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.