much less a piece of property. So, what, simply owning something and allowing someone else to use it for a period of time grants you lordship? In that case, any future visitors to my apartment can refer to me as "couchlord." And, no, that's not an option.


• Do airlines consider fanny packs as carry-on items? If so, that's ridiculous -- how many valuable things can a person actually stow away in a fanny pack? But if not, I intend on finding out the answer to that last question. Looks like I might be shopping for a leather-bound executive edition.

Baggage Checking

Every single one of the few times I check baggage at the airport, I quickly remember why I seldom check baggage at the airport. It's a nerve-racking part of air travel to hand over your precious cargo to some uniformed stranger, who in turn passes it down a conveyor belt to some merely half-uniformed, unseen strangers, who stuff it into a given (hopefully your) plane so that more merely half-uniformed, unseen strangers in a different geographical location can unload the luggage and send it on another conveyor belt that, God willing, leads to the slow-rotating, lifeless carousel called baggage claim.

You're really putting a lot of faith in voluntarily surrendering -- and after paying, no less! -- your packed possessions and travel essentials over to the hands of total strangers in hopes they'll actually give them back to you -- and in the correct city. I typically struggle with putting a fraction of that level of faith in just handing my camera to an unknown passerby to take my picture -- much less a week's worth of necessities and a dresser drawer's worth of clothes. So, in that luggage transaction with the check-in attendant, I always give it away with the inkling that I just saw my bag and belongings for the last time. It's a scary moment realizing right then that you may currently be wearing your only underwear for the entire trip.

Of course the real scare is awaiting in baggage claim for any sign of your luggage rearing its loose straps, half-zipped pockets, and monotone shell from the baggage chute -- and seeing nothing but a sea of indistinct, homogeneous, black and navy luggage landing on top of each other and purposelessly circumvolving a rounded square, at which point you promise yourself a seventeenth time that you're going to finally replace that black bag with something a little more distinguishable.

Ah, baggage claim... Is there a sadder, more depressive place on Earth? I've been in libraries louder and funerals peppier than the air of utter disenchantment you invariably find in baggage claim. Everyone stands restlessly, having just come off a flight, encircling and waiting with arms folded, faces blank, and overall demeanor sullen, as if they're all mentally drafting their suicide notes. There are no opportunities to cheer, no wonderful surprises -- either you get exactly what you expect from a service whose sole purpose is to deliver your luggage, or you leave disappointed and bagless. Baggage claim is the lamest game of roulette you'll ever play.

And should your luggage actually arrive, you can guarantee there will always be a new defect added to its costly exterior thanks to the slapdash handling of the baggage. A black blotch of blatant blunder. A small, smeared smidgen of smudge. Or a rip torn -- you know, a gash of some sort, not the actor.

If I never checked baggage again, I'd be a happy man. But it's just so darn hard to fit 20 folded pairs of Zubaz pants in the overhead compartment.

Personal Space

Okay, man, just back up. Back up!

How many times do you think that in the line at the grocery store or the coffee shop or the post office or the concert venue or church for communion or the Girl Scout cookie table outside Walmart, or in the doctor's office waiting room, or in the doctor's office patient room with your pants around your ankles? There is something inside us -- some sort of hypersensitive internal security system -- that goes absolutely haywire when we feel someone's presence creep in and consume that one extra inch of personal space we mentally apportioned to our physical person. And if you're like me, there's no rebounding or refocusing that can occur until that inch has been reclaimed and reestablished.

Everyone has a different "bubble" size -- some several inches off their epidermis, some several feet -- but 99% of us can agree that there's a delicate orb of airy cushion encapsulating our mortal being that should stay observed and respected by all strangers, if not all people. And, man, that 1% of humanity who somehow doesn't get it drives us up a wall of frenzy.

Ever been herded into that metal-barred labyrinth of a winding queue that at some unforeseen point in the distance leads to an amusement park ride, only to constantly feel the random guy who's preoccupied with his phone behind you standing within a couple inches of your soul with each step forward? Or, worse, waiting in that same line and getting bumped into by the two enraptured teenage coeds who split from their youth group trip so that they can suck face conveniently directly in front of you at every two-foot advancement through the line? It's all a bit much. The pressure applied to your comfort zone is enormous, even overbearing. At that point, I just want to reach the line's end, not for the ride but for the psychological rest.

But that personal space-infringing experience pales in comparison to that of the dentist office, where your personal space suffers a most vicious beating. There are few non-child-birthing events where your personal space issues are confronted headlong like laying back in a chair with your mouth helplessly agape as eyes, fingers, and tools peer into it and explore the oral crevices you didn't know existed. It also doesn't help when the hygienist lording over your pried mouth is a large, unattractive woman who decides to rest her behemoth mammaries on your cheek and shoulder -- a comically predictable, utterly unerotic nuance that seems to happen to me with every visit to every dentist office I've had the displeasure of visiting. Yep, that epitomizes personal space violation.

Unluckily, the only thing worse than a personal space violation is confronting the personal space violator, as nothing good ever comes from that. There simply isn't an easy way to ask a stranger, "Do you mind stepping back a bit? You're in my bubble," without sounding sort of arrogant and overly dramatic.

...Eh, screw it -- back up and give me room. Please. No, really! I can't breathe! I can't think! Aaahhhhhh!

Oh, hey, great. Cheers.

Public Transportation

If you are in, or have ever been in, a big city and have used public transportation, I'm willing to bet you've had that head-slapping epiphanous moment where you're sitting or standing within that confined space of selected mode of transit asking yourself, "What am I doing here? Why did I buy that ticket? Taking this bus/train/subway sounded like a good idea at the time..." And then cue the self-loathing. It's inevitable.

No one can blame you for such a reaction -- or your urge to buy the ticket in the first place. The convenience of public transportation always supersedes the discomfort, lack of safety, awkwardness, and predictable freak show bound and waiting within that windowed cage in motion.

That is, until you're also within it.

When you're waiting to get on public transportation, your prioritized focus is getting to work or buying groceries or finding the right airport stop. But once you're actually on public transportation, that focus is immediately shifted to the same as every fellow rider's: don't die. Simply staying alive and not getting stabbed are essentially the primary objectives of everyone on public transportation, especially in large cities. All other concerns instantly diminish into laughable obscurity.

Using public transportation is all about obeying unwritten rules while ironically never chastising anyone for disobeying them. For example, you're totally free to look at and observe anything you want, as long as you refrain from making eye contact with any strangers -- especially the one uneasily rocking back and forth and mumbling to no one in particular. But if you happen to glance over to find someone staring at you, reciprocating the gesture is not recommended, much less making a remark or asking the person to stop. Unless of course you enjoy verbal/switchblade altercations.

I guess an unadvertised benefit of taking public transportation is its entertainment at no additional cost. Virtually all forms of public transportation, primarily rail, provide a talent show stage for the untalented. An un-talent show, if you will. You have people playing (well, haphazardly blowing) the harmonica; singers singing aloud either unintentionally due to their headphone volume or intentionally and simply without care; drunk monologue deliverers; amateur photographers attempting to snap "artistic" upskirt or cleavage shots of strangers with their iPhone; daring displays of coital exhibitionism; and, oh, many, many more. Really whatever your heart desires -- and your five senses don't.

Fortunately for you, there are seats to relax in. Unfortunately for you, those seats haven't been cleaned since their installation. To make matters worse, a large percentage of seats found on buses and trains are upholstered, which undoubtedly sounded perfectly sensible in their inception. What their creators failed to account for, however, were the generations between their cleanings. Look at that Cosby-sweater upholstery and tell me how much antibacterial confidence a person can place in its ability to repel quintillions of germs and filth from a nonstop influx of random bottoms and crotches.

That's right, bottoms and crotches. And I can't think of any better way to close a look at public transportation than that.

Bottoms. And crotches.

Hairpieces

Do you have cancer? Are you undergoing chemotherapy? ...Oh, seriously? Okay, wear that hairpiece unapologetically. The wig is yours, you deserve it. Matter of fact, it looks great on you! Also, immediately consider yourself prayed for.

Now, all the rest of you, though... What are you doing? Take that carpet remnant off, man. Who are you fooling? Sorry, what human are you fooling? Your dog that's barking at its own reflection in the window doesn't count. Just because you're getting a little thin up top doesn't mean you've earned the right to don an oversized, furry yarmulke.

I cannot believe we are still sporting and tolerating hairpieces. Toupees, wigs, weaves, extensions... anything foreign to the cranium and supposedly resembling hair. It's one thing -- I guess -- to wear it like fashion, but to try to pass it as an authentic, God-crafted trove of protruding filaments is lunacy. And, quite frankly, awkward. For everyone. And I mean everyone, because we're all looking at it -- nothing but it -- trying to make sense of it. That thing. That amassed coiffure of what appear to be dyed fiber optics.

Look, its pattern isn't even following the same direction of your real hair. And the color's not the same. Nor is the way light shines off your hair and your "hair." Also, I think it just moved by its own will.

When you're wearing a hairpiece, aren't you constantly living in fear of the next aggressive breeze? Or any sudden, jerky movement? Or a low overhead clearance? Or being given an unexpected noogie? I mean, how can you even concentrate on anything but the abrupt, uncontrollable disclosure of your faux fur? I just don't see how that in any shape or form trumps whatever discomfort a person may feel due to hair loss. I say own that hair loss! Trust me, your pride would much prefer you be a little shiny up top than living under a hair hat.

And hair weaves... Whatever cultural significance or heritage aside, what in God's ever-loving name are these things? And why? Also, why? And perhaps most importantly, why? I need an explanation, ladies -- preferably one that makes sense. I need to understand why a woman would cover up perfectly fine, natural hair with someone else's scalped, natural hair -- or, far worse, glimmery synthetics. Again, sure, you can claim fashion as the justification, but I honestly have never heard one male utter anything along the lines of, "Whew, that girl's weave is smokin'!" But, hey, call it fashionable if you'd like. That's the only justification I can think of for parading cropped, chin-length blonde hair one day and a black mane down to the chest the next.

Here's another idea: how about we start being natural? Even if that means naturally less attractive than others or our former self, yet still more attractive than our unnaturally, outlandishly hairpieced alter ego.

Lottery Tickets

We humans, for all of our achievements, ain't real bright. We downward traverse slick, snowy mountainsides on two even slicker blades or a wheel-less skateboard at high speeds -- and no brakes -- for essentially no reason. We ingeniously hide our keys and wallets in our shoes on the beach -- undoubtedly the first place a beach-wandering thief would look -- while a football field away we splash around in the ocean, home to jellyfish and sharks. We stand out on our porches or by glass windows during a tornado so that we can capture footage of consummate devastation on our ironically named smartphones. Oh, and we buy fireworks. Basically we do the mental math to determine percentage-wise how bad of a decision a singular action is -- and then we put a helmet on and say, "Screw it."

But how dumb are we really? Well, we play the lottery. Picked numbers, scratch-offs, pull tabs... it doesn't matter. We just like to test the odds. Those immoderate, insurmountable odds. Yes, even I, your finger-wagging blogger, occasionally dabble in the capricious frivolity that is scratch-offs. Maybe, maybe even a pull tab. There's just something about scratching away or pulling open to reveal a formerly concealed picture or message (even if, say, "You suck, try again") that human beings inherently dig. It's why we have advent calendars.

I think what gets lost among all the lottery noise, especially among Powerball, is that you're playing the pre-authenticated odds of the game itself, not the odds of the other players. For example, you are just as virtually hopeless to win the Powerball if you were the only player on Earth as you are with a million other players who have purchased a billion other tickets. The odds don't change based on participant pool -- more people playing may mean you get fewer weeks before someone wins, but those numbers you selected based on your birthday, horoscope, and body measurements hold the same .00000000007 chance of sending you to an early retirement if no one else played. Sorry, kid.

The people who wait until the lottery jackpot is nine figures before deciding to play particularly intrigue me. We've all heard this retarded retort before from that buddy who suddenly decided to buy a Powerball ticket for the first time: "I never play, but, you know, the jackpot is $180 million now." Doesn't the Powerball jackpot reset to $20 million after each big win? As in, $20 million is the absolute bare minimum amount a Powerball jackpot winner can be awarded? Yeah, pretty sure that's true. Guess I wasn't aware $20 million was such a feeble flaming bag of poo for a one-dollar gamble. But, see, $20 million isn't enough for these people to play; such an ineffectual, lackluster prize purse is only good enough for, like, six lives of worriless comfort. No, what these folks so reasonably require is at least 40 lives' worth. Count these people out until they know those hard-earned stakes can buy them more Bugattis than merely one for every day of the week. I mean, what kind of ROI is $20 million on a buck anyway? Inconsequentially anticlimactic, obviously.

Regardless of the exact enormity of millions rendered, we all know how it ends for the winners. And for several reasons it's usually not good. The story is mostly the same: family, friends, exes, enemies, and strangers all come out of the woodwork abruptly needing cash; Nicholas Cage-like spending habits quickly develop; and all privacy, and thus trust, is lost, only to be replaced by loneliness and an attic of Sharper Image crap. Years later in where-are-they-now interviews, the winners disclose that winning the lottery was quite possibly the worst thing that ever happened to them. And then we the general public, a.k.a. the lottery losers, empathize and wish them well. ...Wait, no, scratch that -- we loathe them. We curse their indiscretion and swear that we'd be better, smarter winners. We'd pay off debts, we'd help others out, we'd invest in the future. Because we're responsible. We're smarter.

So responsible and smart, in fact, that we go back out the next day and purchase more lottery tickets.

Beer Commercials

If I were to throw out the phrase "entertaining commercials," most likely the list of commercials that would not come to mind include anything about life insurance, Wilford Brimley and his "diabeetus," and 5-Hour Energy (seriously, there are webcam videos of lonely people lip-synching to teen-pop songs in their bedroom on YouTube that are of higher quality than the crap the marketing team at 5-Hour Energy pushes onto the airwaves). What might come to mind are beer commercials. Typically they're funny, they're catchy, they inject sex appeal, and they don't make you sprint for the "mute" button.

That said, beer commercials have the credibility of a toddler who has chocolate smeared all over his face but swears he has no idea what happened to that last fudgesicle. Regardless of the brand of beer, these 30-second spots relentlessly flaunt one heckuva nonstop ice-cold, thirst-quenching, perfect-weathered, sweat-free, big-bosomed, velvet-rope-bypassing, rowdy-yet-controlled, happy-go-lucky night among responsible friends and a universal designated driver who would just loooove to have another glass of water while he watches his friends move in closer on the gleefully welcoming posse of ladies.

Speaking of absence of credibility, what's the deal with the ubiquitous hot chick sitting by herself at the bar in these ads? What bar is that, and how did that girl end up happily sitting alone? What ridiculously gorgeous girl squeezes herself into vacuum-sealed skinny jeans and a frilly halter top and spends an hour on the perfect hair curl so that she can grab a cab to the local watering hole to sit solo at the bar and talk to the equally ridiculously gorgeous female bartender? I like how this girl in the commercial always acts initially stunned when a guy talks to her or bumps into her as if, "Oh my, there are guys here, too? And someone actually wants to introduce himself to me?" Put that same girl in that same situation in a real bar, and I'll give her 60 seconds before a wolf pack of guys pounces her with lame come-ons and drink offers. (I would say just four seconds, but the other 56 rightfully allow for the surrounding guys to process the confusion before them and wait to see if her missing boyfriend or band of 17 girlfriends returns from a bathroom trip.)

The advertisers have also conveniently omitted a few things. For example, where are the drunk people? Well, they're not there yet. Ever noticed how everyone in the commercial is on their first beer? You can tell by the wit and levelheadedness of each character. Everyone is wearing that sober, symmetrical grin that can't possibly avoid askewness after a downed six-pack. All clothes are still fully buttoned, and no one is texting an ex in a dimly lit corner of the room. There's no annoying loud-talker or a girl screaming, "Ooh, that's my song!" as the voice of Gwen Stefani poops out of the speakers. No threats of fighting, bottle-breaking, or vomiting.

Just once I want to see a beer commercial where someone's utterly hammered out of his mind. The commercial starts with a dude crushing a beer can against his forehead in anger as he calls his date "a worthless slut" in the kitchen, while the camera pans over to the living room where a shirtless fat guy pounds a beer in between air guitar solos to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" and Greek-lettered girls hold hands as they slur their way though sorority chants. Suddenly the Bud Light logo appears, followed by the slogan "Here We Go" -- just before a final cut to an old neighbor walking across the lawn with a bat, screaming obscenities.

Yeah, that's a beer I'd buy. For its honesty, if nothing else.

Waffle House

When you're a kid who just wants cake-batter waffles and an entire plate of bacon, Waffle House is a dream. Its quirks and filth are to an extent charming. Kind of like how your own quirks and filth as a kid are to an extent charming. But as you grow out of your quirky, filthy childhood lifestyle, the charm of it all quickly wanes. As does the charm of Waffle House.

What I've realized since childhood is everything about the Waffle House experience is demoralizing. No one there working or eating is happy. The atmosphere is as exciting as a Phil Collins album cover. Seriously, there is not one remotely happy person in a Waffle House right now. If anyone is smiling, it's probably because they're drunk. Then again, if they're in Waffle House, it's probably because they're drunk. Even if you enjoy Waffle House food, you're likely marginally miserable while sitting in that booth.

It doesn't help that Waffle House hasn't updated its decor since its inception. This is purposeful, of course, since it's supposed to exude a certain throwback affinity, like several diners do. Except most of those diners aim for a '50s sock-hop/poodle-skirt/neon-lights era. Waffle House is trapped in some '50s/'70s nonsensical limbo, where paper diner hats, indistinct lamp fixtures, and a compilation of unnatural yellow and beige hues conjoin to create this culmination of grotesque interior design. And the plateware in each location is obviously the original set used since that location's grand opening as every plate shows scars from hundreds of thousands of late-night intoxicated attempts to knife through waffles and chunked 'n' smothered hash browns.

I would guess that Waffle House prides itself in its open-air kitchen that allows the customers to watch the preparation of their food and leaves nothing to hide. But is it just me, or is Waffle House the last restaurant to whose kitchen practices you'd want full exposure? The disheveled cook gloveless-ly handling dinner orders while bellyaching to his coworkers about his need for a smoke break hardly enhances my assurance of a quality, sanitary meal. I'd quite honestly rather have no idea how the food is prepared and instead be perfectly fine with not knowing the culinary secrets to that greasy platter of trans fats.

The lone prerequisite for its cooks and servers at Waffle House, I'm most certain, is not experience in cooking or serving but simply ownership of at least one tattoo. And the tattoo has to be on a body part visible to the customer -- the forearm, the bicep, the neck -- somewhere that inked tribute to Mom is in plain view to the untrained patron eye. Waffle House is the place where tattoos go to retire. I've seen more Mighty Mouse tattoos in Waffle House than episodes of Mighty Mouse. There's also something greatly chilling and unsettling about seeing the cook flipping your omelet with tattooed weaponry. At what point in that guy's life did he think embedding a sketch of a scorpion wrapped around a dagger into his forearm was not only a good immediate decision but a decision that most assuredly would not affect any future employment?

And let's not forget the Waffle House jukebox, which showcases a music selection worse than that of a high school talent show. I mean, how many songs with "Waffle House" in the title does a jukebox need?

Funnily enough, all of this seems to work because Waffle Houses are never not crowded. The parking lots are always full, whether it's 3:00 PM or 3:00 AM, so what do I know? Well, one thing: I know I like my waffles with butter and syrup -- hold the quirks and filth.

Gas Stations

Gas stations have to be a germaphobe's second worst nightmare (shaking Courtney Love's hand of course being first). Between the oil-splattered blacktop, the dried-grease-coated rotating hot dog grill, and those bacteria petting zoos commonly referred to as gas pump handles, every square inch of a gas station's property is a festering Petri dish of undiscovered diseases. Have you ever seen someone cleaning a gas station restroom? Me neither. Someone pushing an already dirty, wet mop around the floor doesn't count. That janitorial tool is likely adding to the tile floor's stockpile of purulent infections that end in "-itis."

Let's be honest, wearing anything shy of a hazmat suit at a gas station is an outright gamble with a communicable rash.

And then there are the puddles. The murky, rainbow-colored, seemingly omnipresent puddles. They're by the gas pumps, in the parking lots, along the sidewalks, in the mulch below the pointless boxwood shrubs... creating this obstacle course of small, flowing streams and stagnant pools that await your white running shoes' misstep should you venture inside to claim that 5-liter Big Gulp fountain drink for 79 cents. The individual components of these puddled amalgams are inconsistent and unknown. Is that water down there? Is it oil? Maybe antifreeze? Or spilled coffee? Urine? Vomit? Toxic waste? Afterbirth? All I know is my personal primary objective of each gas station visit, besides aiming for the "perfect pump" on a round dollar figure, is to avoid all surrounding droplets or collections of liquid on the ground, no matter the cost or awkward stance while pumping gas. And, believe me, I've pumped gas in some awkward, shameless stances. One foot flat while the other is on toes; two feet propped on the pump's side with my back leaning against the car; both feet tiptoeing while straddling the hose like no straight man should comfortably position himself. But I drive away in puddle-free shoes, man -- no dirt, no spots, no chlamydia.

Another thing about gas stations that irritates me is that stupid little "9" on the gas station signs. You see that? That forgotten "9" standing behind the price per gallon at a fraction of the height of its numerical counterparts? Yeah, gas stations are still doing that -- tacking on .9 cents to each gallon of gas. And we've let them continue that crap, just surrendering and accepting it without question. That may have made more sense when the gas cost a quarter (though still bastardly), but now it's just inordinately egregious. Look, oil companies, you're already hosing me with each fill-up -- how about letting me keep my 9/10 of a penny per gallon of fuel, huh?

Readers: call your congressmen and tell them you want that miniscule "9" dropped from the prices! ...No? They won't do that? Well, what about enforcing clean toilets?

Clubs

Let's open up with some brutal honesty: I'm a worthless dancer, which is actually a bit odd considering I can beatbox (no, seriously) and several years ago won a freestyle battle competition at a Busta Rhymes concert (no, seriously); yet somehow the rhythm just doesn't transfer from my head and mouth to my hips and lifeless limbs. There are worse dancers out there, but I absolutely do my share in reinforcing that white-male stereotype. Suffice it to say, I dance like Helen Keller jump-roped. So I typically do everyone and my ego a favor and stay off the dance floor. But like NCAA rulings suggest, there are exceptions to every self-mandated rule. If the situation, music, and cleavage are right, sure, ol' Claude might cut a rug or two.

But rare exceptions aside, I stay away from clubs. It's not my scene and I'm mostly uncomfortable there. My inability to dance well is a large contributor to that, but it doesn't help that I'm not tall enough to be noticed, I don't own any skin-tight T-shirts slathered with dragons and tigers and indecipherable cursive, and my body is free of barbed wire tattoos around my biceps. Call me old-fashioned, but I far prefer to sit down with someone and, you know, talk.

If you haven't been to a club in years, even decades, nothing has changed. While modernity is always at the forefront of all visual and aural aspects of and within clubs, the fundamentals remain the same. It's still a meat market with nearly everyone in competition with their counterparts. There are still lights and effects, vibrant-colored drinks, and fire marshal-disapproved crowd capacities. The guys are still overplaying their hand, the girls are still flaunting fashion that's hot now but mockable in 10 years, and the DJs are still hand-picking the bottom of the barrel of Billboard's Top 100 and then remixing the crap out of it until its level of stupidity matches that of the increasingly intoxicated club-goers who have been busy equally dumbing themselves down by way of sugary mixed drinks and shots christened after various sexual positions.

The sociology you can study in clubs supersedes what any college course offers. As more of the sit-back-and-watch-the-night-unfold type myself, I take great, great pleasure in observing the predictable uniformity in roles all men and all women automatically assume upon receiving the literal stamp of approval from the bouncer. Without hesitation, we men go on the prowl with tongues hanging, eager to nudge any other male bystanders so as to point out any remotely sensual sights and build instant camaraderie with each other around our shared appreciation for the female body and those who parade it well. This is when we men are at our lowest and most vulnerable point; it's embarrassing. And women know this, which is why they, also without hesitation, taunt and tease anyone breathing and dance with each other in impenetrable, hip-locked groups, acting like attention is the last thing they want -- until 17 guys give it to them, and then it's all smiles, poses, and whatever it takes to get more attention and hopefully a night of endless free drinks.

Ah, clubs... if they weren't so pathetic and clichéd, they'd be funny. ...Actually, no, they're still pretty funny anyway.