Homeless People Bum me out...

Try as I may to be the better person and feel otherwise, I cannot shake my disdain for homeless people. Okay, cue the cacophony of boos and hisses, label me a bad guy, and bemoan my incredible lack of compassion, but in my experience, very few of these people deserve my sympathy.
See, I’ve had some pretty infuriating run-ins with homeless people. Like the time I walked past a homeless guy who held a sign that read, “Even a smile will help.” After passing by and offering my smile, I learned the hard way that his sign should have read, “If you just smile, I’ll throw a jar of urine at you.”

Or the time I gave a homeless guy “the last fifty bucks he needed to buy a bus ticket to San Francisco to be with his family at Christmas.” Thirty minutes later, I walked by the same guy on the other side of the street. He was well into a brand new case of beer and asked me to help him with “the last fifty bucks so he could buy a bus ticket to San Francisco to be with his family at Christmas.” I told him that I just gave him fifty bucks. Then he started screaming that I ‘stop kicking him.’ So, it’s true, one rotten homeless guy can ruin the whole batch.

And just today, my wife and I took our daughter to see Santa Claus. As our little girl was sitting on Santa’s lap listing all of the things she expects to see on Christmas morning, a disheveled and drunk (are there any other kind?) homeless woman ambles up beside Santa and blurts out, “Are you gonna give me a home for Christmas, fat man?” Well, thank you, drunken street bitch for ruining my daughter’s magical holiday experience. On the way home, my daughter asked, “Why did that smelly lady want a home for Christmas?” My wife shot me a ‘careful-on-this’ look but I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Because she spends too much money on gutter wine and not enough on things like soap and buildings over her head.” Not my best work, I agree, but give me a break, I was pissed and put on the spot. Besides, it was fun watching my wife explain what gutter wine is.

The bottom line is that I think most homeless people are in the situation they’re in because they’re lazy. And I have no sympathy for lazy people. Sometimes they carry signs that say, “Will work for food.” That’s a lie. I dare you to hand them a job application. Sometimes they carry signs that say, “Vietnam vet. Please help.” That’s sad if it’s true, but in order to be a Vietnam vet, you need to be older than twenty-five. And rocking an iPod doesn’t necessarily scream poverty either. And the most consistent and manipulative message on homeless peoples’ signs reads: “God Bless.” I only smile when I see this and take solace in the fact that it’s less of a sign begging for money and more of a first-class ticket to hell.

So, as a rule, I do not give money to homeless people. I believe that giving them money only fosters more apathy on their part. I believe withholding a monetary reward for doing nothing will help them see what I see… that, despite their current situation, they have marketable skills that they're actively ignoring. Think about it. If you’re homeless and you’re out on a street corner every day begging for money; that shows dedication. And even though you’re not making a lot of money, you stick with it. And that shows persistence. Lastly, you have a dog that you support on virtually no income. And that shows responsibility. Dedicated, persistent, responsible? Call me crazy, but I can think of a few McDonalds managers would recognize those attributes and say, “You're hired!”

Not that I’d want your dirty hands making my burger, but with the money I’ve saved by withholding money from you and your homeless counterparts, I can enjoy a more upscale dining experience. Bon appétit.

Viva Viagra!

One of my few pleasures in life is watching football games on Sundays. I can pour myself a cup of coffee, unfurl the newspaper and settle in for a few hours of relaxation and enjoyment. Even our little girl understands that daddy ‘needs to get his football on’ and, on her best days, she’ll even settle in beside me and try to understand why daddy can get so excited or upset over something that happens on TV. Daddy reads the paper. Daughter doodles in her coloring book. Men beat each other’s heads in on TV. All is right with the world. At least it was until yesterday.

During a commercial break, a familiar tune on a TV commercial caught my attention. The ad featured a group of middle-aged men, sitting in a room, playing an acoustic version of Elvis Presley’s “Viva Las Vegas.” Only it wasn’t “Viva Las Vegas.” No, the otherwise innocent lyrics had been bastardized to pawn an erectile dysfunction drug. Awesome.

Now, having a child, I’ve developed a skill for changing the channel on a moment’s notice, if the programming seems like it could scare her or otherwise evoke questions that can wait, oh, ten years, before I need to answer. But this commercial completely ambushed me. I like Elvis. I like the song “Viva Las Vegas.” No need to change the channel for that. Stupid me. As the song hits the chorus, the group of men in the commercial sing, “Viva Viagra, viva Viagra. Viva, viva Viagra!” (At this point, you have to suspend disbelief that a group of men would ever get together, break out their favorite musical instrument and sing about an erection pill. Maybe I’m alone, but I have never, ever, ever done that.)

I held my breath. Maybe my fears of an awkward encounter would prove to be unfounded. Then I heard the announcer list a string of disclaimers, “Men experiencing an erection lasting longer than four hours should see a doctor,” and “Ask your doctor if your heart is safe for sex.”

My daughter looked up from her coloring book and watched the commercial with greater interest. I, in turn, watched her with greater interest. The commercial ended, my little girl continued looking at the TV for a second, and then went obliviously back to her Hello Kitty coloring book. I exhaled audibly. The football game started again and I went back to my coffee and Sports section.

Two minutes later, I hear my sweet little girl’s perfect pitch voice singing: “Viva Viagra. Viva Viagra…” After initial horror, I chose again to ignore it. Ignore it and it goes away, right? Wrong. Apparently, catchy limp-dick jingles stick to toddler’s brains. When she was still singing the damn song a half an hour later, I decided that corrective action needed to be taken.

I took a minute to carefully plot my course. After all, it’s not like your parents, friends, or any child-rearing book prepares you for this situation. I launch into my solution. “You know, sweetheart, that song you’re singing is actually a pretend song that those men made up. They changed the words to one of daddy’s favorite songs. The real words are: (singing) “Viva Las Vegas…” Now, I’m no singer and for good reason. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. So singing my ‘favorite’ version of this song certainly wasn’t making my case any stronger. And I couldn’t compete with the guys in the commercial. I mean, my buddies weren’t beside me harmonizing as we gleefully extolled the happy benefits of a rigid hard-on.

My daughter tolerated my painful rendition for a moment, and then hit me back with a shrug and: “I like “Viva Viagra” better." I knew that that was my one and only shot. Any more harping on my part and you can bet she’d be singing about Viagra to her kindergarten teachers and classmates in the morning. Besides, I should have really considered myself lucky. My daughter didn’t ask, “Daddy what’s an erection?” OR: “Daddy, what’s sex?” OR: “Daddy, why could that pill lead to problems with your vision or give you a four-hour rock hard woody?” Okay, I’m getting carried away, but you see my point!

As a society, are we really okay with allowing pharmaceutical companies to market directly to us? These commercials presume that there is no one better qualified to diagnose our body’s inadequacies than ourselves. And that’s simply not true. Because we as humans are idiots. Because very few have a medical degree. Because there are way too many of us who will pop a pill before we’ll ever look into a mirror and admit that a change in diet or lifestyle might do more good than any pill ever could.

No, some things need to be controlled by people other than ourselves. Those people are called doctors. Let’s allow them to do their jobs. In the mean time, I’m going to write my senators and representatives and have them introduce legislation to eliminate pharmaceutical ads from TV.

I know it’ll never happen. I just can’t help but shudder at the image of my little girl doodling in her coloring book, singing: “Viva Viagra.” My wife argues that our daughter is oblivious to what she’s singing and that it’s harmless. I disagree. It adds to my parental anxiety, which raises my blood pressure, which strains my heart, which may eventually lead to my premature death. You got a pill for that, Pfizer?

Shitty People at a Concert…

I don’t go to a lot of concerts. In fact, prior to last week, the last concert I went to was Pearl Jam at the L.A. Forum. No, that’s not a typo… I said the L.A. Forum – the former home of the Lakers and the building that is now… a church. Seriously, look it up. Anyway, I went to the Pearl Jam concert, not so much because I was a fan, but because the girl I was dating at the time was a huge Eddie Vedder fan. I was hoping her Vedder-lust would at least garner me some tangential action. I’m not one to kiss and tell, but… Thank you, Eddie Vedder. Huh, I guess I do kiss and tell.

There are a number of reasons I don’t go to a lot of concerts. Part of it has to do with the fact that I’m not a huge ‘music’ or ‘bands’ guy. An even bigger reason is that I’m really not a ‘crowds’ guy. But the most likely explanation is, in my experience, shitty people go to concerts.

Now, if know me at all, you know that, in general, I believe people are predominantly shitty. It might be my somewhat anti-social behavior or my quick-to-judge assessment of all things ‘not me,’ but this concert had a higher concentration of shitty people than your average, run-of-the-mill gathering. But before I go any further, I know you’re wondering: ‘what makes people shitty?’ The definition is somewhat fluid and based entirely on my own cynical observations and harsh criticisms, but I generally judge these people based on two criteria: “How you look” and “How you act.” I’ll use the people at the concert as examples.
To put the evening into some context, I guess I should tell you it was an Eagles concert, and that, of course, was awesome. It was the Eagles. How could it not be? That said many in the crowd seemed subdued, disinterested or otherwise indifferent to the experience around them.

“How you act”

The woman in front of us was covering her ears and eventually put in ear plugs. Surprise, it’s a rock concert! Who knew it was gonna be loud? Halfway through the show, she was rocking back-and-forth like an autistic kid riding shotgun at a NASCAR race.

And it wasn’t just the sound that was a problem for her. After a few flashes of light from the stage, she donned her Chanel sunglasses and shielded herself from the light, burying her head into her boyfriend’s armpit.

When the Eagles played “Hotel California,” you could see several puffs of pot smoke rise up above the crowed. A woman beside my wife, waved the smell away from her nose, looked at her husband and whined: “Ew, is that pot?” I wanted to yell, “No, that’s me. I ate my hemp underwear for dinner. Sorry.”

While some people appeared bothered and inconvenienced to be there, there were some of people who were way too excited about everything. After Don Henley sang, “Boys of Summer,” and the crowd had started to settle down, the guy beside me yelled to his wife: “Holy shit, he fucking nailed it!” Hard to argue with that, I suppose. But of course he nailed it. He’s Don Henley. I think it’s a safe bet that he ‘nails it’ quite often.

Lastly, was the guy who came back and said, “Have you been to the pissers yet? There’s like a hundred of them. How awesome is that?!” Oh, it’s awesome. And so, my shitty concert goer, are you.

“How you look”
There were a lot of 50+ year-old women sporting leather, ill-fitting jeans, bad tattoos, and, in what I’m sure was a blow to concession sales, unnecessarily exposed cleavage.

There was a sizable share of mullets, because apparently that hairstyle has become resistant to scissors and immune to ridicule after all these years. Some even braided their mullet, proving to the rest of us that they knew how to ‘dress it up.’

Lastly, in a shocking indictment of our country’s health, there were lots and lots of fat people. And I’m not talking casually overweight. These were enormous, bordering on disgusting people. The women behind us fidgeted loudly, complaining: Fat Girl #1: “What are these? Wedding chairs?” Fat girl#2: “I know I barely fit in these.” Overhearing, my wife and I looked at the ample leftover space in our own seats. We were using about $160 of our $280 seats. (Yeah, we dropped some cash.)

These women also uttered my favorite ‘shitty people at a concert’ line of the evening.
When the Eagles launched into “Desperado,” and the crowd roused to their feet, the woman behind us muttered: “Uch, we’re standing again?” Yes, you heifer, we’re standing. Because these are the Eagles. They are legendary. I will stand. Oh, and just so you know… your seat does have armrests. It’s under your side fat. And now that you’re standing, I feel compelled to tell you that everyone else’s seat springs back up when they stand. Your poor seat is sprung, begging for mercy and hoping for a Hannah Montana concert where a 42 pound 8-year old girl will give it a reprieve from your tonnage.

Thank You For Giving Me The Plague…

Can you feel it? Autumn is in the air. Okay, I know what you’re thinking: “Yes, I can feel it, and I especially love idle chit-chat about seasonal weather. I love weather so much I even got Al Roker on my fantasy meteorology team.” Point taken, you sarcastic stooge.

The bummer about the reappearance of cooler weather is that it spawns a whole new breed of germs and bacteria which in turn leads to people getting sick, which leads to me getting sick. But I’ll deal with it. I’ll be a petulant, whiny baby about my illness, but I’ll deal with it.

All I ask in return is for a bit of help, that those of you who are already sick exhibit just a touch of personal accountability and respect for your fellow human. If you’re sick, don’t shake my hand, cover your mouth when you cough, and keep your kids out of school when something resembling Shrek is dripping from their nose.

If this simple edict isn’t clear, let me share a story of how not to handle yourself when you’re sick. Today I was at the post office – a place I loathe anyway – but this trip was infinitely more maddening than normal. A young woman was in line immediately in front of me, talking on her cell phone (I could go off on that point alone, but I haven’t the energy.) Her eyes were runny, her nose was red and she was sniffling and coughing incessantly in between inane conversation.

Her phone conversation went a little like this:

“… no I can’t today, I’m incredibly sick… no, it’s not the flu, it’s in my head and my chest but I feel worse than I ever have in my life...”

At this point she lets out a bone-rattling and phlegm-filled cough as the rest of us in line exchanged looks, pulled their shirt collars over their mouth, and generally took three steps away. The phone call continued…

“… no, mom, remember when I had that bronchitis thing when I was a senior? Well, this is worse... like pneumonia or something. The doctor told me to stay inside and away from people because it’s so contagious.”

Now I’m wondering who this chick thinks we are, or at least what we are, because clearly, in her estimation, we are not ‘people,’ otherwise she wouldn’t risk infecting us, right? More phone call…

“… no, my roommate has it, too. I have three gallons of orange juice in my fridge to help us recover, so I’m gonna take it easy and get better because I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

So, to be clear, the equation is: “me” < “worst enemy.” About now she goes into a two-minute coughing frenzy. Initially, wheezing into her hand, then, as she buckled over, she muffled the cough in her sleeve, and finally, when she could catch a breath, she quelled it with a refreshing deep sip from her steaming Starbucks vente caramel macchiato. Well played, horrible person. Well played.

As I took in the eyes of my fellow postal patrons, I could see that we were all envisioning our weekend on our respective couches cursing this modern-day leper and her germs. I wanted to leave, but I knew that the odds were high that I was already infected. No, I was out of options and now jones-ing for some Purell. I needed to pour it directly into my nostrils. I needed to gargle it. I decided that if, when I get home, we I was out of Purell, I would douse myself in rubbing alcohol and set a lit match to myself, because I did not want this Ebola.

Anyway, back to this chick… she’s next in line and waved up by the postal clerk. And what do you think could have been so important that she needed to risk infecting the general population? A book of stamps and a money order for $3.00. I kid you not! You could hear the audible groan from everyone in line. I wanted to yell, “Need to catch up on your correspondence before you curl up on your death bed, do ya?” ‘Dear Grandma, just a quick note to let you know that I am patient zero, and also that I was beaten nearly to death at the post office today.’

And what’s with a money order for three dollars? The reason you buy a money order is because you don’t want to send cash in the mail. If three dollars gets lost in the mail, guess what? Its three dollars! We’re doomed folks. Doomed. And I just got a tickle in my throat. Great.

I Need A Shower...

Guess what my wife and I did this weekend. Romantic dinner for two? No. Movie night? (Obviously some of you did not read my “thoughts” on movie nights.) A great concert? Wrong again. Let me help you out because I sincerely doubt that you’ll guess this one. My wife and I went to a friend’s baby shower – a co-ed baby shower. Oh, you read that correctly. It’s a baby shower where both husband and wife or boyfriend and girlfriend are invited and expected to attend. And, guys, you better get ready because your turn is coming. Co-ed baby showers are all-the-ridiculous rage sweeping L.A. and other metropolitan areas around the country.

It’s bad enough that our wives and girlfriends have hi-jacked the word “co-ed” – a term that used to epitomize light, sexy fun. (Remember “co-ed dorms” or “co-ed pool parties” or “co-ed beach volleyball?” Yeah, well, thanks to co-ed baby showers, the blood is officially out of that penis.) But now the female ‘powers-that-be’ want to include us men in what was always intended to be a female-only tradition.

Prior to attending one myself, all the reports I got from my female friends was that baby showers are events that even they loathe attending, regardless of how close they are to the mom-to-be. The format is always the same… lame guessing games, forced fawning over the mom-to-be, all followed by two-plus hours of gift opening. By the time you get to your fourth set of burping cloths and seventh “Babies ‘R Us” gift certificate, you’re absolutely ready to kill yourself. But because the mom-to-be’s house was baby-proofed six months prior to junior arriving, there’s not a sharp object, mini-blind cord or available electrical outlet available to help ease your pain.

I guess my biggest beef with all of this is that I see it as an affront to manhood. It used to be that when our wife or girlfriend went to a baby shower, it gave us guys complete license to “be a guy” for the day. We’d watch a football game with our hand in our pants, foregoing a shower, drinking beer and loudly and proudly filling the room with our scent. Not anymore. Those glory days are over.

So, how’d we get here? The best I can figure… women finally realized that the tradition of the baby shower was sincerely overrated, and, because they were jealous of their husband’s/boyfriend’s “day off,” they decided to drag us into the fray to share their pain. And it is painful… Unless, of course, you enjoy playing games like “Guess The Baby Food,” where you pass around a half dozen jars of baby food with their labels removed, and whoever correctly guesses the most flavors, wins! (Yay!) Or how about “Pin The Baby On The Mommy” – a very clever twist on “Pin The Tail On The Donkey.” Hell, who needs that USC / UCLA game? I just planted my paper baby right on cardboard mommy’s uterus! (The poor sap next to my thought he won when he stuck his baby on mommy’s vagina. Sorry, numb-nuts that is not where the baby resides… You, sir, are a loser!)

Upon further reflection, I've changed my previous theory. See, guys will bring their competitive nature to everything they do. I believe that this is what our female counterparts are counting on. They know that someday soon, this competitiveness will lead to an all-out co-ed baby shower brawl and ruin someone’s special day. Word will then get out that co-ed baby showers are simply a bad idea. People could get hurt. This will end co-ed baby showers, and presumably – after trying and failing to regain traction – it will also kill ‘women-only’ baby showers.

Society would just go back to the basics… the bare bones. Mom and dad would start a baby registry and let the gifts flow in with no fanfare… but no bloodshed.

The problem is that we guys still lose. No “women-only” baby showers also means no more “Be-A-Guy” day. So, I suggest that we strike a deal, ladies. You promise to continue to sink your teeth into the dirty teething toy that is the women-only baby shower. And we guys promise that – after our ‘guy days,’ we’ll shower, clean up our mess and Fabreeze the living room before you get home. That seems fair.

A Night At The Movies...

The other night, my wife and I had plans to go to our local movie theater to enjoy one of our quasi-standing date nights. For me, these nights are always wrought with stress and anxiety simply based on how much this quality time is going to cost us. Something you should all know about me: I’m inherently cheap. I love my wife dearly – but I am cheap.

Let’s start with the babysitter. She’s a mature, responsible college student who is great with our little girl, so it only seems fair that we pay her the going L.A. babysitting rate of: $12 an hour. It is with increasing frequency that I find myself questioning the cost of things like this. I have, in fact, become my father. I think to myself: “When I was a kid, my parents gave the neighbor girl, like, ten bucks for the night. And there were three of us kids. And my parents would be gone for upwards of six hours. Compare that with my wife and I who have one five-year old who’s in bed by eight o’clock – approximately 30 minutes after we leave for the movie. So basically, our babysitter makes $36 for a half an hour of child care and 2 ½ hours of catching up on her Tivo’d shows. Yes, she Tivo’s shows at our home. Either that or my wife has a newfound affinity for Bret Michaels and VH1’s “Rock of Love.” Hmmm.

I’ve learned to try to keep my blood pressure in check when it comes to babysitting costs. After all, what are my options? Although a locked door and a stern: “Do not come out of that room for any reason, young lady,” has crossed my mind on a few occasions. (Hey, $36 bucks is $36, Rockefeller.)

Our local theater burned down a year ago. I would have thought that insurance would have paid to rebuild it, but since they’re charging $14 per ticket, I’m guessing someone missed a premium payment or two along the way. Why else are ticket prices so high? The rebuilt theater isn't even that great. The only other difference I could spot between the old theater that burned down and the new one is that the marquis now spells “theater” in the old English “theatre” implying the new building is somehow fancier now. At any rate, my wife and I are fifteen minutes into our date night and I’m already out $64.

Next, my wife must, must, must have popcorn when we go to the movies. She says its part of the whole movie-going experience. It’s an indulgence I happily agree to. After all, if we get home early enough, and the movie isn’t some “based-on-a-true-Holocaust-survival-story,” I just might parlay my financial expenditure into some real (insert lurid adjective here) marital action later on.

My wallet is out again. Seven bucks for a small popcorn. A small popcorn. And my wife won’t get the medium for $7.50, because it’s unreasonable. Don’t get her started on the $8.00 large! Heck, in my mind, for an extra buck, we can both stuff ourselves like pigs, and I get to keep the container – which doubles nicely as a handy oil pan with which I can drop my car’s oil the next day. (I am not paying $60 for an oil change.) Nonetheless, I fork over my credit card for the second time in as many footsteps, because I might as well earn that coach-class companion ticket while we’re here.

When we get into the theater, I’m fuming -- angrily trying to figure out where ‘they’ get off charging this kind of money for what I’m already convinced will be a terrible movie. There’s a sign on the wall that says, “Please pick up after yourself.” Now they’ve gone too far. See, I believe that my $14 entry fee has, in effect, given me complete license to not clean up after myself. In fact, I will make a sincere effort to ensure someone will be earning the hourly salary that my $14 ticket is clearly paying. If I drop some popcorn, it’s staying on the floor. When I’m done with my popcorn bag and napkins (of which I’ve taken enough to mop up, oh, Lake Michigan), I’ll leave them on the floor as well. Hell, if I’m enjoying the movie and I need to pee, I might forgo the restrooms altogether and just — Okay, I wouldn’t. But only because I’m not quite sure of the acrobatic position I’d need to conceal my actions while simultaneously not peeing on myself.

As we wait for the movie to start, my wife offers me some popcorn. I take a handful – or what I calculate to be seventy-cents worth. Now, I distinctly remember the sign above the popcorn machine saying, “Hot” and “Freshly popped,” and for $7 you’d think you’d at least get “hot,” or “freshly” or even “popped.” But my first bite verifies that none are true. To make matters worse, I cracked a filling on an un-popped ‘old maid.’

Let me digress for just a moment, because the description of ‘old maid’ is really kind of repulsive when you think about it. Stay with me: A generation or two ago, a woman who never married was referred to as an ‘old maid.’ A popcorn kernel that never pops is also called an ‘old maid.’ So, would logical deduction lead us to believe that these unmarried women of yesterday were simply ladies who had never been, ahem, popped? Ladies and gentleman, I have nibbled at my last ‘old maid.’

Well, the rest of the night was a disaster, what with me whining about money and the need for remedial dental work. Said whining then contributed to me retaining some of my own ‘old maid’ status. (That's right. No sex.)

The next day, a $225-trip to the dentist to fix the 'old maid' damage put the night’s final bill at just under $300. At some point, you have to wonder: Wouldn’t it be easier and much less expensive to put the kid to bed, buy a DVD and pry the wife with a bottle of wine? The way I see it: that’s $4 for the Benadryl (you want the kid to stay in bed), $25 for the DVD and $20 for the bottle of wine. With very little effort, I have just saved myself nearly $250 and had what many of us would describe as a perfect evening.

And that $250 a week I save us would easily pay for a shrink to help me get over this whole “cheap” thing. I am so right on this.

Bitter Salty Sour Sweet: Fresh-Cut Flowers...

Bitter Salty Sour Sweet: Fresh-Cut Flowers...

Fresh-Cut Flowers...

Living in L.A., you quickly learn to accept the ridiculousness that bombards you on an almost daily basis. For instance, I recently learned that a friend of a friend (who happens to live in a massive beach house) employs a full-time seaweed-raker. Yes, this man’s sole job is ensure the homeowner never has see his ocean view cluttered by seaweed. My wife recently told me that the next big thing in Malibu is animal fitness trainers. My first thought: Let’s train the dogs to rake beaches. Yes, I’m a genius.

But neither of these is as ridiculous as the increasingly popular practice currently gripping Los Angeles: vaginoplasty. For those of you who can’t put together the context clues, vaginoplasty, and its equally absurd sibling, labiaplasty, are procedures where a woman enlists the services of a plastic surgeon to ‘repair’ her presumably unsightly nether region. Ladies and gentleman, I give you the eighth sign of the apocalypse.

Given the uber-image consciousness of L.A., this shouldn’t come as such a shock. For years we’ve slowly acknowledged as acceptable things like fake boobs, facelifts, calf-implants, botox injections, dermabrasion, butt implants, etc. I just think this most recent obsession might be taking things a bit too far.

Why? Because I think -- and maybe I’m alone -- that the male and female genitalia are inherently uninviting. And that’s okay. There is no Darwinian reason for a penis or a vagina to be ‘attractive.’ Oh sure, objectors will lob concerns of a healthy self esteem or a positive self image, but the fact is that these are just the tried-and-true excuses of someone who’s determined to do what they want to do.

How does someone know if their vagina is unattractive in the first place? I don’t ever recall hearing any of my buddies retelling a sex story that started: “Man, the girl I was with last night was smoking hot, but her vagina was un-a-ttractive.” Never happened. No, when it comes to the vagina, most guys are just happy to be there. Very few of us are there to sketch a drawing of it to hang above the bed.

No, men aren’t to blame. At least not directly. I actually think the real fault at least starts with porn. Stay with me. Flip through any adult magazine or website and you’ll see that women’s pubic hair is simply disappearing. Like a glacier on the south pole, the female pubic hairline is receding at a shockingly alarming rate. In many cases, ‘bald’ is the new ‘landing strip.’ This revealing trend gives all of us a very clinical look at that which was previously unknown territory. (Pull out an issue of Playboy from anytime before 1990 and you’ll know what I mean.)

With this veil of secrecy lifted, it allows women to more easily compare the appearance of their area to that of their friends’. Believe it or not, I think there are some women who, while dressing in the locker room after a workout, sneak a peak at a stranger across the room and think: “I've always liked the look of Sally’s labia. I wonder if it’s all the time she clocks in on the treadmill.”
Let me put your mind at ease, ladies. It doesn’t matter what ‘Sally’ is sporting. Your most private of parts shouldn’t all look alike. Your noses look different, your toes look different, and probably most of all of your other parts look different too. Different is good. And if you can’t find a guy who can appreciate your ‘different-ness,’ move on. Someone will. Just please, for the love of God, leave your… flowers alone.

So get the word out. If you tell a friend, who tells a friend, who tells a friend, maybe we can stop this insane practice. Sure, it might cost plastic surgeons a few bucks in lost business, but they’ll manage. Maybe they’ll be forced to fire their seaweed-raker. Sacrifices must be made.

Do Not Call

A few years ago, we were all given the opportunity to put our home telephone numbers into something called the National Do Not Call Registry. It was simple. It sounded very official, and best of all, it felt very empowering.

What was most encouraging was that the National Do Not Call Registry actually seemed to have some teeth. Should you submit your number to the database and then receive a phone call from a telemarketer soliciting your business, your money or your time, the offending company could be held legally liable and punished accordingly. Yes, it really seemed like a legitimate way for the everyman to give telemarketers the collective middle finger.

So, I registered our telephone number. And I felt very satisfied. And I rested peacefully at night knowing that my telephone number was now safely protected on a federal government website. What could go wrong? Well, about three weeks later I received a phone call from a telemarketer ostensibly selling timeshares. His ‘hook’ – and there’s always a hook, because why else would we indulge these people – was to inform me that I had won a grand prize.

Now I may have grown up on a farm, but I did not just fall off the turnip truck. We all know that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Seriously, have you ever forwarded an email to everyone in your address book and waited in vain for “something really cool to happen." Never again, I tell you. (Oh, let me take this moment to apologize to, well, everyone in my address book.) Anyway, back to my story… So, I’m annoyed that this guy is interrupting our family dinner and just generally wasting my time, so I decided to have a little fun. The conversation went like this:

Telemarketer: “Good afternoon, Mark, I’m calling you with exciting news!”
Me: “Really?! What’s that?”
Telemarketer: “Well, I’m calling on behalf of Ridiculous Timeshares Inc. (Not their real name) and you have won a grand prize in our sweepstakes!”
Me: “Wow, I don’t even remember signing up for sweep steaks. But I do love red meat!”
Telemarketer: “No, Mark, not steaks like you eat. A sweepstakes. You are eligible for one of our grand prizes: a 2007 Ford F-150, a big screen TV, or a $200 travel voucher!”
Me: “What?! I won a brand new pickup truck?! Oh, my God!!”
Telemarketer: “No, Mark, you have won one of our grand prizes, but you won’t know what it is until you attend our Grand Prize Winners Timeshare Seminar this weekend in sunny San Diego, California!”
Me: “No, that’s okay. I don’t need to do all that. I’ll take the pickup!” (Then I pretend to call off to my wife) “Honey, we just won a pickup! Woo-hoo!”

He laughs at me because I'm being ridiculous and he thinks I'm an idiot.

Telemarketer: “Well, it doesn’t exactly work like that. You need to attend our seminar, and then you find out what you’ve won. So, it could be the pickup, the big screen TV or the $200 travel voucher.”
Me: “If I have a pickup, you don’t have to give me the other stuff. Oh, thank you so much!”
Telemarketer: “You’re not understanding me, sir—”
Me: “Oh, wait, I think I do. Do I have to come and get the pickup? Because we could arrange that? I mean, it’s a free pickup, right?”

He's starting to get annoyed now.

Telemarketer: “Sir, the pickup is not a sure thing.”

Me: “Well, what is it? A Chevy or a Ford? One of them foreign jobs? (Calling off again) “Honey, it’s a foreign model, but we still won!”
Telemarketer: “Sir—”
Me: “It’s Mark. You can call me Mark. Thank you so much for this! I have never won anything in my life!”

He's nearing the end of his rope...

Telemarketer: “No, wait. You are simply eligible for a grand prize. You have to come to San Diego and come to our seminar, then we let you know what you’ve won!”
Me: “But you said I was a grand prize winner.”

Telemarketer: “You are, but you could also win a big screen TV or a travel voucher.”
Me: “Is this because I seemed less than excited about the pickup being a foreign job? Because it’s not really that big of a deal.”

Now, he's done with me.

Telemarketer: “Sir, you did not win the pickup.”
Me: “Wait. Huh? But I thought you said I did.”
Telemarketer: “No, you don’t understand how this works. I’m sorry. Have a nice day.”
Me: “No, please, just tell me what I need to do to get the pickup, man.”

And he snaps...

Telemarketer: “Sir, you’re not gonna get the pickup because you’re being a jerk.”
Me: “Whoa, me? You’re the guy who said I won a pickup, now you’re going back on your word. Not cool, dude.”
Telemarketer: “Whatever.”
Me: “Hold on, one more thing… How does it feel to have a moron waste your time?”

He's totally confused.

Telemarketer: “What?”
Me: “You have a nice day. Oh, and take me off your call list.... unless you really have a pickup to give me.”

So, the Do Not Call Registry may not have worked for me, but I have say… if I got as much enjoyment out of every telemarketing call, who needs it? You should really try it sometime. It's truly cathartic.

Incidentally, if you haven’t already put your number into the database, and you think it might be worth your time, here’s the link to the National Do Not Call Registry: http://www.fcc.gov/cgb/donotcall/

My Dog Is No Pussy...

During the eighteen years I spent on the family farm, I saw ten different dogs come and go. Only one died of old age. The rest met their fate on the dusty gravel road in front of our house, where speeding cars didn’t so much as slow down after hearing the thump that sent our family pet careening off their bumper and into an adjacent ditch. Short doggie life spans were just another sad fact of farm life.

Farm dogs are different than city dogs. Farm dogs, like their urban counterparts, are loyal and loving, but they’re also incredibly independent. An open shed door and a bowl of table scraps to return to at the end of the day were really all they required. Days would go by when we didn’t see our dogs, and it was widely assumed that they were traversing the county, taking stock of the area wildlife, scenery and, if lucky, the occasional one-night stand with a neighbor’s dog. It's the ultimate example of good work if you can get it.

When my wife and I decided we wanted a dog, several compromises needed to be made. Most notably: she wanted a housedog. I wanted a doghouse… outside. Our middle ground was to have our dog, Buddy, welcome in the house during the day, but sent packing to his canine condo at sunset. And I was serious… an old blanket and a dark box were plenty good enough for a dog. Then I remembered we got a city dog.

Okay, maybe I just grew soft, because in no time, Buddy was welcome in the house 24/7. Since we were unable to sublet his doghouse to any of the neighbors’ pets, it now sits empty, mocking my lack of resolve. Now it’s less of a doghouse and more of a creepy spider den that I wouldn’t crawl into for $500. Seriously, it’s infested and scary. I’m thinking about dousing it in gasoline and setting it ablaze.

Our dog is now eight years old. He’s everything you’d want in a canine companion: affectionate, content, loyal, and he barks with the frequency of a major league pitcher throwing a no-hitter. But he’s a housedog. The farm kid in me is embarrassed for him. He goes to the groomer once a month where he’s shampooed and blow-dried. He gets his nails clipped, and, most recently, he had his teeth brushed. That’s right… he had his teeth brushed. My fingers almost refuse to type the words.

At my wife’s insistence, he was checked in at the groomer where a part-time doggie dental hygienist set to work on Buddy’s teeth. Yes, his teeth were disgusting. They were yellow and plaque-covered and his breath smelled as if things were making a special journey to his mouth just to die. But still, he's a dog, and I hated the fact that I would have to admit to people that we were the kind of people who get our dog’s teeth cleaned.

When I went to pick Buddy up from the groomer, the owner of the dog salon told me the hygienist was just finishing up, but ‘needed to talk to me’ when she was done. Concerned by her ominous tone, I asked, “Is everything okay with Buddy?” She hesitated, then waved me off, saying, “Just… she’ll be out in a minute.”

When the hygienist came out, I noticed she was wearing doctor’s scrubs, and I knew exactly the kind of personality I’d be dealing with. See, when your career is 'part-time-dog-teeth-cleaner,' you don’t need scrubs. You need a t-shirt and maybe a pair of sweats. You probably live in a remote canyon where you have several cats and dogs. You are probably simultaneously rehabilitating several injured wild animals who were unlucky enough to set foot on your land. And you probably haven't had a date in years. And, no, lady, shopping with your sister at a craft fair is not a date.

But I digress. This woman's uniform indicated that she was someone who took her ‘career’ way too seriously. And, on cue, came the lecture. “When was the last time you had your dog’s teeth cleaned?” The honest answer was ‘never,’ but, caught off guard, I felt compelled to lie… to impress this person. “Probably about a year ago,” I said, hoping she was as inept at reading people as she was at her "career."

She went on to tell me Buddy’s gums were swollen and infected, and lifted his lips to show me. One problem: his gums weren’t swollen. “Huh, just a minute ago they were really puffy,” she said. I eyed her over. I’m not a veterinarian or even a dog dental hygienist, but I think swollen gums don’t simply disappear in minutes. Then again, I wasn’t the one wearing the scrubs, so what could I possibly know?

I was told that my dog -- nay, every dog -- needs regular cleanings every six months, a schedule even I don’t adhere to with my own teeth. Then she dropped another bomb and said, “I’ve called in some antibiotics for him. You can pick them up at your vet’s office.” I was shocked, but it taught me a valuable lesson… that apparently, absolutely anyone can call in a prescription for your dog.

I love our dog, so of course I picked up his antibiotics. But I’ve decided that this was his first and last teeth-cleaning. He’s had it far too good for too long. From now on, I’ll give him his bath and cut his nails. I might even occasionally hide his doggie bed in an effort to toughen him up. And maybe, just maybe I’ll muster the courage to bug-bomb his doghouse and reintroduce him to a life less coddled. No, my dog will be no pussy.

Deadlines...

About four months ago, my wife and I embarked on a remodeling odyssey. In the past, we've taken on other remodeling jobs at this and our first home. Experience has taught us that, whatever the project, large or small, it will inevitably take longer, cost more, and leave us angrier than even our most pessimistic expectations. Two years ago, we added a loft above our garage. The contractor said it would take four to six weeks to complete. Right. Three months later, we were waiting to see a finished product. Call me crazy, but a room needs floor covering. At our first house, we remodeled our kitchen. A six week estimate turned into another four-month journey.

Our most recent undertaking involved putting built-in bookshelves into our 'TV room,' a room aptly named because, well, it is where our TV is. (Ever notice how we name rooms for their most prominent fixture... the bathroom has a bath, the bedroom has a bed and a kitchen has -- well, that went to hell quickly.) Anyway, in addition to the bookcases, we needed flat-screen TV and electronics installation, track lighting installation, and finally painting in the completed room. All in all, a pretty simple job, and that wasn't just our opinion. The contractor said it "should only take about a week to finish the work after the bookcases are installed."

Well, in less than a week, the bookcases were built and installed --the bookcase guy was phenomenal, by the way. But this is where our nightmare began. By our estimate, we'd have use of the room in 'less than a week.' I'll spare you the details and let you know that it's now four months later and we are still not completely done with the room. I've never heard so many excuses from a contractor and his subcontractors for not showing up to finish a job. Vacations, trucks breaking down, holidays, missed phone messages, family emergencies, the weather... you name it, I heard it.

Now, I don't think my wife and I ever really expected him to meet his deadline, but I think its fair to say you can't miss a one-week deadline by four months. Call me difficult. Quite simply, there's no other occupation in the world where you can get away with being so colossally inefficient.

I'm a writer by trade. My life is dictated by deadlines. Deadlines I ALWAYS meet. Maybe that's why I give so much credibility and importance to them. If I don't meet a deadline, my reputation suffers. To me, that's important. To contractors, it is apparently not. In all my years of writing, I have never missed a deadline. Never. I can't imagine a scenario where I promise my boss a completed document in a week, only to call him, oh, two weeks after that deadline and say, "Look, man, I'm just as frustrated you are. If it was up to me, it would have been done a week ago, but my hard drive has been acting up, my spell-check had a family emergency, my printer won't answer his phone or return a call. And don't get me started on the "s" button on my laptop which seemsssss to be ssssssssticking. But know this: I will not be using the letter "s" in any of my future documents." No, I continue to work, because I try to excel at my profession and respect the notion of a deadline.

But I guess in the world of contractors and building remodelers, we homeowners are so enamoured by the finished product that we forget about the headaches along the way. Maybe. I think most people are fundamentally afraid of confrontation so, like me, they sit back, wait, listen to blatant lies and fabrications, grow angry, and wait some more.

I have never used the same contractor twice. Someday archaeologists will find the hiding spot of the Holy Grail. Someday they'll find proof of life on other planets. And maybe, just maybe someone will find a contractor who can meet a deadline. If you find one, let me know. It seems I always have a project I'm willing to overpay for. And if he turns out to be just like all the other contractors in the world? Well, I'll retaliate by writing a very unflattering blog post about him and his profession. Take that.