License to Shill

Like many children from the Northeast, my parents took us to Walt Disney World for vacation. At the beginning of the trip, everyone was full of fun and laughter - even if we left at three in the morning. The promise of sunny skies, sweet smells and giant, white-gloved rodents was enough to turn an adolescent's stomach into cotton candy. Being awake at that time of night (or day, depending on your collective unconscious) is surreal. Gas station lights look like oases, the navy firmament of the sky fissures and feathers and the road is fairly traffic-free. It leaves you wondering, as you pass the man in the brown Cordoba, with its rich Corinthian leather, "what in the hell is this guy doing on the road at this hour?" Is he going to work super early to sink his teeth into the ass of the American Dream or is he returning home from an all-night bender and practicing his excuses to the wife who fell asleep on the couch waiting for his untrustworthy backside to try to sneak past her - shoes in hand? I knew one thing for certain, though. He wasn't headed to Walt Disney World, like us.

When morning finally blessed us with its sun-drenched glory and we were full of coffee, donuts and pixie stix, we would inevitably start into the traveling games, like I Spy, the Alphabet Game and License Plate Poker. Don't even pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You probably played License Plate Poker on your way home from work today. Eventually, boredom and ennui settle in like a rude uncle and the ride turns into a waiting game of "Are we there yet?" as Dad puts the steering wheel into a death grip and grits his teeth until they crack. That's when it hits...

"Did you see that? That car is from North Dakota!"

All heads slam to the same side window, temporarily listing the car onto two wheels. Even Dad gives a quick glance. The car starts buzzing with new life and someone (usually me) suggests we start keeping track of all the different license plates we see. We'd see all the plates from Delaware to Florida, but there were the other more common ones we would see regularly, like New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, D.C., New York and even Quebec, which seems to collectively vacation at the Jersey Shore. Once, we saw an Alaska license plate and the resulting roar about made Dad drive into a ditch. To this day, I still have a bit of a license plate fetish.

In Delaware, if you have a low-number license plate number, you wear it like a badge of honor. Some people convert these plates to black and white ceramic replicas as a status symbol. They are all the rage, and I'm not making up this next part: people pay tens of thousands of dollars for the right to have a low-number license plate. Did you hear me? TENS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS! Conspicuous consumption is alive and well in The First State.

Ah, there's the other shoe falling. Delaware is The First State, and proudly announces that proclamation on the back of every car registered here. New Jersey touts itself as The Garden State, though many might proclaim it the "Which Exit?" state. Pennsylvania is the Keystone State and used to offer "You've Got a Friend in Pennsylvania." I hope I get a choice of whom to choose. If you have enough people sign up, you can have your group or alma mater on your plate. I suppose it's only a matter of time when we see people's personal MySpace page links, cell phone numbers and whether they sleep in the nude listed. I know one thing, there will be a lot of tailgating and rear-end collisions in the future if that last scenario comes to fruition. I'll end up in the Tailgating Hall of Fame and my car paint will be on the back of every Jetta in the state.

"But what about vanity plates?" you may ask. I'm getting to that. Calm down already. Usually, when you see a vanity plate, you would roll your eyes and yell out the window as you drove past, "Have a nice day, Miss Self-Absorbed!" before being passed on the right by a guy who looks like that wind-swept dude in the Maxell advertisement who is sunk deep into his chair listening to his stereo and steadying his wine glass. As he zips by, you can see he has something cheeky like "STOLEN" on his plate. Grudgingly, you mutter to yourself, "ok, that one was good." Then you would rattle off in your mind different letter/number combinations if you were to get one for yourself. A word of warning first. Many people put their occupations on their plates. These people should be locked away, but, if you insist on following suit, make sure you're not a therapist because "THRAPST" can very easily be misinterpreted as "The Rapist" and then you're in a world of hurt if your car breaks down in the wrong neighborhood.

We live in a world of efficiency. Some of those efficiencies come at a cost. Vowels are now an endangered species as some knuckleheads (teens are excluded because, frankly, they don't know any better) go for the cnsnnt nly spelling in ALL phases of their desperately-trying-to-be-hip lives. I once saw a plate that said IH8TRSTS. It was a California plate, so they had eight characters. It took me a while to figure out it meant "I hate tourists." I think we're all guilty of this. How many times have you seen one of these license plate mash-ups and spent the better part of your commute trying to figure out what the hell it meant?

I guess these days a license plate isn't just some rectangular wafer of cheap metal letting Mr. PO-liceman know you spent the better part of a miserable morning in line at the DMV to prove your car is legally registered. Nowadays, it's a way to tell the world you support the local wildlife, you're the proud member of a fraternity that's now on double-secret probation and you know how to spell like a teenager. Enjoy them now because we're probably not far away from them being flat screen images with advertisements from Stub Hub, ESPN scoreboards and toothy infomercials from Tony Robbins. It'll be the birth of a whole new game.

And the death of License Plate Poker.


Thanks to my friends Kim Martucci and Andi Buckman for this topic!

The Fling

This is the ultimate in Jazz Writing. Normally, when I sit down to write, I at least have a topic in my head. I don't necessarily flesh it out because I prefer everything to flow organically. I'll have a thought, sit down, type like a mad man and before you know it, you're sitting there reading it, wondering, "Where does he come up with this crap?"

To tell you the truth, I have no idea where it comes from. I have no idea what the next sentence will be, where it is going or how it will end. It just does. When the story picks up steam, I do the sensible thing and get the hell out of the way. From there, the story basically writes itself and I just sit back, like the rest of you, and shake my head incredulously at what spews out.

I was watching an episode of the best show to ever hit network television, Northern Exposure, about 17-18 years ago. In this particular episode, Chris Stevens, the felon-cum-philosophical disc jockey, was looking to fling a cow using a medieval trebuchet. If you don't know what a trebuchet is, it's basically a catapult, with a counter-weight that provides locomotion and increases velocity (all you trebuchet fans please calm down, you know that's the basic gist of it and it's something my readers understand). Chris abandons the cow for a piano after Ed tells him it was done before in a Monty Python movie. When asked why he was going to fling a cow, he said it was "to create a pure moment."

I really didn't understand what he meant. Philosophically, I understood, but from an artistic point of view, I wasn't fully developed to appreciate it. For me, art had always been eternal, something to walk away from and say, "Yeah, I painted that," or "Do you like that vase? Made it myself." I never really put any stock into transient art, the art of the moment. Here right now and gone in an instant. There is no proof remaining. Well, let me amend that, there may be physical proof, like the dead cow or the ruptured piano, but, that's not the piece of art. Let me take it a step further: a body in the casket no longer remains that person. It's an empty vessel that carried a living person. The true person transcended that body. He/She was a soul, a spirit, a being cased in hair-covered meat. Change the exterior of a person and the same person remains inside. It's like that with transient art. As Chris Stevens said, "It's not the thing you fling, it's the fling itself." Damn straight.

It took me a while to really grasp what he was saying. Oh, I understood it, from a spectator's standpoint, but from an artist's standpoint, I was a drooling idiot. I eventually came to understand the value of creating, the old cliche of "It's not the destination; it's the journey." It's what led me to where I am today, from a creative platform.

Say what you will. I may not be a great writer - hell, I might not even be good enough to be a poor writer - but, the finished products of mine you read are the shattered pianos of my efforts. Truth be told, I really don't care how these stories turn out. Oh, I appreciate the comments others make when they are being sincere, but if reading these stories are those pianos, the process of writing is the fling for me. I'm along for the ride, just like you. I never go back and edit anything. Once it hits the page, it's done. If someone else wants to edit them, be my guest, but I've already moved on to something else. Revisiting a moment in your mind is great when living vicariously through yourself. How many times have you reminisced about a family vacation, laughing with friends or the first time you fell in love? Chances are, you might be doing that at this very moment. That's good; there's nothing wrong with that. It cleanses the soul. However, I cannot revisit the same pure moments I create for myself. All I can do is surge forth and create more, and it's incredibly worthwhile because pure moments are in an endless supply. There is no blueprint, nothing needs to be arranged, there is no right or wrong. All you have to do is feel and express through those feelings.

I've often said I'm an artist without an art. I can't draw worth crap, can't sculpt, can't paint, can't play a musical instrument...hell, I can barely feed and clothe myself. Yet, when I sit down to write, I feel a rush of expression and a giddiness one feels like when you still believed in Santa Claus and Christmas was just a few weeks away. I never really felt at home with people who don't appreciate the daily esoterics (probably not a word, but you know what I mean) of life, how ironies flutter by like butterflies and moments appear before you, however fleeting, that you can't share with anyone else because no one was in your shoes and experienced them like you did. Too many people walk this planet like stimulus/response zombies and the nuances of the incredible nature of life bounce off them like ping pong balls. They miss the ecstasy of being a sponge, absorbing the subtleties that nine out of ten people completely miss. We are mechanical people, in a mechanical age, product-hoarding automatons desperate to remain trendy. It's sad, and sadly, it's not going away.

I owed it to myself to offer something back to this world, no matter how inconsequential. Sure, my writing is basically for my own satisfaction, but others have told me how they enjoyed what I tossed out there, and that's ok, too. It's made me a better person for being able to squeeze that sponge and release those butterflies when I write, and in that, I feel like I am giving something back to this world, if even in my own little way, regardless if anyone reads it or not. Too many people ask "Why?" and not enough people just accept. Everyone seems to be afraid and they care too much what total strangers think and box themselves in. They don't really express themselves; they don't think they have a piano to fling. Paint a picture, write a story, sculpt something, just DO something to express yourself, no matter how poorly you may perceive the end result. THERE is your piano. Fling the hell out of it. It's this creative drive that makes us feel alive - it makes us human.

Don't be a passenger, be a driver, because, in the end, you don't want to be old and regretful of the things you should have done. When the atoms and molecules of this world came together, they created you as a human, not a rock, not a tree, not the crusty residue around the top of the ketchup bottle at a family picnic. As a human, you have an obligation to act on your humanity. Be alive! It's so easy to be self-defeating and make excuses that you are too tired, have no time or are afraid of what others may think or say. Is that really living? Is that really being human? In the words of Peggy Lee, is that all there is? There is not a single one of you out there who doesn't have something to give of themselves. Don't worry if no one sees or reads it, as long as you FEEL it. Dare to be human! Because, in the end, you are not the face in the mirror and you will not be that body in the casket; you are the light you brought to yourself and to others.

My name is Kevin, and I wrote this.

Fling away.

Car Tune

"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."

- Gary Numan.

You've heard the song, you know you have. Even if you don't like it, you still find yourself humming or singing it if you hear it. It's one of those songs that's fun to sing and all those worries you might have just disappear for three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. For those, like me, who have a quirky love affair with music from the 1980s, it's an essential component of any 80s mixed CD you make for a cute girl. Well, that and "Take On Me" by A-ha, but that's another story.

For me, a car was always nothing more than a four-wheeled, motorized conveyance vessel for the purpose of getting you from Point A to Point B. Of course, this was in the days when I didn't have a car and just wanted to give my feet a much needed rest (I walked EVERYWHERE. I walked more than Jesus. In fact, I WAS like Jesus, save for the fact I don't look like a hippie, can't perform miracles and will most likely go to Hell).

I learned how to drive using the family van. This wasn't the emasculating minivan other men my age dejectedly have to pilot when they cart their precious little hellions to some organized activity they seem to feel their kids need. No, this was a Ford Econoline with a 351 Cleveland engine, mag wheels, captains chairs and a bed in the back my Pop constructed. It was a rolling love machine. I suppose it was a bit of a unique way to learn how to drive, surpassed only by a rocket sled, space shuttle or stolen police car. Whenever I was allowed to drive to the store, I always made sure I detoured to the school parking lot, where my friends hung out, and blasted "Kashmir" in a desperate attempt to look cool.

Eventually, I needed my own car. My Aunt Peg won a Benson & Hedges contest where she won every item shown in a magazine photo. One of those things was a Thunderbird, which made their Bronze Age-era Honda Accord expendable. It was my first car and this beggar wasn't being too choosy. My new car wasn't the most stylish thing on the road. It looked like it was designed by manic-depressive Dadaist artists. Each door, quarter panel and the hood were different colors and it was rusting so badly that pieces of it would fly off whenever I went at least 35 mph. But, it was mine, all mine, and for that, I loved it.

When I was in college, I found myself short on funds for rent one month, so I sold it to my friend, Norm. I told him I would sell it to him for $200 and split any repair costs for the next six months. Norm said if I sold it to him for $175, he would take care of any potential repair costs that ensued. Regrettably, I agreed and parted with my first car, but I needed a roof over my head more than four wheels under my ass. Two weeks later, I ran into Norm on campus. I asked him how the car was doing and he said "Doc (one of my many nicknames in college), it's running like a dream." I muttered a few insults in his direction through a clenched-teeth smile and went on my way to blow off another class. The following week, I ran into Norm again, but this time at one of the campus bus stops. As I recall, the conversation went down like this:

Me: "Say, Norm, why are you taking the bus? Where's the car?"

Norm: (exasperated gust of a sigh) "Doc, it died on me."

Me: "What happened?"

Norm: "Engine block cracked."

Me: "Bummer. But a deal's a deal."

Norm: "Yeah, but I only had it a few..."

Me: "Deal's a deal, Nommy."

I pivoted on my heel and walked towards another class that I eventually blew off. It taught me a lesson. Don't look for that lesson here because I've forgotten what it was. I was now ready for car #2.

My next vehicle was a 1972 Ford Maverick. Eggshell white. It was owned by my grandparents and probably never saw the north side of 45 mph. Ever. I took care of that within two seconds of turning the ignition. In fact, me getting behind the wheel probably shocked the poor automobile into a heart attack. Before you can say "You need to change the oil every now and again," it was left a smoking, hollow shell by the side of the highway.

Next was an early-80s Cutlass Supreme I inherited from my other grandmother. I never put oil into this car, either. It also died by the side of the road. This time, I I finally learned my lesson - never accept a car from a relative. It was time to buy a car from a respected used car dealer.

It was a stunningly beautiful Mustang. Ultra cool and as classic as they come, I had finally arrived. Unfortunately, it was possessed by the ghost of a disgruntled employee of Henry Ford. The first week I had it, the windshield cracked. After the first month, the paint started to flake off the hood. I was driving a leper car. Since it was rear-wheel drive and a very light car, driving in snow was sheer terror. Hell, it would careen all over the road even when it was cloudy. I'm a pretty brave man. I've killed a Bengal tiger with my bare hands, punched out a bull elephant and drank Coor's Light (don't let anyone fool you - Coor's Light isn't beer; it's grassy water with a hint of beer "flavoring"), but I was terrified driving this thing in bad weather. I once had a cackling truck driver put me into a snow bank on an uphill climb because I couldn't get any traction. Good time. At least I put oil into it. It was time to move on. It was also then I entered into a tortured love affair with the Ford Probe.

My mom owned an early model Ford Probe and that car was incredibly fun to drive. The one I bought (actually leased) was the same color as my ill-fated Mustang but it was a new model and looked like a sports car. Handled like one, too. Best of all, it was front wheel drive. Bring on the snow, Mother Nature, you bitter wench!

I. Loved. This. Car. It was so much fun to drive and handled like a Corvette. It also looked kinda cool. Then, on April 1, 1997, it all changed. I was driving back from Red Lobster with my girlfriend when an 18-wheeler merged into my driver's side door on I-95. I said to Michelle, "Man, that tire is getting awfully close to..." BANG! The tire hit my door. I couldn't have changed lanes because there was a car barely ahead of me to the right and I was waiting for him to get completely clear so I could change lanes. The impact sent us violently to the right. I tried to control the car and the steering locked up - and sent us right back towards the truck. We were headed right under the tires when I somehow had the wherewithall (one word?) to somehow guide the car away from certain pancaking and bounced back off the same tire that initiated this fun little adventure. We shot from left to right again and slammed into the guard rail. The impact was so great we rebounded back into the middle of the highway. God must have done well at the track that day because he was feeling generous and ensured there were no other cars close enough to us to either hit or hit us. After checking to see if Michelle was ok, I assessed my own personal damage. I was alive. We both were; and we both walked away relatively unscratched. It was a miracle. Hmmm, maybe I AM Jesus. Sadly, my little car didn't make it. It was completely totaled. It looked like it was destroyed by a truck or something. I was back at work by April 3rd.

I decided to get another Ford Probe since the first one sacrificed its life to save ours. This one was black, even sportier, and this time, no lease. Not much to say about this car other than it was an absolute dream to drive. I drove it until the wheels fell off and the engine seized in front of my Pop's house. In fact, it died just as I was coming off the highway ramp. The steering partially locked and I coasted off the ramp, merged on to the road, coasted slowly down to my Pop's street, pulled the muscles in both arms to turn down his street and eventually came to rest in front of his house. Time for Ford Probe #3.

This one was white and took a while to like, but once I did, it was a love affair all over again. It was a GT, with a tremendously expensive sound system, black tinted windows and erotically magnificent Pirelli tires. I had it for four years until it mysteriously stopped starting. I would have it towed to the shop where the mechanic would tell me that "It started right up for me." I would pick it up, drive it for a month or two, and the same thing would happen. This occurred about seven or eight times over the last two years and it was as frustrating as my experiences on Match.com (a future story. I won't reveal any names, sorry). It was almost as bad as having an insane girlfriend. I eventually had to cut the cord. Fortunately, my mechanic had a car he was willing to sell me for cheap. Wouldn't you know it - it was a hunter green...wait for it...Ford Probe. I'm not going to waste a new paragraph on that car because the transmission dropped out of it within two months. It was time to walk away and try a new direction.

I hunted all over for a Saab. My buddy, Doug, whose opinion I hold in high regard (one of the only people whose opinion I actually respect), has two of them and raves about them. He also knows it takes a certain dedicated person to own and properly maintain one. I figured I finally learned to change the oil in my car so I must be ready. I went to the lot to pick it up after seeing it online, but when I arrived, the convertible top wouldn't open. I had about three people try to make that damned thing open. Once it was finally opened, it wouldn't shut. I wouldn't have minded if it never was cold, rainy, snowing or I lived in a world without crime, but Utopia is a story not a reality. I took that time to case the lot to occupy my mind.

Then I saw it.

When I was young, there was a car a few neighborhoods over that bugged my eyes out of my head. It was a cherry red 1968 Jaguar XJ-12. Black convertible roof and brilliant, shimmering spoke rims. It was that classic "slipper" shape and even my primitive brain knew this was like dating the cutest girl in the office. No, I take that back. It was like being Hugh Hefner. Owning a car like that means you would never be able to notice what color the car was because it would be such a chick magnet women would just throw themselves on it. Ok, I'm drooling now. Moving on. Back to the car lot.

It was a Jaguar. I didn't dare...or did I? The owner of the lot came over to me and could see my Adam's Apple bouncing up and down like a Super Ball in an OCD asylum. "She's a beaut, isn't she?" I gurgled something like, "Me want" and he slapped the keys into my sweaty palm. I got behind the wheel and almost had an accident even before I turned the key. It was love. It was obsession. It was WAY out of my league.

I had to have it.

After taking what seemed like a fortnight, the paperwork was signed, the Saab was a vacant memory and I was pulling out of the lot. Ever date a girl who you KNEW was WAY too good for you? I have. Pretty much every girl I've ever dated. I didn't feel good enough to even look at it, let alone drive it. I could almost hear the car say to itself, "You've gotta be kidding me. I have YOU as an owner?" It was like holding a loaded gun and my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I knew I had to get a grip and calm down. I was so worried about crashing that I almost crashed. Fortunately, I had my mp3 player with me. I had the cassette adapter and searched for a song to ease my mind. Then I found it and turned it up loud:

"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."

Now if I can only remember to change the oil.

The Cereal Killer

I love cereal. MAN, I love me some cereal. I want to climb to the top of my Beavis and Butthead DVDs and proclaim to the world, "I *BLEEPING* LOVE CEREAL!!!!"

So, as you can see, I think cereal is pretty gosh-darned neat-o. It all started out back in nineteen-sixty-none-of-your-business when I could finally chew solid food. No more strained turkey necks, tapioca goo or other disgusting stuff that looks like it was wiped from the face of a sniffling third grader. No more! I had graduated to cereal. Wholesome oats and grains and milk...all a part of this balanced breakfast. Oh, and I forgot - about 10 wheelbarrows's worth of pure can sugar. But first, a little revisionist history on cereal.

Cereal was invented back in the 1800s by some self-righteous quack who served cold gruel in his sanitarium. That's right, you heard me - cereal was invented for the insane. One day, whilst concocting this fine blend of food mortar, some spilled on the stove. It cooked, cooled and flaked, creating the first dry cereal. As the years rolled into even more years, companies added spokespeople and mascots to get kids to pester their parents to buy it. Some things never change. Then, afraid that too many kids were pouring so much sugar into their bowls that the spoons actually could stand on end, the Battle Creek, Michigan cabal decided to create pre-sweetened cereal in an effort to CURB sugar from the diets of the pre-adolescent monsters.

Ok, pencils down. Before you know it, America was bombarded by cartoon tigers, sea captains and mysterious onomatopoetic elves. Sugar was still something that was a concern for parents, but only mildly so. It's what explains such names as SUGAR Pops, SUGAR Frosted Flakes, and most damning of all - SUPER SUGAR Crisp. The result were entire generations of kids eating so much sugar they vibrated across the living room floor while watching The Banana Splits. Bright colors, sing along jingles and progressively more annoying cartoon mascots brought things to critical mass and the moms of the world kicked a soccer ball into the crotch of the cereal manufacturers. Gone were any references to "sugar" in the name of the product, and seemingly overnight, we were buttonholed with officious-looking actors stressing the importance of fiber. The idea, I suppose, was to bring the kids off the swing set and into the bathroom. The sharp increase of children yelling, "Mommy, help!" from behind those bathrooms doors was deemed acceptable collateral damage.

When I was a kid, it was all about the prizes, from the cut-out Archies record on the back of Honeycomb cereal (the song was "Sugar, Sugar," according to the printout from my Irony Machine) to the rubberband-propelled car in Cap'n Crunch to the "Help Sugar Bear find the stash he ditched when the cops pulled him over" maze. As these novelties start impacting the bottom lines of these already-overpriced breakfast meals, more and more companies started giving away junk after you sent in about 100 box tops. My brother, Dave, and I saw through all that and always went for the cereal that had the coolest prize, like the zombie monkey paw or the fake vomit with little pieces of Alpha Bits embedded in the gunk. Good times. Often, Dave and I would be so torqued up to get the prize, we would jam our disease-laden hands deep down in the box to feel around for the plastic package. If it was Cap'n Crunch, we would pull our hands out, raw and bloody, from cereal that was as tough as unripened pine cones. The box opening, by that point, would resemble a gigantic oval and about two full bowls-worth of cereal would be all over the floor and summarily crushed under our feet as Dave and I wrestled over who would get the Frankenberry pencil sharpener.

In the 1970s, cereals really started to boom as cross-marketing tools for whatever hot new movie, video game or limp, wimpy cartoon was all the rage. There were Pink Panther Flakes, C-3POs (I'm not kidding), Donkey Kong, Pac-Man...hell, I won't be surprised if there's a South Park cereal on the horizon. Personally, I think the cereal manufacturers should have been a little more aggressive and dived in with both feet. Can you imagine the following cereals:

Godfather Cereal - shaped like little machine guns, with a picture of a strangled Luca Brasi on the front. The prize could be a life-like Sonny after he was machine-gunned down on the Causeway. Hey, it's the cereal "You Can't Refuse."

Pulp Fiction Cereal - shaped like little "Royale With Cheese" burgers and suitcase marshmallows, the prize would be a cut-out Gimp mask on the back. The front of the box would be Jules Winfield (portrayed by the amazing Samuel L. Jackson) saying, "Mmm-hmm, this IS a tasty burger!" Substitute Ezekiel 25:17 for the mask in Piggly Wigglys in the Bible Belt.

Boogie Nights Cereal - shaped like little disco balls and having an art deco design, it would have a cut-out record of "Disco Duck" by Rick Dees and His Cast of Idiots (along with a suicide hotline number) on the back with the words, "You're a Star. You're a Great Big Shining Star" on the front. The prize would be, well, if you've seen the last minute of the movie, you'll be wrestling your mom for the oversized prize, let's put it that way.

And now, I'd like to bring us to the part of the program where I get to share with you some of my favorite cereals from my youth. Pull down the blinds and put the gum under your desk.

Ah yes, the Freakies. Where else but in this country and during the early 1970s could you find a product AIMED AT KIDS named "Freakies"??? Pretty much like every other sugar-sweetened toasted oats cereal on the block, but the weird characters, oddly entrancing jingle and chuckling older siblings made this THE cereal to have when you were an aspiring adolescent. I had all the Freakies magnets and used to sing this song at the TV screen when the commercial came on. It explains my fondness for straitjackets.

Oh man, does this cereal ever bring back memories. Knowing full well how EVERYONE loves clowns and aren't creeped out by them at all, General Mills presented us with this eerie concoction of Stepford-smiling cereal pieces. Favored by Uni-Bombers and Ed Gein enthusiasts, it wouldn't have been a stretch to call THIS cereal "Freakies."

The name says it all. Nope, no drug culture references here. Taking a cue from those renowned counter-culture tricksters, Syd and Marty Krofft, creators of H.R. Pufenstuf (think about that name) and the less-veiled "Lidsville" (a "lid," in drug parlance, is a measure of drugs. Of course, no two people could ever agree how much was in a "lid"), Magic Puffs was just the next natural progression in getting youngsters to grow their hair long, smoke dope and build their entire code of ethics around Jim Morrison lyrics. The magic "trick" inside was how to turn a stalk of celery into a bong.

Ah, Quisp, my personal favorite. I still have a Quisp T-shirt somewhere around here. You never see this cereal anymore although legend has it Quaker is still producing it. Don't you dare say anything bad about this cereal or I will come to your house and beat you up.

Another favorite of mine. One of the Monster Cereals that never gained any traction. Count Chocula, Frankenberry and Boo Berry had a good racket going and money split three ways goes a lot further than split four ways. Pretty much the Pete Best of the Monster Cereals, and later replaced by the staggeringly similar Yummy Mummy, Frute Brute lives on in the widescreen edition of Pulp Fiction when Lance is watching the Three Stooges at night before John Travolta careens his car into the side of the house.

See? SEE??? I TOLD you Cap'n Crunch made a vanilla crunch cereal! And you didn't believe me. Oh, you believed me when I told you my dad built the Empire State Building all by himself, but NOOOOOO, you didn't believe me when I told you about Vanilly Crunch and Wilma the White Whale! This is my sweet, sweet victory for all you bozos to face up to after years and years of doubting me. Feel the sting!

Let's see here. There's a cheeky rodent on the box (yes, beavers are rodents) and what looks like rodent droppings in the bowl. You first. Actually, these weren't bad...and that says more about me than I care to share.

Part breakfast cereal, part ensemble comedy cast. G&S&G&L took longer to say than it was on the shelves, but that didn't stop me from plowing through several boxes of it in my youth. Something about an anthropomorphic cereal machine with ears by its mouth appealed to my cosmic adolescent nature. From Purina, this Kid Chow featured mascots who looked like middle management accountants tripped up on nitrous oxide with the only normal character being the funky robot with cereal for brains. Most likely made on a dare, this product was the AMC Pacer of breakfast cereals. The person responsible was probably not only fired by Purina but brought up on charges for treason.

I still enjoy a bowl of cereal today. Like many idiots my age, quite a number of people can groove on a bowl of Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs or, as I am finding out, Fruity Pebbles, which has an almost cult-like following. Dad can keep eating his bland shredded wheat and Wheaties. Mom can have her Grape Nuts and Total. Me? I'm about to tuck into some Frosted Flakes. I still think they taste good. Oh hell, you know it's coming and I know it's coming. Breakfast cereals aren't just good food.

They're GR-E-E-E-A-A-T-T!

Pop

It's hard to sit down and write your thoughts about your dad. I've known him my entire life and I still don't think I've even begun to scratch the surface of the old man. Like a lot of people, I've always regarded Dad in almost mythic proportions. He's not an easy diamond to cut, but his facets are many.

Dad was born in 1943, the oldest of five children, and he played up the older brother card like a shark. Never one to shy away from laughing at his younger brothers while sitting on their chests and slapping their faces, he firmly established himself as the alpha wolf in any room he chose. Headstrong and stubborn, like the rest of the Irish side of my family, he grew up with rock and roll and he and his crew were staples of most every school's high school dances in their teenaged years. It was then that stories of his squaring accounts with the local hoodlums began to take seed, such as the time he chased off some clowns who pulled a knife on his brother and the time he made some ruffians go back and pick up the books they knocked from a girl's arms, at the risk of a thrashing.

And yet, for all of his menace towards bullies, he never dropped the gloves. He didn't need to. Dad possesses two of the most electric blue eyes God ever produced from his workshop and they cut you down like a laser. I kid you not when I say you could feel him looking at you from behind - that glare giving you a donkey kick to the kidneys. As the 1960s rolled on into the 1970s, Dad decided to complete the outlaw look with a Harley Davidson and some intimidating facial hair. Friends would be afraid to come into the house because of the "pit bull," as they called my Dad. He was tough as nails and he and mom ran a very tight ship with us kids, but his laugh could lift you out of your shoes - even if you were down the block.

Dad also has one of the keenest intellects I have ever come across. He has read pretty much every science fiction book ever written and has a near-genius IQ. He was also the first person in town to be the proud owner of a Harley and a Cadillac at the same time. On two wheels or four, Dad was always a sight to be seen when motoring down the road.

Yet, Dad was not a perfect man. How many of us can say we are? He made many mistakes in his life that he regrets. He was the Headmaster of the School of Hard Knocks, and, one evening, we had an argument . It was heated and very, very tense. It was the kind of argument that makes you consider making a radical change in your life and pointing to that moment as the catalyst. We allowed our disagreement to fester overnight.

The next morning, Dad came down before work. I was already in the kitchen, preparing to head out the door to catch the bus to my job in the city when he said to me, "You were right, son. I'm sorry." It was the first time I had ever heard him say he was wrong. It was then that Dad stopped being perfect to me - and I loved him more for that fact. Dad, if you're reading this, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

Males, when we reach our late teens, and into our early 20s, try to assert ourselves as adults. Frequently, if not always, that assertion manifests itself into clashes with your dad. I was no different. It's a scene played out in almost every animal species and in most every culture in civilized history. It's the gumption of arrogant inexperience butting heads with stubborn reason. It can turn father and son against each other or it can bring two generations closer in understanding. Fortunately, for me, it was the latter.

Dad and I became friends. We talked as men, we laughed as men, we bonded as men. We went to see the Beavis and Butthead movie together - and I think it was HIS idea. Later that year, we went to a baseball game and a brawl broke out. Dad leaned over to me, and in his best Butthead voice said, "Baseball fights are cool!" I think I laughed for a solid year.

I remember when I was younger I called him "Pop," once. Oh, Dad didn't like that one bit. Since I'm a bit of a smartass, I would say, as I was headed out the door, "see ya, Pop!" knowing full well, I had a head start and was a pretty fast runner. In time, Dad not only grew to accept it - he embraced it. Now, whenever he calls, he says, "Hello, Kevin. It's Pop." After all, my Dad has taught me, it's nice to know I can teach him a thing or two.

Today, Pop is retired, has a brace of grandchildren and, if you pulled a turtleneck on him and plopped him down on a bar stool in a Key West dive, you would think Ernest Hemingway was alive and well. He's mellowed in his years, attends church regularly and would rather give you a hug than a hard time. When his father died in the early 1980s, I realized I had better appreciate my family. Without any hesitation or weirdness at all, every time I talk to Pop, we always say "I love you" to each other whether winding up a phone call or parting ways at the front door. It's a lesson we should all heed: tell someone you love them, even if they already know. Sometimes, it's just good to hear. It ain't bad to say, either.

I am a realist. I know there are things in all of our pasts which haunt us and have hurt other people. We are not perfect human beings. Sometimes, we have to make those mistakes - even the costly ones - to eventually emerge as better people. Perfection isn't a destination; it's a journey we will never complete, no matter how hard we try, but it's a trip made all the more worthwhile with each step you take in its direction. Maybe Pop took a bit longer to make that trip, but at least he's on his way.

He's far from perfect, but he's perfect for me.

Hey, he's my Dad.

Inside the Actors Studio With Scooby Doo

I was flipping through the channels one day when I happened upon a program that caught my eye. It was "Inside the Actors Studio" with the irrepressible James Lipton. If you've ever seen this program, you can skip the rest of this paragraph and get right to the comedy, which starts in paragraph number two. Lipton interviews various actors, directors, writers, musicians - basically anyone in the "business" who carries a SAG card and has made multiple covers of People Magazine.

On this particular program, he was interviewing one of my childhood favorites. He's still working today and he hasn't changed a bit in the past 40 years. And I lied to you; the comedy doesn't start in paragraph number two. But, then again, you'll believe anything you read or hear, won't you?

James Lipton: "He's beloved by millions of children all over the world, and just as beloved by the parents of those children. He's appeared on television, in movies, on lunch boxes and on bubble bath bottles. He has a bottomless appetite and never seems to gain a pound, but if you mention "pound" to him, he might just get your ghost. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Scooby Doo."

Scooby Doo: "Hello, James, lovely to see you."

JL: "A pleasure, sir. I must ask you about your voice. It does not resonate with the character you have played lo these past 40 years."

SD: "I'm glad you asked that, James. Like William Shatner and Bob Denver, I have 'become' the character I played to many - if not all - of the viewers. It is a cross I have come to bear, but I also realize it's what has afforded me the most lavish of lifestyles, including ringside seats, prompt seating at Nobu and the end piece of the meatloaf."

JL: "Fascinating stuff. Tell me, were there any on-set tensions between you and your cast mates?"

SD: "Keep in mind we, like you, are cartoons. But, even as cartoons, we're not above the occasional row."

JL: "Do go on."

SD: "Let me get this out of the way: Shaggy reeks. He smells like he looks. He would scare the soap right off the rope. He smells like a strip of uncooked bacon your grandmother dropped behind the stove in 1940 - and went unnoticed until you threw her into the old age ghetto 60 years later."

JL: "But, you seemed like such good chums on the show."

SD: "Two words: Hydroponic Chronic. The man smelled like a Cub Scout's drawers after camping for several weeks but he sure knew how to grow the kind bud. Half the ghosts you saw on that show was the result of us tripping."

JL: "Now I know a lot has been surmised about the relationship between Daphne and Fred. Care to elaborate?"

SD: "Fred was as cut-throat as they come and Daphne couldn't tell you the color of orange juice, but they would disappear as soon as the hunt was on and conveniently reappear at the end when everything was sorted out. I can't tell you how many damned purple dresses she went through because of what we now call "Lewinsky" marks."

JL: "Moving along. Thelma. Now I find her a fascinating character."

SD: "Saw this one coming a mile away, Lipton. She was straight."

JL: "But, she seemed like such a champion for young girls and people of alternative lifestyles."

SD: "So was Wonder Woman. Look, do you have any idea what was hiding under that gigantic sweater? Two of the roundest, most delicious, strawberry-tipped scoops of vanilla ice cr..."

JL: "Fascinating. Tell me - the Mystery Machine; Was it as 'groovy' on the inside as it was on the outside?"

SD: "Look, Lipton, if you interrupt me again, I'll bite your face off. Yeah, the Mystery Machine had all the candy on the inside: mini-bar, water bed, the works. I preferred sitting on the floor, however."

JL: "You were a purist, I take it? Suffering for you art?"

SD: "Purist, nothing. Ever sit on one of those hard seats on a school bus - especially near the back? It was very "uplifting," if you get my drift. It was instant Red..."

JL: "I'm sure that..."

SD: "Rocket. Say it, Lipton! Say it!"

JL: "Very well. Red Rocket."

SD: "Thank you. Anyway, it was a total chick magnet. Any time we rolled into a new town, the local girls would go crazy. We had to kick Shaggy out to get any action at all."

JL: "Even Velma?"

SD: "I told you Velma was straight. Anyway, it was Daphne who swung both ways. Mind if I smoke?"

JL: "How could I? Now, you have had myriad guests on your show, such as the Three Stooges, Batman and Robin and The Addams Family."

SD: "Pretty ****ed up, isn't it? Oh, can I say "****" on here? I mean, it IS cable."

JL: "Go on, please. We'll edit around it."

SD: "Ok, first of all, the Three Stooges were all but dead or farting dust by that time. Batman and Robin could have solved any of those mysteries themselves and let us play Mousetrap for bong hits in the hotel room. And the Addams Family? Oh yeah, THAT'S what we need - something creepier than the Phantom on OUR side. Don't even get me started on "Special Guest: Don Knotts." We may as well have had "Special Guest: Cousin Oliver from the last season of the Brady Bunch" instead."

JL: "How did you know who the Phantom was on every show?"

SD: "Look, Lipton, any time you see an adult at the beginning of the show, chances are THAT is the bad guy. And they all had the same voice. It was always the caretaker or the old retainer or it was Fred being a smartass and setting someone up to take the fall."

JL: "You mean Fred was..."

SD: "A blackmail artist, yes. He had Polaroids of the entire cartoon underground."

JL: "So, you eventually branched out with some new concepts. It must have been an exciting time. For example, there was your nephew, Scrappy Doo."

SD: (silence)

JL: "Mr. Doo, I wonder if..."

SD: "Are you trying to hurt me, Lipton? Are you? Because if you are, we can throw down right here, right now!"

JL: "My apologies. I retract the question."

SD: "You do that."

JL: "Now, it is that time of the program where we ask our guests ten questions and see what their responses are off the tops of their heads."

SD: "Yeah, I never knew THIS was coming. It's not like I didn't have time to pre-plan my answers."

JL: "Very good. First, What is your favorite word?"

SD: "**********"

JL: "Um, ok..."

SD: "It's really a compound word. But it's one of Carlin's."

JL: "What is your least favorite word?"

SD: "Toenails. Have you ever seen nice toenails? I mean, they're pretty disgusting. There are no pretty toenails - just ones that aren't as disgusting as say, your grandfather's."

JL: "What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?"

SD: "Watching Velma in the shower. To her, I was just a dumb dog, but let me tell you something, Lipton, that crotch-sniffing we dogs do is ANYTHING but innocent."

JL: "I feel a bit sick. What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?"

SD: "You."

JL: "Me? Why is that?"

SD: "Well, Sherlock, this whole gig you have set up was so you could feel part of an industry that otherwise wants nothing to do with you. You're like some sort of celebrity vampire leeching off our fame and fortune just so you can tell the guys at Jiffy Lube, when they're changing the oil in your 1988 Toyota, "Guess what? I'm close personal friends with Pauly Shore." Face it, Lipton, if it wasn't for this cushy gig, you'd be the assistant manager at Radio Shack or selling porn comics to minors for 'favors'."

JL: "I admire your brutal honesty. Tell me, what sound or noise do you love?"

SD: "The whistle of a sniper's bullet as it tears through that over-ripe melon of a head of yours. My God, it's perfectly round! You make Charlie Brown look like Beeker from The Muppet Show. Oh, and I also like the sound of a freshly opened beer can, Star Wars light sabers when they clash and the sound the lint guard makes on the clothes dryer when you pull it out to clean it - something you've probably never done."

JL: "You're a cynical dog, Mr. Doo."

SD: "Tell me about it."

JL: "What sound or noise do you hate?"

SD: "I would say your voice, but that's a lay up. I'll tell you what noise I hate. I hate the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. It's so precious and delicate that I want to poop all over the carpet. Your carpet. And kissing. The sound you humans make when you kiss. Not you, mind you, as the closest you've come to kissing someone else was playing Truth or Dare with your cousin Steven. Kissing noises sound like the ass of a person trying to extricate itself from a mound of wet clay. I should know. I've caught Fred doing all kinds of weird sh..."

JL: "What is your favorite curse word?"

SD: "****," just like everyone else."

JL: "A moment ago, you said your favorite WORD was an actual curse word."

SD: "I'm an artist, Lipton, I'm full of contradictions. This is dragging. How many more of these do we have, chief?"

JL: "Three more. Tell us, Mr. Doo, what profession other than your own would you like to attempt?"

SD: "I think I'd like to something with children. Maybe write children's books. Brainwash the kids and turn them into my army of terror."

JL: "Inspiring. What profession would you not like to do?"

SD: "President. I like to keep things on the down-low. Besides, I'm a dog and if I was elected, I could see Vladimir Putin tossing Scooby Snacks at me until I let him put nuclear warheads on the White House lawn. Those things are addictive. I'm a hedonist. Sue me."

JL: "If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?"

SD: "I'd like to tell me that movie, "All Dogs Go To Heaven" isn't fiction. But, in all seriousness, I want to hear him do his impression of me. Imagine that, the most powerful entity ever known reduced to say, "Rut roh, Raggy!" Yeah, that would be the stuff."

JL: "Well, I'd like to thank you for being our guest this evening, Mr. Doo. You candor is matched only by your rancor. Do drop by again sometime, won't you?"

SD: "Tell you what, sport, I'm leaving a piece of me with you as we speak."

JL: "My goodness! That smells awful."

SD: "Um, that's not me. It's Shaggy. He's your next guest and he's right behind you."

It's a sad thing when you get to see your childhood heroes up close and in their real personalities. It's like finding out Dad was really Santa Claus, mom was really the Tooth Fairy and Ted Danson was wearing a toupee. It's all an illusion we happily buy into for fear of the truth being less than savory. It's about honesty and truth and being able to trust others to say what they mean and mean what they say and to suspend your disbelief for the little fantasies and disillusionments that we allow ourselves without completely disconnecting from the real world. It's about allowing yourself to be innocent again and believing what you're told.

It's all right there in the second paragraph.

John and Jayne

John and Jayne...Jayne and John. They were as inseparable as minutes to the hour. Back in the old neighborhood, John and Jayne Steffler were the folks everyone knew - or knew about. With a big old boat in the driveway sharing real estate with what may have been the bitchin'est custom van in the county, they were hard to miss. Always smiling and impossible to not like, you just knew how much they loved each other by how they treated other people.

John Steffler died this past weekend. I went to his viewing tonight. The obituary said he was a year short of 70, but the man I saw at rest tonight easily looked half that age. As you may know from my other stories, I grew up in a fairly unique household. It was made all the more colorful with John and Jayne stopping by to visit. They lived less than a block away and the late night card games my folks played with them were legendary. At night, when my brother, Dave, and I were quiet long enough - when we should have been sleeping, mind you - the house just shook when John laughed. You couldn't miss it. I could go another 100 years and pick out that laugh. He was the very definition of wiry, with his trademark mustache and a laid back manner that would have made Jeff Spicoli look like a drill sergeant by comparison.

Jayne. Well, what could you say about her? I swear, she hasn't changed one bit in 30 years. She always had an elegance about her that underscored her good ol' girl charm. Tonight was no different. Under the most trying circumstances a person must endure - the death of a loved one - she was grace personified. John and Jayne were married for 48 years. Think about that. Forty-eight years. Most couples don't last 48 months and John and Jayne were together for half a century. It boggles my mind. If the good Lord owed me any favors, I would have asked him to give them 48 more.

John and Jayne would have done anything for a friend and they scored major points with me by treating my brothers and I like real people instead of mere kids, when we were growing up. It was at their house where Dave and I discovered Pong. In this time of the Internet, wireless communication and virtual reality, it might be hard to fathom the excitement Pong had on the country at that time. To two rapscallions like Dave and I, it was better than air hockey - and that was saying something.

John loved hunting, fishing and boating, but he held no gods before his sports teams. The only time you heard him raise his voice was during an Eagles or Phillies game, but it was always short-lived, as the next moment, that laugh - that intoxicating laugh - filled the room. He was lying in state wearing his Philadelphia Eagles gear, a true fan through and through. Even tonight, as my dad pointed out, he seemed to have a smirk on his face. That's one thing those who knew John will never forget - he was almost always smiling.

I had not seen John and Jayne more than once in the past 20 years. Yet, John's passing takes from me a part of my childhood that I'll always hold dear. On the other hand, seeing John and Jayne and the other folks from the old neighborhood kicked up the old forgotten memories like the residue in an old fish tank when you move the fluorescent pirate skull from one end to the other.

Looking at the serpentine line waiting to pay their respects, I was struck by a line from the movie, "A Bronx Tale." In the movie, the mob boss, Sonny, tells the teenaged Calogelo that "nobody cares. Nobody cares when you die" - a point driven home twice in the film. Looking at all the people John and Jayne touched made me realize that people do care, but maybe it just takes a special person - or special people - to make others care. You have touched many, many people in your lives and the world is that much brighter because of folks like you, even if it seems a bit darker today. John and Jayne. Jayne and John. Never one without the other.

Thanks for making me care.

The Agony of Da Feet

It's official. I have the worst feet in the history of bipedal locomotion.

A little history here:

When I was in second grade (maybe third grade. I'm just guessing here. This is what is known as artistic license), my brother, Dave, and I were goofing off in the front yard, running through the sprinkler. For those under the age of 25 who are reading this, kids used to play outside every now and then. I chased him into the house, but before I could cross the threshold, Dave slammed the door behind him - and onto my right foot. If you're cringing now, I don't need to tell you how excruciating the pain was. I pogoed all over the yard screaming so loudly I frightened the bark off the big tree out front. Fast forward to fourth grade when I jumped on an old door that was lying across the creek. My left heel was impaled by a rusty nail. More hopping, more screaming, more naked trees.

So, as you see, my feet have a love/hate relationship with me. We're going to fast-forward again (everyone pick a buddy and don't forget your sack lunch) to about 10 years ago. As you can tell, I wield time like a machete. My feet were slowly plotting my demise. Every step I took was getting more and more painful. When I woke up each morning and put my feet on the floor, it felt like I was standing on Ginsu steak knives. I finally had enough and went to see a specialist. It was then that I met Dr. David Haley.

Dr. Haley is a few years younger than me and had just recently taken over the world-famous practice of Dr. Contompasis (I hope I spelled that right). He had an Eastern European look to him and a warmth and humor of a children's party magician. He diagnosed me with Morton's Neuroma, and before you could say "Jack Robinson," had me in the hospital recovery room freshly relieved of the nerve tumors in my feet. After my final post-op visit, I was a little bummed. Dr. Haley was more than a doctor; he was a genuinely decent man who never let his degrees, profession or accomplishments disrupt the fact that medicine is more than surgery and drugs. It's about putting your patients at ease and genuinely caring about them. Never one to spare a wise crack, punch line or full belly laugh, Dr. Haley is the kind of person you'd want to have several thousand beers with on the weekend.

Last October, my feet staged another revolution. This time, we were going to take on my plantar fasciitis and heel spurs - on BOTH feet. If you've never experienced these monsters, it feels like you're giving birth through the soles of your feet. Yet, I was actually a little stoked about the fact I was going to be able to see Dr. Haley again. He operated on my right foot, and in December, he fixed the left foot. Never one to go gentle into that good night, I moved into a house at the end of February this year and, 30 minutes after the movers left, I took a header down the stairs, ass-over-tea kettle. I broke my ankle. Dr. Haley, ever diligent, ran every test possible in an effort to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. With all the frequent visitor points I accumulated, I am now the proud owner of several Polynesian islands and a fleet of jumbo jets. But, I always looked forward to my check ups. It was like spending time with an old college roommate and he listened - he actually listened - to my questions and even a few suggestions. Only a doctor secure enough in himself and his education would be so bold and accommodating.

On the rare occasions Dr. Haley wasn't available, his new partner in crime, Dr. Scott Reich, stepped right in without missing a beat. Young, confident and impossible to not like, having Dr. Reich tend to your issues was just as much a positive experience as having Dr. Haley there. If you were lucky, they were both in there with you. It was difficult going back to the workplace because I could have shot the breeze with them all day long. The staff are friendly and bubbly and you can just tell how much everyone really enjoyed their jobs and each other. I truly wish I could have Dr. Haley - or Dr. Reich - as my primary care physician. That's not a knock at my excellent general practitioner, Dr. Kenneth DeMarco, but I can't envision an evening of rolling off "Caddyshack" quotes like I can with them.

I was leaving a restaurant a couple of weeks ago and ran into Dr. Haley in the parking lot. He was with his gorgeous wife and their little daughter was 100 shades of adorable. He introduced me to his family, we had a couple of laughs and then parted ways. On my drive home, I was plotting different ways to hurt my feet. I could kick a boulder or drop a piano on it...maybe - and I know this sounds zany - I could get a corn or a wart or - dare I say it - a blister!

In the end, I figured I'd better play it safe and try to take care of my feet instead. And even though they have put me through hell, they did carry me to Dr. Haley, Dr. Reich and their incredible staff. Some might say I went to a great doctor and found a good friend.

I say, I found a good friend who just happened to be a great doctor.

Ode to Summer

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
When the mosquitos and flies get in the way;
With the sounds of Playstations beeping and pinging
And poison oak blisters itching and stinging.

When the sweat collects on the backs of the knees
And Lyme Disease ticks drop from the trees;
When cutting the grass is an every day chore,
And hours of traffic when you head to the shore.

When the beaches are crowded and the seagulls attack
And scratching like crazy at the sand in your crack.
Sunburn and peeling and Calamine lotion;
Red tide and needles come in from the ocean.

With endless reruns on every TV station
And gas costs too much to take a vacation.
When electric bills spiral out of control.
Ice cream starts melting upon hitting the bowl.

Bored kids complaining all 'round the clock.
Close the damn door! We're not cooling the block!
Trying to fit in your old bathing suit;
Don't bother with the bikini - that point is mute.

Braving the crowds at the public swimming pool;
Chlorinated water mixed with urine and drool.
Heat and humidity and 100 degree days;
Will somebody PLEASE refill the ice trays!?

Attempting to picnic under the trees;
Chasing down napkins and fighting off bees.
Some people love it, but I think it's a bummer;
Some call it hell, but I call it Summer.

The Big Kiss Off

Her name was Carol...and probably still is. Her last name was Tenshaw...and probably isn't anymore. Like most dames, she was sneaky. Never saw it coming. I was casing the joint for her sister, Barbara, when out of the front door came her younger sister. I should have known she was trouble by her t-shirt, which said, "I'm trouble" stretched across her advanced 14-year-old bosom - the "I" and the "e" stretched mercilessly to the side. She had a ready smile and a twinkle in her eye that old Saint Nick would kill for.

She sashayed to the top of the sloping driveway, eyeing me up and down like a rich frat boy on his first trip to the sex shops of Amsterdam before her cute little caboose touched down on the bumper of her family's station wagon. I could tell by her dilating pupils that she was on the hunt...and I was her prey.

But I don't fall that easily for a cute girl who is two years younger than me, pleasingly petite, sapphire blue eyes and more curves than a Hot Wheels track built by Frank Gehry. My resolve was carved out of oak, but my heart was a coward.

"Are you waiting for Barb?"

I melted. She really put the hook in me. Playing it cool, I lit a cigarette, but since I didn't smoke, I stood there like a cigar store Indian, holding a match in front of me. She looked at me like I had two heads and I wanted to tell her how right she was. It was a long driveway, which sloped at a 45 degree angle. I loaded up the Sherpas with oxygen tanks and began the slow, awkward climb to get a closer peek of her peaks which piqued my interest. I was headed North - in more ways than one.

By the time I reached her, my heart was thundering like Gene Krupa hopped up on goofballs and my eyes were as wide as Paul Bunyan's dinner plates. I gurgled something that sounded like "hello" as she slid her delicious little bottom to the side, inviting me to sit next to her on the bumper. She told me her sister was still eating dinner and the small talk volley began:

Carol: "So, what's going on?"

Me: "Nothing much."

It wasn't Shakespeare, but it was close enough. I could feel her gaze on me like a million heat lamps. I felt vulnerable and naked, so I quickly put some clothes on and asked if she wanted to hang out with us later.

Carol: "Sure."

We talked for hours on a whole range of topics from the weather to how hot it was. She was leaning in towards me, most likely to smell the fear, and if she had a tail, it would have been swaying like a charmed cobra. I couldn't tell you what happened next, but before I knew it, I was locked in mortal combat with her serpentine tongue. I was almost lifted off the ground. We kissed so hard and so long, I felt like I had just gargled with Novacaine. Just then, the front door opened, and her sister came out. Barb - the one I had come to see, walked over to us and said hello. My entire face was so swollen and numb, I sounded like Mushmouth from Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids:

Me: "Heyba, Barba."

She didn't even break stride as she rappelled down the driveway and down the street. I looked over and Carol was now standing up, smiling, as she wiped the last vestiges of my 16-year old dignity from her lips and said she had to go clean up after dinner. Then she leaned back over and gave me a kiss so soft it was like the breaths of little angels and whisperings of lace. She turned on her heel and walked back inside the house, leaving the imploded husk of my carcass to smolder in the summer heat.

I went away with the family to Walt Disney World the next day. It felt good to see my folks's faces light up with wide-eyed wonder at The Happiest Place on Earth, and I returned home 10 days later, with a pride in my stride and a swagger in my stagger. I went over to the arcade, to satisfy my Donkey Kong urge. There was Carol inside, playing pinball, with a couple of other dames. I strutted on over, like Antonio Fargas, and planted a wet one on her cheek.

She didn't even bother looking at me before she exploded in laughter. It cut me deep, like a knife in the chest. Then the rest of her friends started laughing and it removed the rest of my heart. I left my heart there, lifelessly shriveled, on the arcade floor. I didn't even bother taking the knife out of it. It's still there today. Dames. They'll plunge a Silly Straw into your heart, suck it dry and turn it inside out like a tube sock fresh from the dryer. Then they'll laugh in your face as the last of your self respect flickers fecklessly like tea candle in a hurricane. I felt defeated, bitter and void of emotion. I knew then I was no longer a teenager; I was a man.

My name is Friday. I'm writing this on a Saturday. Now, I'm off to have a sundae. Just me, by myself.

And no dames.

Skin Deep

I'm tan.

Not naturally, mind you, but at this very moment in time, I am a deep, lustrous shade of chestnut. It's probably the darkest I have ever been and I've been drawing the stares of far more pale folk hither and yon. It's a tan even the immortal George Hamilton or - oh, hell, let's reach for the stars - Zonker Harris would appreciate.

And it's not a good thing.

In the words of Ricky Riccardo, let me 'splain. I am a fake baker. Yes, I have been cheating and going to the tanning salon. Do they even call them "salons" anymore? Anyway, I find myself going three, sometimes four times, each week. I think I am developing an addiction.

Group Leader: "Everyone, we have a new member. His name is Kevin."

Everyone: "Hi, Kevin!"

Me: "Any cute chicks in here?"

Spare me the lectures about the pre-cancerous lesions, bulletproof skin and developing more cracks than a Don Rickles Joke Camp. I know these things, just like I know a loaded cheesesteak at two in the morning is one of the worst things a human can do to himself. But, I'm still going to order one...with fries, most likely. I am hoping this is a fad and will soon pass just like most everything else I have undertaken, like flossing, flushing and obeying local traffic laws. But the opportunity to look better at the sacrifice of a measly few decades off my life feels like an even trade at the moment. It also makes you look healthier. Oh, I could elaborate on that statement, but why not let Hall of Fame pitcher, Whitey Ford explain:

"When we showed up for Spring training, if you were out of shape, all you had to do to convince the coaches you were IN shape was to get a tan."

Strong words. Powerful words. And they came from a man named "Whitey." While the Irony Police are firing up their cruisers to mass around my perimeter, I have to say I agree with him. It's at this point of the program where I'd like to introduce you to someone. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you - The Exception To The Rule. I call her "mom." My mother is in her 60s, she's a full-blooded Italian and she is STILL a knockout. She also has been on the competitive tanning circuit since the early 1970s - maybe even before. Even in the darkest bowels of Winter, mom has always had the most savage glow. Some would point to her decades as a rib-cage model for an X-Ray machine company, but mom has been a natural tanner all her life. She wouldn't go near a tanning bed unless it was made of chocolate. And now, a word from mom:

Mom: "Hello."

Isn't she great? Mom has the natural color of a Hershey Bar whereas her son (me) makes albino musician, Edgar Winter, look like Darth Vader. I realize I am half-Irish (along with a paella of other nationalities from the Continent), but come on, man, in my "natural" state, I'm whiter than the dance floor at a country club wedding when "The Electric Slide" is playing. I have perfected the art of the forearm burn and the rosé band that goes from cheek to nose to cheek. It makes me look ridiculous, maybe less-than-intelligent. All I know is, when I sit on a bench at the mall, strangers throw nickels at my feet. You be the judge.

I am currently a paying member at the Peace of Mind Tanning "salon." Currently, there is only one and it is located in the Limestone Hills Shopping Center (I think that's what it's called), and no, I did not perform that shameless plug in order to secure a free membership...although, if the owner is reading this, I'm not above charity.

I've always been a little weird about going to one of these places. Like you, I've heard the stories of hidden cameras watching you in your stage of undress. That's why, in my first half dozen times, I tanned while wearing a full suit of armor. I eventually became brave enough to do it the proper way, although I think I'll pass on tanning naked. It's not so much I'm worried about burning the sausage; rather, it's more of a fear of being served with papers for causing mental duress in whomever is operating the spy camera in the room. Besides, certain parts of me I'd rather keep smooth and soft. I prefer buttery leather to a leathery butt.

There's something strangely erotic and sickening when slapping the lotion on before hopping into the ultraviolet oven. The embarrassing gassy sounds from the half-empty bottle, the wet smacking when rubbing your hands together, the homoerotic practice of oiling yourself up and the strange tingle you get on your short hairs when you turn on the massage pad (hey, I go high-end). I turn the bed on to "Extra Crispy" and slip into my neon sarcophagus. Yeah, I know it's not neon. I just LOOK stupid. I'm in there for the full 16 minutes, and after the first eight minutes, I roll over like a month-old clumsy hot dog in a convenience store warmer and flash-fry my dorsal (that's what we call the back, in the tanning biz). After I'm done, I get dressed and head out to the car, glowing so intensely you could read a five-font Bible in the darkest jungle during a new moon if you passed within 50 feet of me.

Now that I've shared more of me with you than you ever wanted to know, I sheepishly admit I re-upped with the "salon" today for another month. I feel good and even though I'll never match mom for sheer caramel brilliance, I have to admit - in my own self-loathing way - I look pretty good...for me. I may not be healthy, but at least I look like I am.

Just ask Whitey.

Beer

Beer.

The mere mention of the word sends a generous portion of the population into a Homer Simpson full-body drool. It comes in many different forms and many different flavors. There's wheat beer, blueberry beer, near beer, clear beer (I'm looking at YOU, Zima) and there seems to be as many microbreweries in this country as there are endings to "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King."

Beer is there for our highest highs and our lowest lows. And just try viewing a picture of a gaggle of 20-somethings without the requisite presentation of beverage ("Hey, wait, let me get my beer in this shot!"). It can be sipped, quaffed and chugged. It can be, in the words of the aforementioned Homer Simpson, "the cause of, and solution for, life's problems."

But why this almost preternatural obsession with beer? It's not like people are as fanatical about pigs feet, marzipan or chocolate. Ok, maybe chocolate is a bad example. Substitute lima beans. Now that I've completely alienated the pigs feet, marzipan and lima bean members of the fan club we can deal with the target audience. I know I used the word "preternatural" earlier in this paragraph, but I really have no idea what that means, so I'll say that beer has an almost primordial connection with us carbon-based bipeds. Scientists have traced beer back to the ancient Sumerians (I'm making this up, if you couldn't tell) thousands of years before the birth of the guy who was born on the same day as Jesus. In case you're wondering, his name was Jacob - just like every third kid born these days.

Yet, known history doesn't REALLY have a grip on when beer was first brewed. I happen to have documented proof that beer was discovered LONG before that. So, let's step into the Wayback Machine and travel to a time before our grasp. Before salt & vinegar potato chips. Before unfiltered cigarettes. Before the designated hitter. All the way back to...

Ook: "Hey, Og, what do you want to do tonight?"

Og: "As little as possible."

Ook: "Man, you're such a cave potato. Remember when all the guys took down that mammoth over by the cliff? That was freaking awesome, man, and what did you do? You stayed inside painting these stupid buffalos on the walls..."

Og: "They're bison"

Ook: "Bison, whatever. It's not like anyone is going to see them. Personally, my goal is to be a spokesman for an insurance company. Your goal is to invent graffiti. Advantage Ook."

Og: "Didn't you ever think I was more of the cerebral type? I don't need to be out there trying to look good for the chicks when I'm happy doing my own thing."

Ook: "That's just it, Og, if you don't land yourself a babe, there'll be no one to carry on your legacy with...with...whatever this is you're doing."

Og: "Ok, you may have a point. What do you suggest?"

Ook: "Well, you're the shy type, so you need something to give you courage."

Larry: "Why don't you two cupcakes invent beer?"

Ook: "Beer! That's it!"

Og: "How do you make beer?"

Larry: "Follow me, ladies."

Larry took them to the back of the cave and to a little room off to the left. Inside, they found some large clay pots with pictures scrawled on the side.

Ook: "Og, did you paint these?"

Og: "Not me."

Larry: "$15 - Crate and Barrel. Sidewalk sale."

Ook: "What's this picture on the first pot? Looks like a rabbit."

Larry: "Hops. Get it?"

Og: "This one says "Malt" on it. I'm guessing there was no picture for malt. And this looks like a bundle of barley."

Ook: "Barley? Where the hell did you pull that out of? If I asked 100 people, they'd probably say wheat or hay or just grunt and pick insects off each other. The LAST thing they would say is that is was barley."

Larry: "It's barley."

Ook: "Son of a... Ok, I suppose the liquid in this pot is some emulsifying agent." He cups his hand, dips it in and takes a slurp. "It tastes like water. Hey, this is great! We can drink this stuff all day long!"

Larry: "Um, it's water."

Og: "Ook, maybe you should just shut up right about now."

Larry went on to explain the brewing process. How yeast is important to the process, how to heat pasteurize and how Coor's Light has as much in common with beer as crotch sweat. Then he showed them how to properly pour it, how to remove the label from the bottle without tearing it and, most importantly, the art of Speed Quarters.

So, or heroes, Ook and Og, proceeded to drink. And drink. And drink some more...

Ook: "And I, and I, think you're really talented and all...I think that...I don't know what I think."

Og: "no, no, I know what you mean. I'm just trying to express myself by expressing myself to express what I'm... Um, what was I saying?"

Ook: "I love you, man."

From the other room came Larry's voice.

Larry: "Homos!"

Ook: "Sapiens, dude! Get it, get it right!"

Og: "I think Larry has some repressed issues."

Ook: "Yeah, it's like he's never crapped in his hand and wiped it on his buddy as a joke."

Og: "..."

Ook: "Um, yeah....hey, let's get come ladies over here."

As disgusted as Og felt now, the prospect of meeting girls immediately put him in a great mood. So, our intrepid protagonists searched about for something to carry their beers. Og dug around and produced two mugs and handed one to Ook.

Og: "Graduation present."

They filled their mugs and strode out to the mouth of the cave where they casually sipped their beverages while watching the sun set in the sky. Ook turned his head slightly towards Og.

Ook: "Happy hour, dude."

Og: "Man, there are no chicks around here. Not like the old days."

Ook looked at the mug in his hands.

Ook: "You went to Duke?"

Og: "Yeah. Film degree. I'll be in on the ground floor when that's invented. Now let me tell you about pretty girls - smart, too."

Ook: "Dude, I would have totally ruled there. They would have called me Ook from Duke or the Ook of Earl."

Og: "No, we would have called you Jackass"

Ook: "Yeah, and I would have called you...hey, isn't that Betsy?"

Betsy, known in these stories as the cute cavegirl from over the hills on whom Og has a massive crush, came traipsing on by.

Betsy: "Hey, fellahs, I see you invented beer."

Ook: "Yeah, just invented it today. Want some?"

Betsy: "Do you have any light beer?"

Og: "Um, maybe tomorrow. But try it anyway."

Og gave her his mug. Betsy took a sip. Then a drink. Then she slammed the rest down her throat and handed it back to Og.

Betsy: "Yeah, as if YOU got into Duke! Ha!"

Og: "I DID!"

Betsy: "I know you did. I just like getting you riled up. You're cute when your hair stands up on end."

From the cave came Larry's voice.

Larry: "Betsy and Og, sittin' in a tree..."

Og: "Shut up, Larry!"

Betsy (laughing): "Yeah, Larry, I'll come in there and kick you in the ding-ding!"

Larry: "I've got your ding-ding right here."

Betsy: "Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you! My cousins are coming in tonight. You'll get a chance to meet them."

Ook (under his breath, to Og): "Great, I'll bet it's Sasquatch and Yeti. You know how I can't stand a chick who is hairier than me."

Og: Yeah, but on the other hand, they could be.."

From their left came a loud, high-pitched scream. Followed by the word..."

Angie: "Hooker! You're such a hooker, Betsy!"

Ook and Og, grabbed their ears in pain as two very cute cavegirls came running over to Betsy. They screamed, hugged and said "Oh my God!" a lot.

Larry: "Jesus Jumpin' Christ, will you kill whatever is making that racket out there and put it - and me - out of its misery!"

Betsy: "Ook, Og, these are my cousins, Angie and Kim."

Ook: "Well hellooooo, ladies."

Kim: "This one must be Ook. Yeah, we heard about you."

Angie: "And this must be Og. Betsy's told us ALL about YOU."

Betsy: "Shut up, Angie!"

Kim: "I heard you invented beer."

Og: "How did you know that?"

Angie: "You know the guy writing this story? Well, he wrote us into this story, so we got to see everything he wrote so far."

Og: "Makes sense."

Larry emerged from the cave and brought beers out for everyone.

Larry: "Here. Use these to fill up the holes under your nose."

Betsy: "Wait, aren't you going to join us?"

Larry: "Are you kidding? I don't want to have anything to do with this story."

So, Ook, Og, Betsy, Angie and Kim sat around the mouth of the cave, talking about everything and nothing.

Kim: "So, I think I'm going to take a year off and go to Europe."

Ook: "Um, Kim, we're all on the same continent, Pangea. The continents won't split for thousands of more years."

Kim: "Whatever."

Og: "Ook is hooked on Wikipedia. Can't spell "hooked" without "Ook."

Angie: "Can't spell "hooker" without it either! You're such a hooker, Betsy! But I love you!" Then she hugged her.

Ook (leaning over to Og, whispering): "Please kiss, please kiss, please kiss!"

The evening went on like that, more or less, until the front of the cave looked like the remnants of a stampede at a Grateful Dead concert, with empty beer containers, limp shaggy bodies and an eye-watering stench bringing down cave values all along the block. Slowly, the silence was broken as, one by one, each of them stirred and tried to haul themselves up into a sitting position. Except for Ook, who was asleep in Kim's lap.

Betsy: "Ugh! I can't remember a THING about last night."

Angie: "Beer! I don't know if I love it or hate it. Right now, I hate it."

Og: "Looks like someone had a good time." He points at Ook in Kim's lap.

Kim: "Get up! Get up, you freak!" She slaps him on the head.

Ook (smiling slightly): "Oh, I. um, was listening for buffalo."

Og: "Bison."

Ook: "Whatever."

Betsy: "Look, guys, we have to get going. Og, I'll stop by later so you can show me your paintings."

Ook: "Why you little devil" Og just beamed.

From the cave they heard a familiar voice.

Larry: "Well, well, well, look what we have here!"

Angie: "What IS that thing?"

Larry: "It's a digital camera. Invented it while you yahoos were getting hammered last night."

He held it up to his face and was looking at the pictures he took that night. Then he started laughing, quietly at first, and then louder and longer as tears started rolling down his cheeks. Then he turned and disappeared into the cave saying, "what a bunch of idiots."

Kim: "You know, I kind of preferred if actually DID stay out of the story."

The three cavegirls stood up, swept themselves off with their hands, tried to fix their hair with their fingers and said their goodbyes. Then they started off towards the hills.

Ook: "I think that Kim chick was digging me."

Og: "You think everyone digs you. You probably think I dig you."

Ook: "You do. I'm the Sapien and you're the..."

Og: "Enough!"

They cleaned up the front of the cave as the sound of Larry's laughter continued to echo out of the darkness.

Og: "Well, I think that went well. What do you think, Ook?"

Ook: "Another step forward for mankind. We'll be famous, Og, just like that God dude."

Og: "That guy? That dude's more arrogant than you, and that's saying something."

Ook: "I'll give it to you that he's anal-retentive, but did you see that garden he's building? It's huge..."

Og: "Yeah, but he won't let anyone inside it because...WHOA!"

Ook: "Holy crap, look at the size of that snake! Quick! Grab it by the head!"

Og: "You grab it by the head, Steve Irwin."

So, Ook flanked it, crouched and leaped on the snake, clasping his hands around its mouth,

Og: "I think it's trying to talk."

Ook: "That's silly, who ever heard of a talking snake. Hey! Let's throw it on Larry! He'll freak!"

Og: "Nah, he'll probably philosophize it to death. I have an idea, let's throw it in that garden that power trip freak is building."

So, our self-righteous heroes set off across the field to the edge of the garden with the snake trying to wriggle away. As they came closer, they noticed a thin wire mesh around the perimeter. There was a sign.

Og: "Don't eat the apples. Violators will be prosecuted."

Ook: "I wish we had TWO snakes now."

With that, they swung the snake back and forth and on the count of three, they flung the animal over the fence and into the garden.

Ook: "That's the last we'll hear of that."

As they walked back to the cave and the sun began to rise in the sky, Ook turned to Og and asked,

Ook: "So, what are you up to today?"

Og: "Painting."

Ook: "Bison?"

Og: "Bison." And they both chuckled. "What about you?"

Ook: "I'm making jerky."

Og: "Any plans for tonight?"

Ook: "Haven't really thought about it." He looked at Og, mischievously. "Wanna get drunk?"

Og: "Ook, old pal, you read my mind. I guess beer DOES bring you closer to God."

As they approached the mouth of the cave, Larry was sitting outside on a rock, strumming a guitar.

Ook: "Larry, what the hell is..."

Larry: "It's a guitar. I invented it while you were taking that snake over to the garden. Look, if you're going to take credit for inventing beer, I want a piece of the action, so I invented the drinking song. Now sit on down and have a listen:

My head is pounding a symphony
Couch pillows on the floor.
I reach for my bottle of sympathy
And catch my shirt tail on the door.

Looking down at my day-old clothes
They looked great on last night.
How I made it home, nobody knows.
I could have sworn my socks were white.

Oh, the aspirin takes forever, I must've taken nine or ten.
I promise myself never will I ever drink again.

I was dancing like Astaire
With Ginger's leaps and bounds.
I was so drunk I did not care
She weighed three hundred pounds.

I was kissing porcelain,
My head was wet with sweat.
I wiped the dribble from my chin,
I night I'd just as soon forget.

Oh, the aspirin takes forever, I must've taken nine or ten.
I promise myself never will I ever drink again.

Oh, I'll never ever learn my lesson
And I'll probably get into a fight.
There won't be no second-guessin'
...............................'cause I'll be gettin' drunk tonight!

Oh, the aspirin takes forever, I must've taken nine or ten.
I promise myself never will I ever drink again!"

Og: "Know what, Ook? I'm beginning to hate Larry."

Wax on, Wax off

I'm not one of those overly sensitive types. I never say "awwww" when I see a puppy or a baby and you'll never catch me watching a chick flick unless there is a loaded pistol pointed at my head. If Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock are in the movie, go right ahead and squeeze the trigger. But, I do have a thing for candles.

That's right - you heard me. Candles.

Maybe it's the little pyro inside me that likes lighting things on fire. Then again, maybe I'm one of those smell-aholics. I like to cruise over to whatever section of the store has the scented candles, flip off the little bubble tops and inhale the essence of it like some demented drug fiend. As I'm sure you know, the olfactory sense (that's the sense of smell, for those in the cheap seats) is closely linked with the sense of taste. Generally, I like to buy a candle that I wouldn't mind eating. Now don't look at me like that - I know you have weird thoughts, too. I realized there was a link to the two senses a long time ago.

So, let's step into the Wayback Machine, m'kay?

When I was young, I would eat just about anything. When I say anything, I mean just that. I ate insects, spiders, Play-Doh - you name it. I even made myself sick by chugging a generous portion of Morton Salt (I thought it was sugar. Sue me). So, it must have come as a bit of a surprise to my mom when I refused to eat sweet potatoes. Maybe they were yams. Beats me. They're the same thing to me. Now, my mom was, and still is, a tremendous cook, but sweet potatoes - regardless of who makes them - smell like the boy's bathroom of some long-condemned middle school. Yes, even YOUR sweet potatoes. So, when she tried to get me to eat them, I shook my head furiously, like an armless man trying to get a bee off his nose. It went down like this, more or less:

Mom: "Just try it, Kevin."
Me: "No. I'll get sick."
Mom: "Oh no you won't. Just try a little."
Me: "Mom, it's going to make me throw up."
Mom: "Put a little bit on your fork and taste it."

This went on for much longer than I wanted. Eventually, I was strong-armed into tasting it. Ever the prophet, I put about 10 molecules of sweet potato on my fork, put it in my mouth...and vomited all over the dinner table. Mom never made me try anything again that I didn't want. But, this story is about candles, so let's get back to the present day.

When I ease on over to the candles section of any store, you can tell which person I am. I'm the guy trying to shove half of his head into the Chocolate Chip Cookie candle. Or the Cinnamon Bun, Melon or French Vanilla. I've never tastes Fresh Linen - but I love that candle smell, too. It set me to thinking - if I was to make a candle, what smell would I give it? I came up with five - coming to a Yankee Candle Shoppe near you in the future:

Coffee - Is there anything more intoxicating as the smell of fresh-brewed coffee in the morning? Even non-coffee drinkers have told me they love the smell of a fresh cup o' Joe. This one could be dangerous, as I could see lighting this candle in the morning while I have my REAL cup of coffee, and, still somewhat bleary-eyes, trying to drink it. I think it's a mistake I would make only once; that is, if I had more confidence in myself that early in the morning. Candle name: Fresh Brew

Bacon - I asked if there was anything more intoxicating as the smell of fresh-brewed coffee in the morning. Well, there is: bacon. The smell of bacon in the morning is like having your dream girl (or guy, depending on who you are) roll over next to you, look you in the eye, and saying, "one more time." I've actually had the smell of bacon literally lift me out of bed, Linda Blair-style, and float me into the kitchen. And when I go camping in Autumn, the smell of bacon inspires me to rise out of the tent, place my fists on either side of my waist, thrust my head to the skies and proclaim, "This will be the perfect day!" even as I see a life-obliterating asteroid rocketing towards me at a zillion miles per hour. Candle name: Makin' Bacon

Steak - If you've read my story on my love affair with steak, you know this needs no explanation. In fact, I will have to cut this description short because I can feel my chest hair growing. Candle name: Porterhouse

New Car - Since the time of the dinosaurs, scientists have tried to duplicate the new car smell in their laboratories. One of the most important aspects of buying a new car is for that smell. Ask almost anyone who buys a new car (and not one that is pre-owned) if they would still make that purchase if there was no new car smell, and I guarantee you they would probably settle for something lesser that had that smell. There was an episode of "Married...With Children" where Al Bundy (the father) bought a new car and his family jumped in when he brought it home. The first thing he told them when they noticed the smell was, "Hey! Don't suck up all of the "new"..." Art imitating life. Comedy, thy name is Bundy. Candle name: (what else?) New Car

Pheromone - One way animals attracts each other is through an odorless component known as pheromones. It is picked up by members of the opposite sex and is supposed to unconsciously attract a female to a male. Men don't need this component in women because all we need to see is a nice set of...well, you get the gist. Anyway, I'd like to mix up the most irresistible batch of male pheromones, make it into a candle, and invite the Swedish Bikini Team over for dinner. Of course, I would never sell it because then other guys would buy it and any advantage I would have would be blown. Then again, maybe it would work better as a deodorant since I can't reasonably be expected to haul a candle into Borders or Barnes & Noble and start waving it under the noses of the eggheaded beauties scouring the Erotic Yoga section. Couldn't work any worse than the pheromones I'm emitting now. Candle name: None of your bees wax

The sense of smell is the one most closely associated with memory. Smelling mom's spaghetti sauce reminds me of making pasta in the basement with my grandmother, smelling Jim Beam reminds me of the time I drank a large iced-tea glass of whiskey at Lori Johnson's graduation party - and my resulting fully-clothed shower afterwards and smelling horse manure reminds me of the entire Julia Roberts movie catalog.

Just don't make any sweet potato candles.