Stop Crying.

I know this seems to be a lot to ask of people these days, but seriously, everyone, can we all get a grip on ourselves?

I'm talking about this new-found link we all seem to have with out emotional sides. Look, I know crying is cathartic and it's healthy and it's nothing to be ashamed of. I know that, at times, emotions can get the best of all of us. But please note that I said "AT TIMES." This phrase is synonymous with "RARELY." As in, "NOT VERY OFTEN."

"NEVER" might even be acceptable.

I started noticing this little trend at church. We Mormons have a little treat every month called "Fast and Testimony Meeting." Everyone fasts for the day, and then at church, it's Open Mic time, and anyone who wants to can stand up and share their testimony of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Of course, nobody really does that. When I was a kid, what people used to do was stand up and tell what they did that week, or where they went, or share cute anecdotes about their kids or parents or family vacations. Then they'd wrap things up with a rattled off "Oh-and-I-know-the-church-is-true-in-the-name-of-Jesus-Christ-amen." Ok, not exactly what the meeting was intended to be, but hey, it entertains us for an hour or so, and certainly doesn't hurt anybody.

Then it started happening. Every so often, a Weepy Sister would approach the podium. Usually someone who had a bad week or a near-death experience. They'd actually, honestly express their true faith in Jesus, and in the midst of it all, they'd break down and cry.

This wasn't a problem. It was actually quite touching, in fact, to see this rare and genuine show of emotion in public.

But then people started seeing the attention lavished upon the Weepy Sister after the meeting was over. The hugs, the expressions of appreciation and/or condolences, the offers of help or invitations to dinner, the camaraderie--

Next thing you knew, we'd have 2 Weepy Sisters at the podium the next month. Maybe even 3.

I don't know what happened to the world outside the Mormon community, exactly, but I figure it must have been something similar. Maybe people saw the crying audience members on Oprah so often they figured it was just the thing to do. Maybe it was the occasional dramatic tear running down Clinton's face in the 90's, when he got caught getting a little strange and had to re-appeal to the nation's Hausfraus.

I don't know what it was, but I want it to stop already.

Seriously, people, let's start getting a grip on our emotions. At church, it's gotten to the point where EVERYONE is crying. I placed a bet with my friend at church this past Sunday that over 5 of the people sharing their testimonies would cry, and I won the bet before the meeting was half over. They ended up accounting for 50% of the speakers. This is too much. It's starting to look a little phony, in fact, people... not saying it IS, just saying, come on... a little moderation might look more sincere, you know...?

It's even crept into the church's bi-annual General Conferences. I have old recordings of our church leaders from the 50's and 60's, and these men all spoke in strong, powerful voices at our Conferences, denouncing SIN! and proclaiming TRUTH! and in general, making Good Honest Living seem like the most bad-ass thing a 12-year-old boy could do whenever they took to the pulpit.

Boy, are those days ever gone. They all weep now. Over nothing. Almost every single one of them. Within minutes of the start of their talks. I can't help it, I roll my eyes whenever they start in. I try not to be cynical, but when EVERYONE is crying, I just can't help myself. I want to call them up afterwards and say, "Come on, get a grip, if we ever needed strong voices in this church, it's NOW! So buck up, stiffen that upper lip, and speak with a voice of power and strength, not with a total lack of emotional restraint."

There, now that I've surely offended every active LDS reader of this blog, let me move on to offending the rest of the world, and say that it's not just in our church. It's crept into everything-- newscasters, commentators, even the new Speaker of the House of Representatives can't get through a full interview without breaking down like somebody's grandma at a Family Reunion.

Look, crying can really draw an emotional response from a crowd, and is an effective tool for ginning up the masses. But the same can be said for emotional restraint and strength in the face of fear or pain, and frankly, I think this world needs just a wee bit more of that right now then it does the waterworks. We've all had a rough ride the past few years. We're all in pain; we don't need leaders who feel it with us, as much as we need leaders who show us how to transcend it.

Leaders, as well as peers. SO please, everyone, let's all get a handle on our feel-bads, and stop the crying, ok? Fake it till you make it.

A Year in Review

In case you haven't noticed, I've been loathe to blog this year. It's been about ten months or so since my last post.

I still keep track of my daily traffic, and I think the most surprising thing to me is how many people still visit here, and for that I sincerely thank you. Rest assured, my break was by design, not, as some of you appear to think, a result of switching over to Facebook status updates as an outlet for my creative juices.

Well, here I am now, 5 hours and 40 minutes from a brand new year, and I've decided to revisit this blogging thing once again. Let's start it out by reviewing the past year, as viewed from where I'm sitting.

Let's be honest, it wasn't great. Lots of friends and loved ones either went belly-up due to the economy, or came pretty damn close to it. Some of them have all but given up; others are limping along on nothing but faith and hope, and I mean in God, not in this ridiculous President we have.

We saw a seismic upheaval of sorts in Washington, what with the general rejection of the Pelosi-led House of Representatives, and its replacement with a cry-baby-led Republican House. Some of my conservative friends are literally beside themselves with joy over this turn of events. I'm not. Nothing of any import will change on our plebeian level, and now Obama will have a pack of scapegoats to blame for any of his failings as he sets himself up for an almost-inevitable win in 2012.

So in summary, the world is kinda in the pooper right now, and there's not a lot of reason to expect it to get much better anytime soon.

But you know what? I'm in a great mood anyway. I really don't even know why.

It hasn't necessarily been a gangbusters year for me, either, on a personal level, but it hasn't been horrible either. I spent the bulk of the year living in the sparse backwoods of eastern Turkey, and then came home to the States to find that things were a little slow workwise, and had to make necessary- and not altogether pleasant- adjustments as a result. In previous years, this might have put me on the verge of a breakdown, but I think I found some sort of zenlike serenity and inner peace out there in Turkey, if I may indulge in a little self-introspection here, because frankly, I feel pretty damn good right now, and no- I haven't been drinking.

Or maybe I'm just not fully aware yet of how close I am to the brink of absolute destitution. Oh well, time will tell, right?

Anyway, I'm the kind of guy to look forward, so if you have had a miserable year yourself, and you see no hope and no reason to celebrate tonight as the clock ticks down to midnight, well, let me try to offer you some words of reassurance: This is all temporary. And we- you included- will all get through it. This year? Maybe. The year after? Almost certainly. Within 5 years? Oh hell yes, undoubtedly.

Can you hang on for 5 years until things are better and we all have some tangible indications of hope to hang on to?

You might think you can't, but you can. We all can. Hang in there, blogfans, better times are a-coming.

Why You Wouldn't Vote For Me

"Hey Steve," people have said to me, "You're a smart guy! You could make a difference! Why don't you run for office?"

Simple, people. Because you'd never vote for me.

"Sure I would!" you say, and sure, maybe I could snooker you into a first term, but trust me, once I get into office, and start shaping this nation to fit my vision of what America should be, every single one of you would hop off the Steve Train.

Why?

Because I'd be fair. But not fair in the way that most of you think of fair. "Fair" to most of you means "easy" or "free from burden." It means "evenly distributed" to others, and to still others, it means "passing my burden along to someone who hasn't borne it yet."

To me, it means you reap what you sow-- and sometimes, you reap what other sowed near you, too. Your benefits from your efforts would be yours to keep-- but on the flip side, so would your losses from your bad gambles. If your choices make your kids suffer, then I hope your suffering kids don't pass that suffering along to a third generation, but if they do, don't look to Washington to stop the cycle.

Under me, the rich would get richer-- unless they took a big gamble on Real Estate or bad banking practices or poor auto marketing techniques. Then they'd go tits up, and I'd sit back on a pile of tax money and point and laugh and say, "Nope, you can't have any!"

"UNFAIR!" you say. "What about the people who invested in those businesses, but had no say in their day to day business practices??" Well, I guess I'd say they invested badly. If they ever get enough scratch together to invest again, I hope they learn to do it more wisely! "What about the workers, who slaved and labored day after day for 30 years, and walk away with nothing?" Well, I hope they find another job! Shit happens, after all. Sure hope they socked some of that money away. Oh, they didn't? Time to put the Wii on eBay!

You see? Already I'm losing some of you, right? You think the Federal Government should be the Great Equalizer. If someone invested and lost money, they deserve to get that money back.

Um.... why? Where was my cut of their dividends? They never paid me a dime from that. Where would my chunk of their earnings be, if the company had succeeded, and they had cashed out their stocks at an 80% profit? I'm pretty sure they'd forget to mail my check. So if they're not sharing the wealth, President HappyBack isn't spreading the poverty, either.

See, my Presidency would be governed by a solid and realistic principle of Fairness-- of Karma, almost. You can do whatever you wish with your money. I'd deregulate the crap out of the market. Almost no oversight-- just do as you please. But along with that, I'd also dismantle the safeguards that unfairly protect you against failure and responsiblity for unethical practices.

Corporations,for example? Gone! No more hiding your personal practices behind some faceless entity that can simply dissolve and walk away. Let's see how many banks lend half a million per mortgage to dirtbags with 350 credit ratings when the CEO and Board of Directors might be personally held responsible to the investors for the bank's collapse. Let's see if they approve such a practice when they see their competitors' personal jets and stretch limos on the auction block to pay off their account holders. Yeah, even without regulations, you'd see a sudden influx of responsible practice if you also forced personal consequences onto them.

It wouldn't stop in the market, though, for those of you who so far are cheering me on. Immigration, for example? It would be one of the easiest things a foreigner could do. They'd need nothing more than a fingerprint, a signature, functional English, and vow of solidarity to the Union. Then they're in! No BS waiting periods, no hoops to jump through, no requiring them to learn the history that our natural-born citizens are completely ignorant of. They want in? They're in!

But then, they're responsible. Immediately held to the same expectations as any other citizen. Comply with every law. Provide for yourself, cause I'm cutting welfare, too. And all government forms would be in English- period. Why, cause we hate Asians and Latinos? No, because it's impractical and costly to try to accomodate everyone. You wanted in, now cowboy up and carry your load. Don't whine about it, either, I've been in your shoes, and I learned the language, too. It's tough, but then so is life.

Welfare? Ha! Hope you enjoyed it! That's gone. Foodstamps, gone. Medicare and Medicaid, Gone. Social Security? Sorry, I'm not going to bust the bank so I can give every old man and woman not-quite-enough-to-really-benefit-them-anyway. All of these big hearted programs would be gone. And gone NOW-- immediately. I'd have 20 million Baby Boomers burning me in effigy.

And people would suffer, make no doubt! It would probably take the country a full generation to get used to having to save money again, and sock it away, and provide for themselves in their retirements. For kids to get used to taking care of their parents when they reach their twilight years. For families to refill the voids that Government left behind when President Steve dismantled the safety nets and locked the coffers shut again. For the system to swing out of the red, where everyone functions on someone else's borrowed money, and back into the black, where we make money first and then spend it.

But the Military? Bombs, baby, not butter! You want butter, your state and local governments are free to do as they please to make you happy, but on my level, the Federal level? We will tax you all--- yes, even you poor folks, at the same percentage rate as the rich-- and we will use that money to pay our military personnel twice what they make now, and to make them the most bad-ass people-killing machines seen since the last James Cameron movie.

That bad-ass military would sit on our soil, and protect our people and our shores, and unless they were BEGGED to go somewhere else and fight-- and I mean begged IN WRITING, AND OUT LOUD, ON HANDS AND KNEES IN A U.N. GENERAL ASSEMBLY MEETING-- where the entire world could see it-- unless that happened, they'd just sit and protect us. President Steve would practice what he likes to call Bitch-Slap Diplomacy. Meaning, if you attack us, we destroy you handily and readily. And then go home. You rebuild on your own cash, with your own people. We just go home and wait to see if you're going to try it again. IF you do, hey-- we're back!

You see?

This is why none of you will vote for me. You're apalled already. I'm so COLD-- so heartless-- I seem to hate everybody and everything.

I disagree, though. The way I see it, I believe in you- all of you-- way more than any of your current elected officials do. Way more than even you do. I think you are all able to provide for yourselves. I think you are also caring and loving enough to seek out and care for those who are less fortunate, without my big government vaccuum stealing your cash, filtering it through 15 layers of red tape, and paying it back at a rate of 23 cents on the dollar to those who can jimmy the system enough to play poor.

I believe in you, and you don't want that. It makes you responsible for your well-being, and for your own community, and that?

That's no fun.

Naw. I'll just sit back here and gripe about others with higher X Factors who dupe you into voting for them. Frankly, it's probably more productive in the end.

Obama's One Year Mark

Wow, what a year, huh kids? Who'd have thought in early 2009 that we'd be celebrating Obama's one-year mark by electing a Republican Senator in Massachusetts? Political winds blow us to strange harbors, don't they?

You may remember a little blog entry I wrote one year ago called "The Obama Baseline." If not, click on the link and go back and read it. I departed from my usual snarky ways to lay out a completely neutral baseline assessment of where the country stood, so that we could have some solid numbers against which we could judge Obama's presidency at regular intervals.

It was also a good read, because I put in a picture of some hot chicks looking at cars at the very end, to spice it up a little. Seriously, I did, go back and look.

Anyway, now that we're a year in, let's take a look at those numbers again, and see where we stand, shall we?

Here we go:

In January 2009, unemployment stood at 7.2% nationwide. It now stands at 10%. Increase: 2.8%

Gas prices, January '09, national average: $1.82/gallon. Today: $2.73 a gallon. Up 91 cents.

Januray '09, oil was trading at $34.63 a barrel on the New York Mercantile Exchange. Today, it's trading at $77.14 a barrel, for an increase of $42.51, more than double.

January '09, the Dow Jones Industrial Average stood at 8281.22. Today, it's at 10,542.62, for an impressive gain of 2261.4. The NASDAQ back then was at 1529.33; today it's at 2277.95, for another impressive gain of 748.62.

In January 2009, The Median Sales Prices for Existing Homes, by region, were:
$242,500 for the West; today it's $231,100.
$154,500 for the South; today it's $151,400.
$142,400 for the Midwest; today it's $140,800.
and $257,700 for the Northeast; today it's $223,400.
(Note that the numbers I give for last year have been adjusted in this year's spreadsheet, using more accurate sales figures. I kept the numbers I posted last year to maintain continuity within my own blog.)

In January 2009, the Consumer Confidence Index currently stood at 38; today it stands at 52.9, a significant increase.

National averages for some common consumer items, vs. last year's prices, are as follows: ....Unfortunately, this data is not readily available right now for the 4th quarter of 2009, so Obama's Department of Agriculture needs to step it up in so far as reporting this data in a timely manner goes.

In the Middle East, we still have 115,000 U.S. troops in Iraq as of November 30, 2009, down from 144,000 in August of the previous year; 4374 troops have been killed in Iraq as of November 2009, an increase of 151 under Obama. Obama ran on a promise to bring all troops home within 16 months; he has 4 months left to comply with this. One may logically assume he will not meet this deadline.

Israel and Hamas are still observing a cease-fire, after waging a 3-week war a year ago.

Obama's approval ratings hover around 50%, the fastest drop to that level for any President in our nation's history. The Governorships of Virginia and New Jersey have gone from the Democrats to the GOP.

And everyone's having a fit about the first Republican Senator in over 30 years being elected in Massachusetts.

So there you go, another boring statistical Post, which will unfortunately become an annual event for me.

But hey... you know how I make it up to you guys, right? Have a little eye candy:

A Lamp

I needed a lamp.

I needed it about a week and a half ago, but I dreaded having to buy it.

"Why, Steve?" You ask, "It's just a lamp, right?"

No, it's not just a lamp, it's a maddening descent into pantomime hell.

I'm not back in the U.S. right now, where I can walk into Walmart and see a display of a couple dozen lamps, pick the one that most tickles my fancy, and then pay at the self-serve cash register.

I'm in Eastern Turkey, in a little village called Ilic, on the shores of the Euphrates River. I wasn't even sure they sold lamps here, to be honest. I was pretty sure they had light bulbs.

Damn it, though, ever since my light fixtures caught on fire last week (that's another good story) and the repair crew replaced them, my room has been as bright and cheery as an Al Qaeda safe house. They put in these dome light fixtures, meant for two 75 watt bulbs. Instead they wired each for just one bulb, and then placed in the smallest halogen bulbs they find. I get about as much light out of them as Pluto gets from the Sun. Maybe not quite that much.

So I needed a little desk lamp or a reading lamp. It was time to bite the bullet and take a trip into town.

Downtown Ilic isn't exactly known in the 3-village region as a magnet for commerce. If I had to compare it to somewhere else I've lived, I guess the thriving metropolis of Rio Bravo, Suchitepequez, Guatemala could fit the bill. But it was nice enough for the 2500 people in town, well lit stores selling the essentials I needed, like chocolate and Coca Cola Zero and mechanical pencils, all at fairly reasonable prices. I had established a rapport with some of the shop owners, especially the Coke Zero place. That guy liked to practice his English on me, so he got a lot of my business.

But those weren't the stores I needed to visit. I had to head down the the Far End of the Street.

I rarely ventured down that way. That was the more dimly-lit end of the downtown district, where they sold tools and weapons, and had metal shops and cave-like auto repair garages, and small side-walk tables full of grumpy old men drinking tea and scowling at foreigners. That was where they walked down the middle of the road when you tried to drive through at 5 kph, and as your bumper approached their calves, they'd give you a slow disgusted look over the shoulder and advance another 5 paces or so forward at a slightly slower pace before they finally meandered out of the lane of traffic.

I didn't feel as welcomed there, but there was where they had the lamps, or so I was guessing. So I sucked it up and headed down that way, after parking my truck down at the friendlier end of the road.

My first attempt was at the electronics store, where I had seen electric teapots and small cooking appliances in the window before. I ducked in, with my iPhone translator app out and at the ready, already scrolling through it as I walked, to see how to say lamp.

"Lamba", it said. Well, easy enough!

I walked in, muttering "lamba, lamba, lamba" to myself so I could make my one word inquiry without having to look at my iPhone. But much to my disappointment, there was nobody to ask. The store, although wide open and brightly lit, was completely empty. I was the only human to be found. I waited around for a bit, looking over the stacks and boxes of items for sale, but after visually determining that there was no lamp to be had here, I gave it up and headed on to my second choice.

That was the knife-and-gun shop.

Now I knew it was a long shot, but I had bought a few pocket knives there since arriving in town a few months ago, so I knew the shop keeper, and had already established a sort of hand-motion language with him. So when I walked in, he smiled and greeted me warmly, probably thinking he was about to score another knife sale.

"Merhaba," he said, and I responded in kind.

"Merhaba. LAMBDA!" I smiled, fists on my hips, proud to be speaking the native tongue. I had just said, "Hi. LAMP!" same as I would say in the local Ikea back home if I needed a desk lamp, right? I mean, that's how we all talk to each other. Cursory greeting, then state your business!

He cocked his head to the side, confused. My smile faltered, my confidence starting to crumble a little. I put my hands in front of me, my right hand flat, palm up, the fingers curved at the first knuckles, forming a base. The left hand I held about a foot over it, palm down, fingers forming a rough cone shape, like a lamp shade. Then I repeated my one-word inquiry:

"Lambda," I said.

He shook his head. Not like one might shake their head to say "No, we don't have lamps," but rather as if to say, "What the hell are you talking about?"

I pulled out my little translator and typed in the word again. Lamp. translation... Lamba.

Oh LAMBA, no "d" in the middle. Here I thought I was asking for a lamp, and instead I'm asking him for a Sorority house. Dumb ass American.

"LAMBA," I said.

"Ahhhhhh!" he said, nodding his head in emphatic understanding. You might know this particular head nod; it's a nod we never use with fellow English speakers, only those we think don't understand us. We're not nodding just our head, we're nodding from the second or third cervical vertebrae, getting the entire head and neck into the act, like a Texas Oil Well. We're not saying "yes," we're saying "YEEEEEESSSSSSSS!!!!!!"

This nod was universal to all languages and cultures. It was a world-wide assumption of foreign idiocy. It said, "You don't speak my language, ergo, you are stupid, and need even my simplest answers to be shouted and spoken slowly and thrown out in the most obvious and confrontational manner possible, so as to not misunderstand one another at all."

He turned around and grabbed a light bulb off the shelf behind him.

This was going to be a long night.

More hand gestures, more emphatic "Hayir (no), LAAAAAAMBAAAAA" from me, and finally a shrugged admission of defeat from my knife-and-gun-selling friend. I pulled out the translator once again, typed in a word, and asked him, gesturing out the door, up and down the street, with my shoulders half shrugged inquisitively, "Nerede?" or, "where"?

He came to the door, took me by the shoulders, pointed me down towards the far end, and pointed three doors down. "LAMBA," he said, pointing.

"Tesekkurler," I said, to thank him, and went to the 3rd door down.

This time I wasn't screwing around. I walked in, nodded and said "Iyi aksamlar," (good evening), and then turned and looked all over the shelves, trying to find this thing before social graces required me to verbally inquire.

No use, though. Before long I was back at it again. "Lamba?" I asked, very nonchalant this time. Sure, maybe I'm speaking in one word sentences, but I have this language DOWN. I own it. "Lamp?" I asked, chest swelled with confidence.

It worked. He nodded, like one Turk to another, and grabbed a light bulb off the shelf.

What was it with these people and the light bulbs? Light bulb was "Ambul" or something. No, "ampul," that was it. It wasn't "lamba." I shook my head disapprovingly. Why couldn't this guy speak fluent Turkish, like I did?

"Hayir (no)," I said once again. "LAMBA."

"Ahhhh, tamam," he said. "Oh, ok."

He walked over to the shelf behind me, and slid aside a candy rack, to uncover a hidden stash of flashlights. He grabbed one and held it out to me.

Well, we were getting closer, anyway...

"Hayir. LAMBA." again I did the sign language. Again it was met with confusion. We motioned back and forth at each other for about a minute. He did't understand a damn word I was signing, and I didn't understand him either. Didn't people put lamps on end tables in this country?

Screw it. I bought a candy bar to thank him for his troubles and wandered out of the store, desperate this time, poking into store after store, saying "Lamba?" over and over, getting pointed back to stores I had already been to, and shaking my head to say, "No, they only carry light bulbs, same as the ones you're so eager to sell me when I'm asking for a LAMP."

Finally, in one store, a break through! I found someone who remembered about 15 words of English from his school days. Between his 15 words of English and my 11 words of Turkish, we were able to have a regular caveman conversation out in the streets, and he informed me with a "yes" and a finger point that lamps were, indeed, sold in Ilic.

He pointed back up the way I had come from, down to the friendly end of the street. "Bank."

I nodded. "Bank." I knew where the bank was. I had just come from there, getting Turkish Lira to buy this stupid lamp.

"Street," he gestured, flipping his hand over.

"Other side of the street?" I said.

"Yes, yes, yes!" he said, oil-well nodding.

I thanked him, walked on, already knowing full well where he was telling me to go.

It was the Coke Zero store. I approached the door.

"Hello, how are you?" the store owner asked me when I walked in.

"Fine, and you?"

"I am good!" he said, smiling ear to ear. There he was, speaking English like a son-of-a-bitch, like he was BORN speaking it! This wasn't going to be any trouble at all, I thought to myself.

"LAMP!" I said, smiling myself.

He nodded. "Lamp!" He knew that word!

He grabbed a light bulb.

You're Creeping Me Out, Lady.

Well, the numbers are in, and "New Moon" is looking like it'll rank somewhere in the Top 5 of all-time when it comes to opening-weekend box office returns. Not surprisingly, either, the numbers coming in are indicating that 80% of the New Moon audiences are female. So there's nothing really shocking here to report, right?

Well, if you mean "shocking" as in "surprising," then you are correct, sir. But if you mean "shocking" as in "disturbing," then I respectfully beg to differ.

When "Twilight" came out last year, I took great delight in teasing my 30-something divorced hausfrau friends about their borderline-creepy crushes on Robert Pattinson, the star of the film. "He's a HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT," I would taunt them, but many of them responded by reminding me that A) his character is actually hundreds of years old, and B) the actor himself is 22. Ok, ok, you got me. Still a little creepy, but I can buy into that.

This time around, though? Same squealing hausfrau crowds, same film series, but now we have a whole new level of creepiness: The star- and the character- is 17.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. "Hausfrau? As in, housewife? What are you talking about, Steve, this movie was for little teeny-boppers, not their mothers!"

Oh, I know who it was ostensibly made for, but I'm talking about who's actually seeing it, and who exactly is drooling over this young boy's rock-hard abs. I have yet to see a teenager confess her undying lust for this kid, but my 30-to-45 year old ladyfriends? They are unabashed in their confessions of the dirty things they'd love to do to this child.

As I love to point out to the more rational, even-keeled women I know, every single one of these women would be creeped out beyond expression if I were to show up at the opening-night 12:01 Imax showing of the next Hannah Montana Concert Film in pajama bottoms, fuzzy slippers, and a Team Miley t-shirt. Without exception. I'd be condemned and vilified for the remainder of my days by these women. Hell, I've gotten flack from some of them for checking out 25-year-olds.

But when I respond to their dirty minded Facebook comments regarding young Taylor Lautner with a one-word comment, "17," oh BOY do I ever catch some flack! One friend went so far as to tell me that I was NO LONGER her friend, since I wasn't able to just let her enjoy her little movie-star crush. Oh, and I was just jealous.

Jealous? Hmm, I never comment when someone says they want to ravage Brad Pitt. I mean, the guy's a grown man, they're grown women, and he's eye candy. It's to be expected.

But Taylor Lautner? Lust after him when he starts shaving, if it's too much trouble for you to keep track of his birthday.

Now for the rest of you men out there who are reading this, nodding your heads, and wondering why you have to accept this phenomenon as "normal," "ok," and "to-be-expected," DO NOT take this blog as an instruction guide on how to fight the power. No no, my friend, let me be the fall guy here. You will lose if you try to fight it. Trust me, because I'm losing, too. No need for us both to go down in flames. Just relax, let the movie fade into the sunset, and take solace in knowing that by 2012, the last movie in the series will be released and forgotten, just in time for the end of the world.

We just have to accept that the women we are expected to want, in turn, want little boys. We, meanwhile, are to continue pretending that we never notice any woman under 30, or that weighs less than 135 lbs. And that we dig the wrinkles and cankles. And no, you don't look fat in that dress.

And Mary Kay Letourneau? Sorry, babe, I have no answers for you, and no, your record will not be expunged.

Shaking the Bushes

It's not unheard of for someone to get one over on me. I'm generally a trusting guy, and I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt. If you're clever enough, you can use this against me.

This is the tale of two women who weren't clever enough. But God love 'em, they tried.

Now before I get into the story, let me give you a little background information. On occasion, I indulge in a practice I call "shaking the bushes." Here's how it works.

I'll find myself alone on a nice enough evening, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Usually I'm ok with that; I can crack open a good book or write you people a little blog and the night just seems to fly by. But every so often, I'm restless, and I want to do something, or talk to somebody.

But I can't think of who exactly to call, or what exactly to do.

So I'll pull out my cell phone, and open up the Text Message feature, and write a message that simply says "Hey what's up?"

Then I'll scroll through my address book, and send that message out to five, ten, sometimes even fifteen people at the same time- usually women, and usually women that I've taken out a time or two but had only lukewarm interest in. Then I wait to see who responds. In other words, I "shake" the proverbial "bushes" to see what animals come running out of them.

Now before I continue, I can already hear a good number of you women out there decrying this horrible, demeaning practice. I think you women are silly for doing so. Why? What's so horrible about it? To me, it's like walking into a crowded party, and shouting, "Hey, anyone wanna make a Taco Bell run or something?" Fifteen people hear you, maybe one or two say yes, and by the time you pull out of the driveway, the Taco Bell run idea has turned into a 45-minute dessert at Denny's. No harm, no foul, and while nobody fell in love, nobody spent the night bored sitting on the arm of a couch at a lame-ass party, either.

On one particular night this past summer, I shook the bushes. I picked out a few names at random and shot off my three-word instigating message. Then I sat back and waited.

Within a minute, I got a message back from J that said simply, "Hey we should hang out tonight!!"

J was a girl I had taken to lunch about three months prior. Nice enough, pretty enough, but she just didn't light my fire for me to seriously pursue her. But I kept her number and sent her my bush-shaker every few weeks, just in case. She had never responded. Until tonight. When she was suddenly gung-ho enough to not just suggest we hang out, but to pile an extra exclamation point onto the end of it.

Odd.

As I was musing over this oddity, I received another text message. This time from K.

K is the Hot Grandma I took out for dinner just a few weeks before. Again, nice enough, pretty enough, but we didn't see eye to eye on some essential things, and so I kept her around in my phone list as someone to say hello to every so often, but not someone to chase after like a coyote on a rabbit.

K had never responded to a bush-shaker, either. Until tonight.

Her message said, "Hey we should hang out tonight!!" Double exclamation point and all.

Now, Stevie's no fool.

OBVIOUSLY, unbeknownst to me until this moment, J and K know each other... and OBVIOUSLY, J and K were hanging out together that very night. And OBVIOUSLY, when they both got my "Hey what's up?" text message at the same time, they were INCENSED! How dare I send the exact same message to two different women at the same time! Why, I must be-- a PLAYER!!

(Remember what I said about how you women think this practice is demeaning?)

SO OBVIOUSLY, J and K hatched up a little plot to teach me- the PLAYER- a lesson.

They were both going to lead me on.

At the same time.

With the exact same wording in their text messages, right down to the punctuation.

And since I'm not a clever woman, fighting a PLAYER for the dignity of the entire gender, OBVIOUSLY that little detail was going to slide right by me.

Well, hey- two can play at this game. Or three, I guess.

I responded to both K and J at the exact same time, with the exact same message.

"Yeah we should!"

They responded back, at the exact same time, with the exact same message:

"Come over tonight! I'm feeling naughty. ;)"

Mmm hmm.

Oh wait, not "mmm hmm", I forgot, I'm a stupid PLAYER, I think below my waist. So I was obviously going to fall for this.

I sent my response, and a brief three-way conversation ensued. Or rather, two separate-but-equal two-way conversations ensued, because at no point did it ever occur to the two geniuses that they might want to at least vary their wording a little, if they weren't going to vary their story lines.

ME: oh are you? Well then I'm coming right over!
J and K: Good! what do you want me to wear?
ME: Does it matter? Just make it sexy.
J and K: I'm going to wear a tank top and a mini skirt.
ME: Sounds hot!
J and K: So what time will you be here?
ME: What time is good for you?

...and here's where they finally thought things over a little, in an attempt to finalize their devious plot. They inserted a little variety.

J: Be here at 9:30.
K: Be here at 10:00.

ME: Ok, see you soon!

I sat there for a moment, trying to think like a woman. Not an easy thing to do. What was the end game here? I mean, there was really only two ways this could play out, from their point of view.

1) I show up at J's place, and the gig is up. Or....
2) I don't show up at all, and nobody really wins.

Obviously, they were really hoping for option #1. They wanted their Movie-moment, their plot climax, where the PLAYER opens the door to find the two vindictive women standing there- and oh my GOD, they KNOW EACH OTHER, oh what a plot-twist, who saw THAT coming???-- and then they--

--they----

---they what?

This was an anti-climax waiting to happen. Silly ladies, the way to play it would have been to invite me over to both their places at the exact same time, seen who I tossed aside, and who I wanted more, and then both wait at that girl's house to nab me. Booyah, then they have a genuine gripe, because I actually DID turn down one to see the other.

But now?

Hell, I have two appointments half an hour apart, and I'm not even dating either of these broads, so who's being harmed?

I had to see how they thought this was going to play out.

I drove over to J's place. I pulled up right at 9:30, as scheduled, and walked up the front walk. J was out front, watering some flowers. You know, like every woman does at 9:30 at night. Oh, and she was wearing jeans and a long-sleeve sweater too, not a mini-skirt and a tank-top, so they didn't even think to follow through with the wardrobe. And she was nervous as a cat. Jumpy, eyes twitching all over the place.

I walked up to her and smiled and gave her a big hug. "Hi, J! What's up?"

She looked confused. I wasn't making any mention of the fact that she was- well, clothed. And I was happy to see her anyway. I wasn't acting like a PLAYER at all! Kind of like the way I didn't act like a PLAYER when I took her out to lunch a few months earlier.

But no- I had sent out two text messages at the SAME TIME, to TWO WOMEN, with the SAME MESSAGE! I MUST be a player, right?

...right...?

The poor girl, I could see her rethinking things. She almost looked guilty at this point. She muttered something lame and incoherrent about how she was watering her flowers (yeah I saw that) and how she has the guy setting tile over still finishing up her bathroom but he'll be gone in a minute (Oh is that whose truck is parked out front?) and um... well, do you want to come in?

Sure.

We walked to the door.

She reached for the knob. There was a little more spring in her step now, because this was it, this was their big moment, this was the GOTCHA! Her cohort was there, waiting on the other side of the door, and now- NOW!- was the moment when they were going to put the PLAYER in his place, because he tried to PLAY them, and in so doing tried to play ALL WOMEN, and so on behalf of ALL WOMEN, they were going to do me in, right here, and right now, as she was reaching for that knob, and was turning it, and was about to open that door--

"OH hey," I said, as the door started to crack open a little, "Is K still here, or did she head home? Because after this, I'm supposed to head over to her place to see her."

J stopped, the door half open, and looked at me, her eyes comically wide open, as empty and vacuous as her intellect. Her mouth worked up and down a little, as she subvocalized her confusion in unintelligible vowels and consonants.

Then, almost on auto-pilot, she just pushed the door open.

There stood K, as vacuous and surprised as J. They looked at each other.

They looked at me.

They looked at each other again.

I walked in and gave K a big hug. Unsure what to do, she hugged me back, somewhat reluctantly.

"So how long have you two known each other?" I asked nonchalantly as I walked in and sat down at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. J and K followed after me, not saying a word. Shock was in the air, like a big empty void.

This was supposed to have been their moment of glory, and it failed. And they had no back-up plan.

I stayed for a few minutes, and had a great conversation with the tile guy as those two sat in stunned silence and watched me enjoying myself a little right there in J's kitchen, on what was supposed to have been their big night, their grand moment. I left as I gradually felt their stunned silence fade into sullen icy displeasure, and then a low dull anger.

When a woman is angry, that is ALWAYS the time to leave.

As I headed out the door, I turned to K and looked at my watch. "Um... I probably won't be able to make it over until about 10:30, will you be home by then?"

K just laughed mirthlessly and quietly. As I drove away, laughing to myself, with PLENTY of mirth, and with plenty of volume, I heard my cell phone beep. It was a text message. From K.

It said, "Don't bother coming over tonight."

I laughed to myself again, and typed out a one-word response. Not even a word, really, just a syllable, but one that to me summed up this entire ridiculous night, and their entire ridiculous plot. I punched it in and hit send.

It said, simply:

"Duh."

The Four Pillars of Modern-Day Political Discourse

So who out there likes to talk politics? I know my hand is raised! And if any of you know me, that's as surprising to you as a sunrise.

But as much as I like a little verbal jousting about the times and seasons we live in, with friend and foe alike, I realize that this isn't for everyone.

I mean, I can hold my weight in these discussions. I know enough about stuff-n-things to sound smarter than I actually am, and I know enough about obfuscation to hide behind a wall of tangential irrelevancy when I find myself flummoxed. I can stick and move like a prize fighter when it comes to arguing over Washington's denizens and the crap they spew forth upon us.

But you're not me.

While I gravitate towards these discussions, many of you shy away from them. Sure, you have opinions, some of them even well-thought-out opinions. You have your gut instincts, your general senses of right-and-wrong, your belief systems or lack-thereof. You have things you want to get off your chest and points you want to make, but you feel too intimidated and daunted to open your mouth and engage the enemy in battle, even if that enemy is your best friend, and the battle is only over who should be elected to the local school-board.

Well, I can't, in good conscious, let you, my dear friends, sit cowed and intimidated, letting the world run roughshod all over you. So in your interest, not mine, I am giving you the key to Modern-Day political discourse; the four pillars upon which all civic policy discussion is currently founded!

Here they are:

1) FEAR!
2) HATE!
3) SELFISHNESS!
4) STUPIDITY!

(Capitalization is intentional.)

Yes, those four words are all you need to remember to get through any discussion relating to public policy. These words, coupled with the proper accusatory tone, can shut down any opposing viewpoint or opinion, if shouted loud enough, voiced in the proper inflamatory language, and/or coupled with a disgusted scowl or an accompanying "Pfft" and a flip of the head.

Now look, don't be a simpleton. You don't just shout out the word "HATE!" when you're in a backed into a proverbial corner. No, silly, you accuse your opponent of being CONSUMED with hate. Or fear. Or selfishness. Or stupidity.

Getting the picture? I mean, if you're a Conservative, you have almost surely found yourself on the receiving end of this unfounded criticiscm at some stage of the game while opposing Universal Healthcare provided by the Federal Government. "Why are you afraid of something you've never tried? Why do you hate the poor so much you want to deny them healthcare? Why are you so selfish you want to deny little kids their trips to the doctor? Or are you just an idiot?"

Are you catching on?

Now look, I know these pillars sound like nothing more than cheap shots, but there's a good reason for that: They are.

But that's what it's all dissolved down to these days. So why not partake?

What, are you afraid to? Why do you hate people so much that you won't talk to them? Are you so selfish that you won't fight for what's right? Or are you just a moron?

See? I gotcha!

Look, I didn't say I LIKE this method of arguing, I'm just saying that it's the perfect fit for today's lazy intellectualism. Why actually engage in thoughtful consideration of another's viewpoint, when you can fall back on baseless and harmful accusation instead? Why try to understand, when you can instead besmear and defame the enemy?

What do you think conversation is, a forum to expand your view and understanding? Pfffffft, haven't you gone to a Town Hall meeting lately? Conversation is to be HEARD, not to LISTEN. Listening takes time and effort. And you could miss Dancing With the Stars if you get involved with that crap.

SO there you go. Your 4 pillars. Please use as intended- i.e., completely irresponsibly.

Hot Grandmas

Well, I suppose this day was inevitable, but I still wasn't quite ready for it: The day I dated a Grandma.

Ok, actually she was a Grandma-to-be, not YET a grandma, so at the time I took her out, I hadn't yet crossed that threshold. But by now that little baby has burst into the world, so now I have to admit to it: I took out a Grandma! She was hot, and she was young- she had had her own kid in her late teens, and then that kid got herself knocked up young, so it wasn't like I was taking out a grey-skinned shriveled old lady dragging an iron lung behind her.

But still- a GRANDMA?

But this post isn't about me dating a Grandma. No, that's the hook to draw you in- this post is actually about a conversation we had the night I took her out. It went something like this:

GRANNY: I am SO EXCITED for my little Grandbaby to be born!
ME: (lacking enthusiasm) Awesome.
GRANNY: She's due in about a month! And the best part is that I'm going to be there for the birth-
ME: WAIT!
GRANNY: --what?
ME: What did you say?
GRANNNY: Um... I'm going to be there for the birth...?
ME: In the Hospital?
GRANNNY: In the ROOM! It's going to be so awesome-
ME: Is your daughter married? Or is she a single-mother-to-be?
GRANNY: She's married.
ME: Happily? Like, is he in the picture? They're young newlyweds?
GRANNY: Yeah, why?
ME: Don't do this to them.
GRANNY: Do what?

I looked Granny over. She had such a childlike look of pure, oblivious innocense on her face. It would have been very easy to forgive her her cluelessness. To just banter about something light and fluffy until dinner arrived.

But no- somewhere out there was a Young Son-in-Law who was silently begging for my intervention- ANYONE'S intervention. So, for his sake- and since I already knew I had no interest in this broad anyway, so I didn't give two craps if I offended her- I pressed on.

ME: Don't be there for the birth. I mean, be there- be at the Hospital- but don't be in the room.
GRANNY: (blink blink blink, swallow) ....why?
ME: Seriously?
GRANNY: Yeah, why?
ME: Because it's a family moment.
GRANNY: Well, I'm family.
ME: This is a THEIR family moment.
GRANNY: But I'm her MOTHER!
ME: Which is why you should be right there at the Hospital, so once they have had their special, intimate moment with just them and their newborn child, they can immediately invite you in to share their joy.
GRANNY: (blink blink blink) ... But I'm her MOTHER!
ME: And she is now his wife. And you need to stop being so intrusive into their little nuclear family unit, before you drive him away and leave her a young single mother with a bitter ex-husband with stories to tell about his overly-intrusive mother-in-law, who wouldn't keep her damn nose out of their household.
GRANNY:... but the Doctor and nurses will be there too-
ME: Trust me, they fade right into the background. They may as well be furniture. You won't be able to do the same. Your unwanted presence will be completely in their faces. Especially his.
GRANNY: But... but... he WANTS me there!
ME: No, he doesn't.
GRANNY: No, he SAID he wants me there!
ME: How did that come up?
GRANNY: My daughter asked him, and he said so!
ME: Once you demanded to be there and she went to him, he was stuck. He had no other option than to grit his teeth and say, "Of course, honey, I want your mother there!" He doesn't, though. He doesn't want you there at all. Just like he didn't want you there for the conception, either.
GRANNY: (blink blink) ...but he SAID so...
ME: He had no choice. You two conspired against him before he had a chance. Shame on you both.
GRANNY: (blink blink blink)
ME: Seriously.

Well, needless to say, the rest of dinner didn't go well. For her, anyway; my dinner was delicious and the waitress was smoking hot and kind of a flirt, truth be told. But Granny was horribly upset and offended.

Oh well.

I'm sure there are many of you out there who will disagree with me. I am equally as certain that all of you who disagree are women. AND, I am equally as certain that some MEN will state that they disagree, too- when confronted by their angry and offended wives- but those men agree with me more than any others. They may even post comments here disagreeing. In fact they are probably the most likely ones to post comments disagreeing! They'll write their disagreeing comments and get all angry and heated and will then call their wives over to show them the comments they wrote, before the wives even know they did it, before they even know this blog existed, hoping that by doing this, they will somehow ingratiate themselves to their wives, and aggrandize themselves in the eyes of that woman who can never see any good in them or their actions!

I don't blame you men- I know why you're doing it. Even while you're vociferously telling your overbearing wives about what a misogynistic cad I am, just know that I feel your pain, man.

All is forgiven.

So on behalf of all husbands, or specifically all fathers-to-be, I'm asking all of you who will one day be Grandmothers: Don't do this. When the kid is born, stay out of the room. Let your daughter or son have a special bonding moment with just their spouse and child. Give them two friggin minutes, for the love of all things holy, to be JUST THEM, at the most special moment in their family's existence!

And if they INVITE you to be there? Politely refuse. Because let me be brutally honest: If they're inviting you, it's because you're already too intrusive and manipulating as it is, so they are inviting you as a preemptive strike to assuage your ire when you confront your child later and say, "You ARE going to invite me to be there for the birth, RIIIIIGHT??"

You had your shot at motherhood. Cut the apron strings, and now let HER have HERS.

My Directoral Debut

Sit back and be entertained.

Boggle: A True Story

I swear to you, every word of this story is true. I wish it weren't, but it is.

In the spring of 2005, I found myself assigned to work on an EPA-monitored Superfund clean-up site. For those of you unfamiliar with the EPA's Superfund sites, these are basically really nasty places where some company dumped assloads of pollutants for decades upon decades, creating such an unholy mess that it could never be cleaned up properly without the Federal Government's intervention.

They're pretty disgusting.

To make matters worse, the particular Superfund site I was assigned to at the time was located in West Virginia, on the banks of the Ohio River, just south of the thriving metropolis of Wheeling, in a little town called Moundsville. So on top of cleaning up mountains of festering chemicals while wearing a TYVEC suit with air hoses supplying my air for breathing, I was also living in one of the most depressing places in the entire country.

Everything was grey. All the time. The sky was grey, the air was grey, the ground was grey, the river was grey, the skin color of the local residents- everything. My entire world had become grey.

Around this time, God saw fit to balance out my grey, dour existence with a little ray of sunshine. It came in the form of a girl I met through some singles website, who lived about 45 minutes away, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She was Valerie, a gorgeous blonde who looked like a cross between Kylie Minogue and Marilyn Monroe.

Now I could go on and on about Valerie. She was unlike anyone I had ever met. She was perennially cheerful, without the least hint of that annoying bubbly chirpiness that most cheerful people have. She had a positive disposition, no matter what the situation or circumstances. Most of all, she was full of great ideas on every topic-where to go, what to see, what to do once we got there.

On top of just being good company, Valerie also opened my eyes to several aspects of existence that, until then, hadn't yet presented themselves to me. While I could list pages and pages of the areas where she enlightened me- not least of which was, the undiscovered beauty of Pittsburgh itself- I think the biggest eye-opener of all wasn't something she necessarily DID, but rather what she WAS.

See, while Valerie and I were roughly the same age- she was just a couple of years older than me- Valerie had gotten started on the whole family-rearing endeavor far earlier than I had. So while my oldest kid at the time was about 8 years old, Valerie's was 17. She was the parent of a teenager!

I had no experience dating a woman with a teenager. And to be frank, before I met her daughter, I expected the worst. But Valerie's girl was a very pleasant surprise, as was her 11-year-old son.

Both of them were the nicest, sweetest, most polite kids I could have ever dreamed of meeting. We brought them along with us every so often when we went out to hit the town or get dinner, and they were always fun to have along, and nearly always on their best behavior. They even called me "Mr. Steve", which amused me to no end, but which I never corrected, since it indicated to me that Valerie was raising them with the proper level of respect for their elders, and I didn't want to be an impediment to that.

Naturally, since I was around such a great woman and such wonderful kids, I, too, always wanted to put my best foot forward all the time. I didn't want them to get any indication that I could be anything less than dignified and mature in every situation.

It was in that frame of mind that I found myself one night at Valerie's house, enjoying a delicious meal she had cooked up for me, and chatting with her and her daughter. Time was wasting, and Valerie liked the stay occupied, so she suggested we all play a game of Boggle.

Boggle, for those of you unfamiliar with it, is a fairly simple game. Here's how it's explained by Wikipedia:

"The game begins by shaking a covered tray of sixteen cubic dice. Each die has a different letter printed on each of its sides. The dice settle into a four by four tray so that only the top letter of each cube is visible. After they have settled into the grid, a three-minute timer is started and all players simultaneously begin the main phase of play.

Each player searches for words that can be constructed from the letters of sequentially adjacent cubes, where "adjacent" cubes are those horizontally, vertically or diagonally neighboring. Words may include singular and plural (or other derived forms) separately, but may not use the same letter cube more than once per word. Each player records all the words he or she finds by writing on a private sheet of paper. After three minutes have elapsed, all players must stop writing and the game enters the scoring phase."

Simple enough, right?

So we broke out the Boggle.

Valerie's daughter shook it up and set it down. Valerie started the timer. And we were off!

And there it was, right in front of me, across the bottom row of the tray:

V. U. L. V. and on the next row, above the last V... A.

VULVA.

Staring me right in the face.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. No, no, no, Steve, NOT GOOD. You can't write down "VULVA" in front of your girlfriend and her teenage daughter, not even if it IS a proper medical term. No, find something else.

But it was fruitless at that point. As any red-blooded male out there can attest to, once you've seen Vulva, it's ALL you can see.

I looked desperately around the board for something else. For ANYTHING else. Maybe an "I" next to an "S". Nope. Or possibly an "A" next to an "N"- but no, that wasn't to be found anywhere, either.

All of those tiny, 2 or 3 letter words that pop up EVERY SINGLE TIME you play Boggle were NOT THERE THIS TIME.

The best I could do was locate an "S"- next to the final "A" in Vulva. "Great," I thought with dismay as I watched the timer tick down to nothing, "Multiple Vulvas. These two are going to think I'm the biggest pervert on the face of the planet."

Finally, the last few seconds ticked away. I was stuck- I had no other options. Picking up my pad to hide my shame, I scratched "VULVAS" onto the top sheet of paper. And as a good faith measure to show I wasn't just looking for porn words, I also wrote down "AS."

There. I was covered.

Valerie went first, and rattled off an impressive list of words I never saw. "Why"- who knew that was there? Or "Gas". Not bad. She had 6 or 7 of these on her pad.

Her daughter was next, and she rattled off an equally impressive list of words. She and Valerie added up their scores and wrote them down, and then they both turned and looked at me.

"Ok, Mr. Steve, what do you have?" her daughter asked.

"Um... well, I spotted this one right off," I said as I slowly lay my pad down on the table, "and it's- you know, it's a medical term... it's in Grey's Anatomy... and it was right there, so I uh..."

"Oh hey, look, you're right," Valerie said, pointing to the tray with nothing more than mild admiration in her voice.

"Oh yeah!" her daughter said, spotting it too. "V-U-L-V-A-S. Hey, not bad, Mr. Steve!"

"Yeah, that's 6 letters," Valerie said, "which is 3 points. Pretty good!"

"Um.... I also have 'AS'...." I offered lamely, dumbfounded.

I was in utter shock. I had just written down female privates, right in front of them, and they didn't even blink. Didn't snicker, didn't shake their heads in disgust, didn't even seem to notice what it meant. They had attained a level of maturity in their household that I was still above me, no matter how much I pretended.

Valerie picked up the tray and shook it to begin our next round.

And I spent the rest of the evening looking for more dirty words, knowing that from now on I had free reign to do so.

I didn't find any though. Just Vulva, just that one time.

The Waffle House Experience

Ever since my kids moved to these God-forsaken swamplands outside of Charlotte, North Carolina, I have been telling them the same story about the Waffle House. It usually goes something like this when we drive by the one up the street from their house:

ME: Have I ever taken you guys to the Waffle House?
KIDS: NO!! We wanna go!
ME: No way, it's so gross!
KIDS: But you said it's funny!
ME: It is funny!
KIDS: Tell us about the waitress again!
ME: Ok, here's what happens. You sit down at the counter and you order. The waitress stands in front of you and writes it all down. And then she pivots on her heel, and without moving one single step, she shouts your order at the top of her lungs at the line cook, who is standing about five feet away from her. "SCRAMBLED EGGS! THREE STRIPS OF BACON! HASHBROWNS! BISCUITS N' GRAVY ON THE SIDE!" I don't even know why she's there. You could shout the order to the cook yourself just as easily.
KIDS: No way, you're making that up!
ME: I'm totally not making up a word of it! That's what happens!
KIDS: Then take us there and show us!
ME: No way, their food sucks!
KIDS: Pleeeeeeeeeeeease!!
ME: No!

Well, today I finally relented. The Waffle House was right up at the street, and my ever-fattening gut was craving their hashbrowns with double grease, so I figured it was time to prove to these kids that there's more to life than Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. It was time to show them the less dangerous aspects of life's gritty underbelly.

Our first disappointment came when we walked in to discover that the entire counter was already full. A suspiciously over-dressed family of 6 had arrived moments before us and spread themselves out the entire length of it, gingerly resting their elbows upon it after making the required cursory inspections for dried jam and congealed ketchup splatters.

Damn.

I really wanted my kids to have that counter experience. Instead we were going to have to make do with a booth situated in the back corner. Luckily, the "back corner" is only about 8 feet away from the counter, so at least were still within close proximity of where most of the action happened.

Our waitress could best described as a Susan Boyle, without the charm, talent, or cheery disposition. She silently took our order down on a notepad, and then turned and walked back behind the counter. My kids watched her intently without missing a step. She took the order off the pad wordlessly and handed it to the cook.

They turned on me. All 4 of them at once, with the dismayed looks of betrayal that your kids generally save for that "there is no Santa Claus " moment.

Emma, my 6-year-old, led the clamour: "She didn't yell anything."
ME: I know.
STEVIE JR.: You said she always shouts the order.
ME: Well, I didnt say always-
ETHAN: Yes you did! You said she shouts-
ME: Everytime I've come here before, every waitress has shouted-
MADDIE: She just handed it to the cook! She didn't even whisper it to him!
ME: Look, this is the first time I've been to this Waffle House. In every other Waffle House--

And then... from across the restaurant---

"SCRAMBLED EGGS!"

Four little head all snapped around at once towards the commotion.

"HASH BROWNS! COFFEE, BLACK! DOUBLE ORDER OF BACON!! TWO WAFFLES!"

The scowls of disappointment were suddenly replaced with the joyful expressions of children discovering twice as many presents as expected under the Christmas Tree.

MADDIE: Oh my Gosh, it's real!
EMMA: (In her best southern twang) SCRAMBLED AAAAIGS!
STEVIE: That was awesome!
ETHAN: ..... (Ethan was too dumbfounded to speak.)

On and on it went, throughout our entire morning there. That shrill Flo-voice, screaming at her very own Mel, standing a mere four feet away from her if he was an inch, the windows threatening to shatter from the pitch and volume of it.

It was the most magical moment of my kids' lives to date.

And more importantly, I was vindicated.

Oops, Our Bad!

So pirates are brazenly trolling the waters off the coast of Somalia, and beyond, with greater and greater tenacity and boldness. They are capturing shipping vessels and holding their crews hostage, demanding lucrative ransoms for their safe return.

Whose fault is this?

Bush's, of course! And then, after Bush, yours, if you're American.

Or so says the leftist media in this article.

Come on, don't act surprised. You knew this Day of Blame was coming. No ill can befall the world without Bush and the United States somehow being to blame for it. Rather than compelling you to read the afore-cited article, I'll sum it up for you. Two years ago, Somalia was controlled by a brutish pack of rebels. Ethiopia came to the aid of the Somalian Government and fought- and defeated- this group of rebels. America smiled upon the entire endeavor, without engaging them or firing a single shot.

So now it's America's fault.

Hey, makes sense to me.

Not that we're EXCLUSIVELY to blame. European leftists also blame the European powers-that-be in this article.

Again, let me summarize it, because it's aggravating to read for yourself.

Europeans are dumping nuclear waste off the coast of Somalia, sickening and killing the Somali people. Then the same Europeans are illegally over-fishing the same waters, somehow not getting radiation sickness from their aforementioned dumping activities. (If you sense an inconstistency here, hey, I'm right there sensing it with you.) In retaliation, Noble Somalians are taking to the High Seas to excise a "tax" upon these illegal dumpers and fishers. How? By taking the crews of unrelated ships hostage and demanding ransom. (I'm sensing that inconsistency again.)

So to summarize, whose fault is it that Somalian pirates are boarding vessels that aren't theirs, holding hostages, and demanding ransoms? Bush's, yours, and Western Europe's.

Not Somalia's.

Never the perpetrator's.

Consider yourself educated!

They Buy You, They Own You!

I wouldn't regard myself as an alarmist. While I'm not a big Obama fan, I've stayed largely silent since he took office. I figured it was only fair to give the guy a while and see what he could do with it.

Well, kudos to him! I'm truly in awe. I never thought we'd become Socialist so quickly, and I lay all the credit at his Stalinist feet, with a tip of the hat to Bush and the gang for so effectively facilitating the transition before he took office.

I don't think I need to rehash the entire economic mess we find ourselves in for all of you reading. We're all painfully aware of it. A lot of us (myself excluded) are angry at a lot of people. Big executives of banks and auto firms seem to be the target of choice these days- well paid, smug, silk suits, private jets- and here we sit from day to day, wondering if we'll get a pink slip, while they collect multi-million dollar bonuses for a job poorly done.

That's easy to get pissed about! And when you're that pissed off, and someone comes along and bitch-slaps the moneymakers around a little, you kinda want to cheer them on.

Look at what's really happened, though.

First, the Obama administration set a salary cap of $500K for executives of corporations taking bailout money. You cheered, because you always thought they made too much anyway. You ignored the obvious- if they set their salaries where they think they ought to be, and we stay mum, they can one day set ours where they feel ours ought to be, also- whether you feel that's high enough or not.

Later on, the Obama administration decided that if GM wanted bailout money, then their CEO, Rick Wagoner, had to go. I'm pretty sure this is the first time the President of the United States has fired an executive of a private company. (Of course, it's hardly a private company anymore, right?) Once again, cheers from many of you, but it seemed a lot more people were a lot more surprised this time around. In fact, a lot of people who were supposed to be cheering were actually starting to sound a little alarmed. Maybe unsettled at this new trend. But not enough to complain too loud, since they thought he kinda deserved it, too.

If he can fire Mr. Wagoner of GM, though, Obama can one day fire you, too, if you're not walking in lockstep with his agenda. Remember that.

But now the most unsettling news of all has come to light. Are you ready for this one?

All of these Obama-moves thus far were based upon the premise that, hey, you companies voluntarily took Government funds to stay afloat, so now the Government gets to call the shots to make sure you don't screw up again. However, it's now coming to light that in some instances, companies that were already staying afloat just fine on their own were forced to take bailout funds (by Bush!), and that Obama is refusing repayment of those funds!

Now why is that? Isn't it a good thing to do, to encourage these companies to repay what we've lent them as soon as possible, so we can recoup our squandered tax funds and rescue our economy?

No. Not if that means giving up power, dumbass! And Obama, who until a couple of months ago had never really run anything before in his life, is really enjoying this whole new Running-The-Entire-World gig. Don't look for him to let any of it go anytime soon.

Once again, I want to reiterate that I hate writing this particular post at all. I hate people who tell me we're on a "slippery slope" and who raise false alarms at every new government policy. But we're not on a slippery slope this time. We've already slid to the bottom. And nobody's up there anymore to throw us a proverbial rope.

But hey, enjoy the New World Order! It looks like it'll be quite an experience!

DO SOMETHING, QUICK!

Hey, did I get this right, what I heard a couple of hours ago?

Did the House of Representatives of the United States of America just pass a TRILLION DOLLAR SPENDING BILL, 1100 PAGES LONG, without even READING IT FIRST?

No.... That's a joke, right? I mean, what congress in its right mind would take a deficit-laden public like ours, and dump another TRILLION DOLLARS of debt in our laps? That can't be right. Surely, I misheard.

Oh, ok, see? I was wrong. It's only $787 billion, not a trillion.

Holy crap, wait... that's still an assload of money.

But wait, I didn't see this either- it's a stimulus package! Ooooooh, that's ok then!

I mean, sure, it's gonna cost us three quarters of a trillion dollars, but that's LATER. Right NOW, we're going to get all kinds of good things out of this. Jobs, for example! Some of us get to keep our jobs, others get to get new jobs! (Which is a good thing, since our taxes are going to be giving our bank accounts a high colonic pretty soon to pay for this thing.)

And these are great jobs- the ones you've dreamed of since you graduated from college with your MBA! These are CONSTRUCTION jobs!

Hot damn, grab a shovel, neighbor, you and I are gonna build some roads and bridges!

Er, at least, I think we are.

I guess I'm not really sure.

Nobody read this thing before they voted on it, after all.

Not my congressman, not yours, not anybody's.

Not Speaker-of-the-House Nancy Pelosi, either, but she's on her way to Rome for 8 days now, so I'm sure she'll read it on the plane.

But come on, relax, people, this is the GOVERNMENT we're talking about, what have they ever screwed up?

These are the people that gave us longer lines, toothpaste and water confiscation, and granny-wanding at the airport check points.

They also gave us last summer's highly successful Wall Street bailout package- you know, the one that saved our economy- er, uh... I mean, the one that saved your house from foreclosure- er, uh, wait...

Well, the government gave us the DMV, and that's still functioning like a well-oiled machine.

So naturally, I trust them with every single dime I have made so far in my life, as well as every dime I will ever make, and most of what my kids will make, too. Not that I have any choice. Because if you think this stimulus package is the panacea to our economic woes, just wait till you see what they come up with 6 months from now when it fails!

Uncle Don

Recently, in the midst of one of the worst winters of my life, I found myself desperately seeking some refuge from what seemed like an unending assault upon my happiness and good senses.

Then it hit me- I was in Riverside, California, and Uncle Don lived just an hour and forty-five minutes or so south of me. And Uncle Don? That guy was a walking party.

Don was my mother's oldest brother, and had been a truck driver for as long as I can remember. Every so often, his trucking route would take him through our neck of the woods in New England, and few things shocked the house with excitement like a surprise visit from Uncle Don! He did things that, as a kid, we found to be exciting and rebellious, like telling slightly-off-color stories, and drinking COFFEE! Black, no less! (Keep in mind, I'm from a family of staunch Mormons.)

As I grew older, though, and went through some of life's more egregious crapstorms, I came to understand Uncle Don on a far deeper and more personal level than I had as a child. I was divorced, he was divorced. I had had my time away from the church, and so had he. We were kindred spirits in a way.

But this understanding was from a distance, still. I mean, I rarely ever saw him. A lunch every so often in Salt Lake City, when he was up visiting his sisters, or maybe a family reunion or a funeral, but other than that, he was a name mentioned anecdotally when I talked to Mom.

Well, I was going to change that a little. I gave Don a call and told him I wanted to come down for a visit, and he was ecstatic about the idea. We spent a good ten minutes on the phone as he told he how to get there. I thought about cutting him off and telling him I could find it on my phone's GPS, but even giving directions, every other sentence was interrupted with a joke and a chuckle of laughter, so I let him go on, writing it all down as he went, the old fashioned way.

I pulled up to his place on Saturday morning. It was a long row of apartments in an over-55 community, and I crawled through the parking lot slowly, unable to see any numbers, and wondering how in the hell I was going to find him. That proved not to be a problem, though. Don was standing outside his aprtment with a gaggle of adoring old women gathered around him. I shook my head and laughed, admiring how he still had it at the ripe old age of 82.

As I walked up to him, he took my hand in a firm handshake and introduced me to the neighborhood ladies. "This is my nephew Steve," he said proudly, and the doting crowd of fans all chattered excitedly, more to suck up to him than out of any excitement to see me. Don had a big grin on his face, but not the kind that comes from egotistical pride from the admiration of a few women. No, rather, it was the smile of a man who knows that while the attention is flattering, he doesn't need it to know that he's still something. Don was amused by their attention more than anything.

As he chased away the old hens and led me into his apartment, his first question was, "Well, are you staying the night?" I hesitated for the briefest of moments. I really hadn't been planning on it, but damn it, I had been here for five minutes and was already having such a good time, that I said, "I sure am!"

And so we had a blast. I wish I could go into detail about every moment of that weekend down there at Don's. We drove all around his town, and he pointed all kinds of things out to me. We saw the house he had lived in for thirty years. He had a story about every house, every neighbor, every place we passed.

Now I know what you're thinking- oh jeeeeeeez, old people stories! But no, these were DON stories. These were good!

Like this one:

"You see that pole there by the house? When your Aunt J was fooling around with that damned dentist in town, he used to park his car over there because there were no lights on that side of the house, and he figured he could sneak in without being seen. Well, those neighbors over there? (he points across the street) They came out in the middle of the night and let all of the air out of his tires. (He laughs, as if this is the funniest thing he has ever heard in his life.) All 4 of them! (He laughs again, harder and longer this time.)" We continued on down the block, for a new house and a new story.

That was my weekend with Don. I found out more about him- his life, his family, his marriage, his business, his time fighting in WWII, his friends from the war, his brothers and sisters- than I had ever know before. We went out to eat at his favorite places, took a drive up into the mountains to see some of his favorite sights, had lunch at the local Indian casino, and we even got out the boomerangs he had bought in Australia and took them over to the local school yard to see if we could figure out how to make the damn things come back to us. (Incidentally, we never did.)

That weekend with Uncle Don was exactly what I needed. It's amazing how being with a family member can bring light back into your soul like that, especially when you're with someone who has been through the ringer himself, and survived it, and came out ok on the tale end after it.

One of my best memories from this weekend was a conversation we had about faith. See, that's where Don and I had dissimilar stories; he stayed away from the church for the most part, whereas I went back to it as quickly as I could. He told me his views of the church when he was telling me about how he'd hide from the local missionaries. Here's what he had to say about it:

"Oh," he said over dinner, "I suppose I felt bad about how I gave those missionaries the run-around, but after a while, I just stopped coming to the door when they came over to visit me. See, they were barking up the wrong tree with me. They needed to be out looking for people who didn't believe in the church. But I DO believe in the church. See, I already KNOW it's true. I just don't go, that's all. They didn't need to be wasting their time with me."

As much as I wish I could have seen him make his way back into the church some day, I guess it's enough for me to know that he never doubted it, no matter how much trouble he may have had living it.

Saturday night, we swung by my cousin Michelle's place, to see her Christmas lights. Don loved those lights, and he adored his daughter Michelle, as well as her husband and her two little girls. And he thought their Christmas lights that year were about the coolest thing he had ever seen. We stopped by, took them in, said hi to Michelle, snapped a couple of pictures, and then we were on our way.

As we drove away, I got a glimpse of how magnanimous Don could be. "See, Michelle was talking about her job as a teacher once, and I said to her, Michelle, if you can be half the teacher your mother was, you'll be a success. See, Steve, as much as I have to say about your Aunt J, I have to give her one thing. She was an amazing teacher. She really knew how to reach out to those kids. Oh, how they cried when she retired!"

Don didn't have to share that with me. But he did, and he went out of his way to do it, too, more than once over the course of the weekend. He may not have enjoyed his marriage very much, but he was a big enough man to have seen the good in his ex-wife, and a big enough man to go out of his way to point it out to others.

Sunday afternoon, when I loaded up in my car to head home, he came out to see me off. I gave him one of those man-hugs, half-handshake and half-hug, and we spoke for a little bit, and then, as I was climbing into the car to leave, he said to me, "Well, Steven, I'm glad you came down. That was a lot of fun! We're going to have to do this again sometime, maybe when your cousin Chip comes down in a few weeks!"

"Sure thing, Uncle Don, I'll be in touch! Let's plan on it!"

It just wasn't to be. Uncle Don passed away a couple of days ago in a car accident on I-15, just outside of Rancho Cucamonga, not 20 miles from me here. It was quick, and unexpected, a total fluke of an accident for a man who had spent his entire life driving all over the country, logging literally millions of miles in his time. But that's how life goes.

I'm glad I got to see the old guy before he left us. Uncle Don was a one-of-a-kind, and was dearly loved by all of us, and by me, personally. We'll miss you, Uncle Don. I'll miss you.

The Obama Baseline

Well, here we are, a day away from a new President. Exciting, huh? I, myself, find it hard to believe that 8 years of Bush have gone by so fast, but POOF! They're gone, like a puff of dandelion dander in the wind.

Now, we all know what's going to happen about 2 years from now. Republicans of all stripes and flavors are going to come crawling out of the woodwork, jockeying for their chance to take the pole position in the 2012 race for President. Jindall of Louisiana, Crist of Florida, Palin of Alaska, Romney of Uta-er, uh, Massachuetts... expect a list of about 15 of them, all testing the waters to see if a run is even feasible.

They're all going to be asking you the same question:

"Are you better off now than you were in 2008?"

What an aggravating question. Who ever remembers? We're so short sighted! I mean, how many of you remember that when McCain secured the Republican nomination, National Security was a bigger deal than the economy was? Pffft, none of you. How many of you remember that is was just about a year ago that the mortgage market went into a freefall? None of you! We're in such a here-and-now society these days that it's hard for us to fathom how things used to be anymore, we only see how they ARE, and assume that must be how they always were.

So I'm providing you with a service today: A baseline you can use to judge the Obama Presidency. As of today, the last day of the Bush era (please, please, hold your applause...), here is where we stand as a nation:

Unemployment currently stands at a national rate of 7.2%.

Gas Prices stand at a national average price of $1.82 a gallon.

Oil is trading at $34.63 a barrel on the New York Mercantile Exchange.

The Dow Jones Industrial Average is at 8281.22, and the NASDAQ is at 1529.33.

The Median Sales Prices for Existing Homes, by region, is: $242,500 for the West; $154,500 for the South; $142,400 for the Midwest; and $257,700 for the Northeast.

The Consumer Confidence Index currently stands at 38.

National averages for some common consumer items are as follows: Milk, $3.82/gallon. Ground beef, $2.86/lb. 5-lb. bag of potatoes, $3.36. Apples, $1.51/lb. 5-lb. bag of flour, $2.46. Cheddar Cheese, $4.76/lb. Bacon, $3.37/lb.

In the Middle East, we still have 144,000 troops in Iraq as of August 2008; 4223 troops have been killed in Iraq as of January 2009. Obama ran on a promise to bring all troops home within 16 months.

Israel and Hamas are currently observing a cease-fire after a three-week offensive into the Gaza Strip by Israel, which was spurred by rocket attacks on Israeli settlements by the Palestinians, prior to and during the offensive.

The national mood seems to be pessimistic, with everyone wondering if they'll still have a job tomorrow.

And everyone's having a fit about the First Black President being sworn in.

Ok, HappyBack, great blog, but a little boring... can you spice it up a little?

Sure, here's a picture of some hot chicks looking at cars. Hey, whaddya want from me? Statistics are statistics. You want stimulation, go see a Scorcese film.

Your Super Bowl Bet. Guaran-Freakin'-Teed.

Victory follows me.

It stalks me across this great nation like a private investigator looking for a child support evader. Like a craxy ex-girlfriend determined to make me love her again by boiling my rabbit on the stove.

It is relentless.

Here's how it works: When I move somewhere, and then LEAVE, their sports team, if it's any good to begin with, will win the Championship the following season.

Early in the decade, I was living and working in Masschusetts. I left and moved to Tampa. New England won the Super Bowl.

I moved from Tampa to Las Vegas. Tampa won the Super Bowl.

I got divorced, my ex moved back to Massachusetts, and I started flying back there a lot and spending time with the kids.

New England wins another couple of Super Bowls.

In late 2004, I lived in the Pittsburgh area. I left; Pittsburgh won the next year's Super Bowl.

At the same time, I was living in Cincinnati quite a bit. Cincinnati sucks. I wasn't going to help them out any. Remember, the team has to be good to start with!

But Indianapolis, just about an hour away from Cincy? They won the next Super Bowl.

This has happened with Hockey Teams, Baseball Teams, over and over.

Last year, I spent 5 months in Phoenix.

Count on the Cardinals to take it all.

Now if they DO, and you didn't BET ON IT, don't come whining to me. I set you up for a great pay-out.

I want half the winnings if you do, though. Come on, it's only fair.

Fishing

So a friend of mine started writing something on her Facebook wall recently about how she wants to write a book called "How To Catch the Elusive Fish."

Naturally, this is a metaphorical title, and this book would actually be a how-to guide for catching a man.

Her friends started piling on with suggestions for chapter titles. CHAPTER 1: What worked yesterday isn't working today. CHAPTER 5: This fish is a fresh-water species, so what's he doing in salt water? CHAPTER 6: The Art of Catch and Release.

Sheri countered with her own Chapter suggestion: CHAPTER 7: Location, Location, Location... excerpts: "Location is key. Avoid popular places you may find other anglers"...."Beware of fish in Provo waters. They seem tasty enough, sure, however they swim in the same circles and refuse to leave the pond....You can still catch a great fish in warm weather, for example in AZ. Of course this requires movement because they swim faster in shallow water, eat less, and they tend to be indifferent to common lures...."

All of this was a lot of fun. It's natural to compare dating and its foibles and follies to hunting or fishing, after all. You do tend to acquire this hunter-tracking-his-prey mentality once you've gone through a few futile relationships. We've all done it.

But it got me to thinking: What does a fisherman do once he's caught a fish?
1) If it's a pitiful little thing, he throws it back.
2) If it's big enough to eat, he kills it, skins it, guts it, cooks it up, and eats it.
3)If it's a really big fish, he kills it, shellacs it, and mounts it on the wall.

Now let's compare THAT to dating. You are the fisherman. Let's say you snag a mate. You have three choices:
1)Look him over and then throw him back;
2)get a good meal out of him; or
3)keep him as a trophy you show off to your friends, until they get sick of coming over and hearing the story of how you snagged him in the Gulf of Mexico during the Bonito run last year.

The end result? Even if you've found and mounted (no pun intended) a trophy fish, you're still pretty much alone. I mean, have you ever tried to have a meaningful talk with a mounted fish? Hell, I have seen some that SING, and they STILL can't carry on a good conversation.

I think we single thirty-somethings spend a little too much time trying to figure out how to snag a trophy fish, when what we really ought to be doing is figuring out how to breathe under water and swim.

I mean, if a fish is what you want, and a fish's companionship is what will keep you happy for the rest of your life, then you need to figure out how to relate to the fish better, instead of trying to find a good way to lure that blasted thing out of it's natural habitat.

Even if you put your captured fish in a 100-gallon tank in the living room, there's going to be a constant wall of glass between you and your beloved, as he floats around between the plastic scuba diver and mermaid, and you stand outside on dry land watching him, unable to connect with him.

No, we need to rent and watch "The Incredible Mister Limpet" and learn some sage bits of wisdom from Don Knotts. Stop trying to figure out how to trick a fish into biting your hook; pucker up, jump in and swim around with them, instead.

Or hey! Try pursuing humans!