Steak

Steak.

The word alone inspires a reaction in me that can only be described as primordial. My gums start throbbing and I can feel my canine teeth drop and sharpen. I actually have to physically irritate my gums to the point of making them bleed just to find some sort of relief. It doesn't matter if I have a belly full of rib-eye, pasta or cold Spaghetti-Os already - I still get the same reaction by the mere mention of the word "steak."

Millions of years ago, our slope-headed forefathers came up with the idea of eating steak. I imagine it was by process of elimination that they eventually came upon the idea to eat cooked meat. It probably went down something like this in a cave many, many years ago:

Ook: "Hey! Hey, Og! Are you awake?"

Og: "I am NOW."

Ook: "Let's eat something different today."

Og: "What, are you tired of eating tree bark already?"

Ook: "No, tree bark has its place, but I'm craving something a little more robust."

Og: "Robust? Where the hell did you come up with THAT word? Are you confusing walking 'upward' with 'upwardly mobile'?"

Ook: "C'mon, man. I'm jonesing for something different..."

Larry: "Will you two keep it down? I'm trying to sleep in my own filth here."

Og: "Sorry, Larry, it's just that Ook was..."

Larry: "I KNOW what Ook was doing. Look, just shake your butts out of the cave and eat whatever you see until you find something you like."

Our two heroes looked at each other, shrugged their shaggy shoulders and set out to find something new to eat. It was a cloudy day and it looked like a storm was on its way, so they decided to look for one hour before returning back to the cave. Ook had the bright idea to grab a handful of rocks. It was a bad idea. Og was a little more discerning. He spotted a plant just beyond the cave, ripped off some leaves and popped them in his mouth. As he chewed, Ook was busy nibbling on a wafer of dried mud.

Ook: "You know what, Og? I'm beginning to hate Larry. This was an awful idea."

Og: "Hey, Larry's ok. We might just find something decent to eat. After all, remember the time...WHOA!"

Ook: "What? What is it?"

Og: "I'm buzzing, man. What kind of bush was that? Everything is so weird. I think...I think..."

Ook: "You think what?"

Og: "I think I need some chocolate."

Ook: "Chocolate hasn't been invented yet."

Og: "Don't bring me down, man. We have to find something to eat and quick. I have the munchies."

So they made a pact to walk 500 steps and try the first thing they saw, as thunder rumbled in the distance. Just to prove to you guys haven't changed all that much since our cave-dwelling days, let's listen in to their conversation as they walked.

Og: "...so I said to Larry, 'Hey, man, a girl knows if she'll sleep with you within the first five minutes of meeting you. Playing the sensitive guy-friend gets you a one-way ticket to Nowheresville'"

Ook: "You would think someone as smart a Larry would know that. Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you - I ran into that cute chick from over the hills the other day."

Og: "The one with the great rack?"

Ook: "Yeah. I don't know how she brought down that deer, but I was in love. Those were some impressive antlers."

Og: "Dude, you'd fall in love with a tree if the knothole was big enough..."

As you can see, we've come a long way in our evolution. When they crested the hill, they saw a large elk. It snorted at them and bounded away. But it left a present behind. As Ook and Og walked closer, they could see it was an impressive pile of dung. Ook shot a sideways glance at Og and took a slow, careful step backwards.

Ook: "Um, you first."

Og: "Look, man, I'm stoned, not stupid."

Ook: "Imagine it's chocolate."

Og: "Don't mess with me, man! Don't go harshing my mellow!"

After making yet another pact to not make any more stupid pacts, they soldiered on until they came to an old, gnarled tree standing alone in a field.

Og: "Ah, I love this tree! This is the tree where I kissed my first girlfriend. I tried to carve our initials in it, but.."

Ook: "But you didn't know how to spell since the alphabet hasn't been invented yet. Hell, you don't even have a last name! Hmm, this tree has a lot of knotholes..."

Og: "Don't get any ideas, smart guy!"

It's at this point the narrator interrupts the proceedings to remind them this story is about steak and if they don't pick up the pace, he's going to scrap the storyline and write about Larry. So, they climbed up the tree to get a better look at their surroundings. The sky was getting dark. Then Og found an abandoned honeybee hive. He broke it open and tasted the sweet honeycomb.
Og: "I think we found a winner!"

Ook was busy licking a sticky substance from the trunk of the tree.

Og: "Hey, you pervert! We're supposed to be finding food, not having tree-porn!"

Ook: "Chill out, man. This stuff is good. If we knew what sugar was, I'd say it tastes sugary."

Og: "You ought to check out this stuff I found up here, it's..."

At that moment, they heard a noise as the elk came pounding and snorting towards them. Ook was so scared, he practically levitated into the upper branches where Og was laughing. In the distance, lightning was crashing through the sky.

Og: "Great. We're treed in an oak by an elk, Ook."

Ook: "Nice alliteration, Shakespeare, but we have a problem. That storm is almost on top of us and we have this lunatic elk between us and the cave. Oh, and this isn't an oak tree."

A bright flash of lightning and loud clap of thunder startled the elk so that it reared up on its hind legs and entangled its horns in the thick branches. It thrashed violently, but only succeeded in getting more enmeshed. Ook and Og saw this as their chance and jumped out of the tree to make their way back to the cave. But, as soon as they hit the ground, a spectacular bolt of lighting ripped through the tree and sent shock waves through the air.

Og: "I'm tripping! I'm tripping, man!"

Ook: "No, Og, it was lightning. It hit the tree. Hey, look!"

Og looked at the tree, which was now in flames.

Og: "Damn, and I just discovered honey. I'm stoned, I'm hungry, I'm tired and I'm not going back to the cave empty handed and have to listen to Larry brag how he invented the Internet. We need a big discovery to show everyone, too."

Ook: "What's that smell? It smells like...summer. It almost smells American..."

The storm blew by quickly, in order to help move the story along, and they slowly walked up to the tree which was extinguished by the rain of the aforementioned quickly-passing storm. The elk, which had been so savagely trying to loosen itself was completely charred. Ook picked up a long stick and started poking at the animal.

Og: "Dude! What the hell are you doing?!"

Ook: "I think it's dead, Og."

He gave it a good whack and opened up a large gash on the dead animal's flank. There was no blood, but there was some sticky substance on the elk. The telltale broken honeycomb was resting conveniently on its shoulder. Og moved in.

Og: "Hey, this smells good. What do you think, Ook? Shall we further the cause of mankind - and this story - to develop into omnivores?"

Ook: "Why not - as long as you go first."

Og ripped off a piece of flank and a chip of honeycomb and popped it into his mouth.

Ook: "Well?"

Og: "It sucks."

Ook: "Them why are you cutting yourself another piece?"

Og: "Shut up, Ook! I told you I'm stoned and hungry! Here, try a piece."

Ook took the morsel into his mouth and bit down. His eyes rolled back in his head, his gums swelled and ached and his teeth felt like they could now break those rocks he tried earlier. The juices flooded his mouth, flossing between his molars. He felt his ample chest hair growing.

Ook: "We have to drag this sucker back."

So, our heroes yanked and tugged and wrestled and cursed the animal, but were getting nowhere. Og reasoned that since they were the first human meat eaters, they didn't have to worry about someone snaking their claim, so they set off back towards the cave. When they returned to the cave, Larry was already awake and they told him what happened.

Ook: "...and Og ate elk poop."

Og: "Did not!"

As Ook and Og argued and Larry say back and laughed at these two idiots, there came a voice from the mouth of the cave.

Betsy: "Anyone home?"

Ook: (whispering) "Dude, it's that chick I was telling you about!"

Ook walked over to her and said hello.

Ook: "This is my friend, Og."

Betsy: "Nice to meet you, Og."

Ook: "And this is Larry."

Betsy: "What a strange name. Oh! I almost forgot! I saw what happened with you and the elk and all that."

Og: "Yeah, we're about to go back and cut its antlers from the tree."

Betsy: "I already took care of it. I cut off the antlers and the flank and dragged it here."

Larry: "But, you're not strong enough to carry all that weight."

Betsy: "Yeah, but this story's getting long and we have to wrap it up. Oh, I also brought some of that honeycomb and sap you guys seemed to like. Dude, what was up with licking that tree."

Ook: "I..."

Betsy: "Pervert. That's ok, I like that about you."

Larry: "Say, that's quite an impressive set of antlers there. A 12 point buck. Give me that honeycomb and sap. I'm making a marinade."

Og: "Well, let's get the good china out! Larry, you're going to love this..."

Fast-forward to this evening. I'm patting a full stomach after having a steak dinner with my dad and his wife. My gums are throbbing, my teeth are aching and I can feel my chest hair growing. The sweet, buxom waitress brings us the check, and at that point, I connected with my primordial brothers. I, too, know what it's like to have a thick, juicy steak brought to me by a cute chick with a nice rack.

Great, now I'm hungry again.

.

My Interview With Satan

I had my reservations.

If you remember, last year I interviewed God. It's kind of tough interviewing a dude who knows every question you're going to ask him. A brief recap: He stiffed me on the hamburger. If you don't know what I'm talking about, I suggest you read the story. Oh, read it anyway. It'll make you laugh and push me one step further towards Internet immortality. Who knows? I could be the next "Peanut Butter Jelly Time!"

So, there I was, doing perfectly nothing - and doing it well - when there was a knock at my door. I crowbarred my gold-brickin' ass from the couch and opened the door. There, standing in front of me was the man himself. He was about my height, with soulless, lifeless eyes, jet-black hair swept back, well-manicured goatee, awful smell, but not a hint of horns or a goat's legs. It was the Fedex man. He handed me a clipboard to sign then gave me a letter. It was a nice envelope. Egg shell white with Bookman Old Style font. There was no stamp. I thought, "That's odd," until I remembered it was delivered by Federal Express. The return address simply said, "Hell." I thought, "Hmmm, looks like Phil got married again."

I slid open the flap and saw the gold foil. "Nope, it's not from Phil," I thought. Inside was a card that looked like a wedding invitation. It even had that stupid little tissue thingy in there. I opened the card, which only had one word - written in blood red, mind you: "Hello."

I can't explain what happened next. All of a sudden, the bottom dropped out of the universe and I felt like I was flying and falling at the same time and at incredible speed. Kind of like that feeling you got in history class where you wake up with a violent jerk, pen cap chewed in half and drool down the front of your shirt while your classmates slowly inched their chairs away from you.

Next thing you know, I'm right back where I started. The Fedex guy, who by now was thoroughly enjoying himself at my histrionics, walked away laughing like a man possessed. I thought, "Hmmm, so this is what it's like to feel like Gary Busey," and walked back to the door. The sucker was locked. For reasons known to anyone else except me, I rang the doorbell. To my surprise, I heard footsteps coming from the other side of the door. Sensing an intruder, I reached for something to defend myself with. So, I'm standing there, with two handfuls of leaves, ready to throw down when a sweet, attractive lady answered the door. She said, "Oh, you must be here about the gutters!" Then she laughed, saying, "of course you're not. Why would a person bring more work TO work?" as she looked at my menacing handfuls of leaves and invited me in.

"You can leave those outside" she said, as I reluctantly dropped my only lines of defense on the porch. I don't know why I went in. I mean, hell, I LIVED here, but something wasn't right, and I noticed it immediately when I stepped inside. It was clean. "Dick will be down in a minute." As the Cialis and Viagra jokes danced in my head, she put her right hand on her hip, with the thumb forward, and placed her left hand on the railing, "Dick! Dick, he's here!"

She turned to me and said, "He'll be down in a minute" again, and headed toward the kitchen. She popped her head around the corner and asked me if I was staying for dinner. "We're having corn, sweet potatoes and meatloaf." I hate sweet potatoes. Oh, well, two out of three ain't bad. Then, I heard the footsteps. I thought to myself, "If I were a betting man, I'd guess this would be Dick." I looked up, and this pleasant, jovial man stopped at the landing and said, "Kevin! So glad to finally meet you!" I shook his hand in the unpleasant manner of a man who is introduced to a guy who banged your college girlfriend. He beamed at me and asked, "So, what are you drinking, old man? I bet you're a White Russian man. Me, too! Couldn't put them down after seeing "The Big Lebowski." Those Coen Brothers are something else." He then continued to talk about how he was a fan of theirs before it became trendy and how the missus was a straight-line Julia Roberts, chick-flick fan. He was starting to ask me if I ever saw "When Harry Met Sally" when I broke in, rudely, "Um, who are you?"

He turned his head 45 degrees and fixed his left eye on me. Then, he began to laugh and handed my drink. "I'm Dick! Don't you remember?"

"Um, no, I'm afraid I don't," and took a sip of my drink, "but, I will say this - you mix a hell of a drink, Dick." I'm not kidding. This was a damned good cocktail. I bottomed out my tumbler and the crescent-shaped ice cubes bounced off my nose. I lowered the glass and he was already handing me another. He asked me to have a seat in the chair while he parked himself on the couch. "I'm Satan," he said. Considering everything I had been though so far, I said, "Ok, right, sure. You're Satan. I'm ok with that."

Now, we all have our own image of Satan. The cat more or less looks like this to most of us:

Well, I'm here to tell you - actually, disappoint you - that Satan really looks like this:

"Don't you remember? You called my secretary and asked me for an interview after you had that expose on God?"

I'll be damned, this MUST be the devil. I NEVER leave messages with secretaries if I can help it. Stalling for time to make any sense of anything I said I didn't have my notebook, tape recorder or any pens. Magically, a pen and pad of paper appeared on the coffee table in front of me. I looked up and asked about the tape recorder, but he said, "No tape recorders. I hate how I sound on those things." Not feeling completely up to the task, he leaned over and said, "Look, I'm not like the Big Man upstairs. I can't tell you what to say, but I can inspire certain things in your mind - or at least leave you more open to them."

"Ok," I said, "who is your favorite Beatle?"

At that point, the front door flew open and in charged about 4-5 smokin' females. The first one was very striking, in that cute Goth-girl chick look. She bent over and gave him a big kiss and hug. "I love you, Daddy!" The other girls gave a collective "Awwww!" She looked over at me and said, "Oh! I didn't see you there!"

He said, "Kevin, this is my daughter." Speaking of inspiring things in my mind. She gave me a cute, and very heavily-intentioned wink, then pivoted on her heel and said, "Daddy, we'll be upstairs studying!" Then the collective group of cuteness stomped noisily up the stairs, laughing and saying, "he's cuuuuuute!" I turned to ask him something, but he cut me off. "Don't even THINK about it! I'll rip the flesh from your body with a vegetable peeler! Oh, my favorite Beatle is George, although the missus is a Paul fan."

From the kitchen came a sweet voice, "He was the walrus! Goo-goo-gajoob! Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Then she started humming "Nowhere Man" and adding "Goo-goo-gajoob" to the end of each chorus.

Feeling strangely at home in this sketch comedy of a world, I mustered up some clarity and asked, "So, what happened?"

"You mean The Fall and all that? Everyone asks me this in interviews. I should just walk around town handing out index cards with this answer. Let's just say SOMEONE has an ego problem. He thinks his poop doesn't stink. It actually doesn't, but have SOME humility, for Christ's sake. Look, it's not like I was the only one in the office bucking for a promotion, and since I was exempt, I wasn't making any overtime money anymore. And talk about a micro-manager..."

"So, he wasn't the ideal boss?"

"You tell me. You met him."

"Point taken. So, is this Hell? I expected fire, brimstone and Carrot Top." I felt the arms of the chair. "Is this Burberry?"

"Like it? Craig's List. $250. For the chair AND the couch. The women was selling it cheap because she was moving to Asia."

Falling into step, I asked, "You mean to Seoul?"

"Singapore, actually. She's a big shot at GM. No kids. Great opportunity. Did you know you can't chew gum in Singapore?"

I thought to myself, "Great, Satan's a trivia nut. If he breaks out the Trivial Pursuit, things could get ugly quick." I said to him, "See, I said 'Seoul' because it sounds like..."

"I know what you were trying to do." He lifted his head a little and called out, "Hon? What time is dinner?"

From the kitchen came, "Half an hour, Dick! Goo-goo-gajoob!" followed by a laugh.

He looked at me and said, "Get yourself a good woman. We've been together forever and every day is a surprise. We met at Homecoming. She was a senior and I was home from college for the weekend. Before you ask - Trinity College. Anyway, I saw her at the pep rally bonfire. I remembered seeing her in the hallways at school, but I was seeing someone. I always had someone. We just hit it off."

Nodding my head, absently, I said, "So, about Hell..."

"Hell? Hell is what you make it out to be. If you want Hell to be fire and brimstone, be my guest. Just leave Carrot Top out of it. Look, like everything, it's up to interpretation, like angels having wings. Let me give you a little history lesson. When beliefs were being created and spread, it belonged to the people. Then it became an institution - a business! And who do you think ran things back then? The people who could read and write, and who were they?" He tugged back one finger at a time. "The nobility, the clergy and the wealthy. Remember, society was still rather primitive back then. They put their faith - no pun intended - in the ruling classes and all three of those groups were washing each others' backs, and when one of those groups represents something so close to the heart as faith - and takes the clergy's word as gospel - you basically have an entire underclass of people who believe what they are told. Since those same people couldn't read or write, their traditions and beliefs were passed down orally to their children, generation after generation. It propagated itself. All the other branches of that religion are just basically variations of the same theme. Oh, God is real, all right, as you already know, but he gave people free will, and that's why you have so many religions today. It's also why Religion, Politics and Finance basically run the world - and they're all connected. Always have been and always will be. Religion wasn't about faith. It was about order."

"Um, thanks. What's your middle name?"

"Ted."

"How about the end of the world? The Apocalypse?"

"The Apocalypse is coming with or without me. Man is like the ultimate temp worker. He does all the work and I take all the credit. Nah, when the Apocalypse hits, I'll be on the Play Station or poolside."

"Why do they call you 'The Beast'?"

From the kitchen came a woman's voice, "Have you ever used the bathroom after him? Goo-goo-gajoob!"

"I'm called The Beast, because if you can't have a hero without a villain. Yeah, I screwed up. I'll be the first to admit it. I was young and full of beans. It's like a much more serious game of "You're Momma's So Ugly..."

"Still, it must bother you to be dreaded by so many people over such a long period of time."

"Personally, I really don't give a damn - okay, that was intentional!" Satan loves laughing at his own jokes. He's like that uncle that pulls the quarter from your ear before blasting you in the face with a belch of Old Milwaukee. "Seriously, though, I really don't care what others think of me. They can believe in me or not. You know the old saying, "You may not believe in The Devil, but he believes in you"? Well - ta-da!"

"Literature sometimes depicts you as being sexy."

"Is this a question or a statement? Look, I'm not going to lie to you. I love being cast as the sexy seducer. Well, you tell me? You've seen my daughter. She's a knockout. And while her mother is quite the looker, she got most of her genes from me." He leaned forward and tapped his chest with an index finger twice and said, "Pure Dick."

Biting my tongue until it almost bled, I asked, "So where are all the tortured souls that are supposed to be here?

"Have you seen my lawn?" Thinking back, I never did turn around to see if the lawn changed after I entered this cuckoo clock of a world. "I have some out there right now cutting my grass."

"So, in hell, you become a landscaper?"

"Well, my lawn IS one million light years long - and wide. And they have to cut it with their teeth, one blade at a time. If of them screws up, I grow back the grass and they start all over again. Mostly low-volume sinners. Now the ones I put in charge of cleaning the leaves from my gutters are the worst sinners. You don't even want to know what they've done when they were alive."

"I have a pretty good idea," I deadpanned. "Let's lighten this up a bit. Your name is used in so many common sayings. I want to get your opinion on some of them."

"Fire away."

"The Devil is in the details"

"Details? You mean the magazine? Hell, I've been in that rag more times than Paris Hilton. Yes, I went there."

"Devil In a Blue Dress"

"It was a fraternity thing."

"The Devil made me do it."

"Damn right I did. Actually, I didn't, but I'll take an empty compliment all day, every day."

"Between The Devil and the deep blue sea."

"That's your ass, right there, because when I hit the beach, I'm already in mid-air with my boogie board as soon as that first wave comes in. Actually, the "devil" in that saying refers to very bottom of the ship's hull when people were keel-hauled. It was called the 'devil'"

"The Devil and Miss Jones"

"I swear I did not have sexual relations with that woman." He leans in and whispers. "Dude! Be cool!"

Nodding, I ask him, "Who do you think has done the best job of portraying you in the movies?"

"Pacino. Hands down. He plays me in every movie, actually. He's THAT good. Oh, and I liked DeNiro in that "Angel Heart" movie. Great look. Played a guy named Louis (Lou) Cypher. Lou Cypher - get it?"

"Yes, "Lucifer" - I get it."

"I loved the way he peeled that egg. I went as him for Halloween three years in a row until the wife came up with that damned "Raggedy Ann and Andy" couples costume. I freakin' HATED that thing."

From the kitchen came, "Oh, you loved it! You looked so CUTE!"

He shook his head and smiled. "Is that all you have to add?"

"Oh! Goo-goo-gajoob!"

"He put his hand on my arm. "Get yourself one. You'll thank me"

She came into the room and said, "You're welcome to stay for dinner" before walking to the foot of the stairs and calling, "Dinner!"

"So, what's it going to be, old bean? Going to break bread with us?"

I thought about it and said, "Maybe next time. I'll just grab a burger on the way home, I know a place."

I stood up, but since I was drinking, I almost took a header right onto the coffee table. He stood up and steadied me by the elbow. "Whoa, there, buckaroo! Here, lie down for a second and I'll get you something for that head of yours." Then he disappeared into the kitchen. I closed my eyes, trying to shake off the effects of the alcohol, rubbed them with the heels of my palms and looked up.

It was quiet.

I sat up and looked around. I was back in my house and on my non-Burberry couch. I must've been dreaming. But, it seemed so REAL. And his daughter was babe-a-licious. Suddenly, my heart jumped into my throat as a loud knocking rapped at my door. It echoed right through me. I looked down at a stack of loose-leaf paper on the coffee table with the words, "My Interview With Satan" written in red ink. There was another knock at the door, I chuckled a little and laid back down.

Then I went to sleep.

Skidfest

As you probably already know (and I have annoyingly repeated), I created Skidfest in 1990. What is Skidfest? It's a musical benefit put on each semester at the University of Delaware by the residents of Skid Row. What is Skid Row? Man, you're killing me with these questions. Skid Row is a row (get it?) of 8-9 nearly 120-year-old houses located in a prime area just off campus. It usually has always attracted very eclectic and laid back renters who, shall we say, REALLY enjoy the non-academic portion of student life (nudge, nudge). I won't bore you with the details of how Skidfest came to be, but I can tell you it is now THE social event of the semester for practically every good time-seeking student at the university for almost 20 years now. Did I mention I was the one who started it all? See? I can't help myself. Fortunately, my self-congratulation will be coming to an end when I disassociate myself from Skidfest altogether. More on that later.

I attended the most recent Skidfest yesterday. It was a glorious day. The sun was shining, the atmosphere was an amped-up mellow and the music was top-notch. If every student didn't have a cell phone, I never would have been able to tell if this was 2008 or 1990. Of course, if I really couldn't tell the difference, I'd be a freaking idiot, because I'd still be 24. Yeah, yeah, I know - it took me six years to graduate. I was kicked out in my sophomore year. So sue me already. Anyway, back to my reminiscing. I was taken back to those golden days of my college life and I started waxing nostalgic. The people I enjoyed so much are nothing more than dried rain droplets on the windshield of my soul now (yeah, I smoked some serious dope in college. That last sentence was proof). I miss people like Minky, the Borstelmenn twins, the goddess Sarah Jacobs, Kendra Bellville, sweet Stephie Katz and little Judi DeMartino. Let me tell you something about Judi DeMartino. She was, hands-down the cutest little cup of yummy you would ever have the pleasure of meeting. She was petite, with curly blonde hair and the most electric blue doll's eyes I have ever seen. And she was the funnest (is that a word? Probably not) gal I have ever met (ok, her and Kendra). She's married now, to a great guy, has two beautiful children, and she is still a stunner today. I also missed my buddies, guys like James Cottrell, Norm Washington, Rick Taormina, George the bartender at the Stone Balloon, and, of course, the Boys. But, life goes on, much like this paragraph, so I had better stop the Time Machine here and get back to the present day.

I arrived around 12:30 and the first band was tuning up. Already, I could see the gathering students throwing quizzical looks at me, whispering behind their drinks, "hey, check out the OLD guy...", and that's if they were being kind. Skidfest has become something huge and monstrous. I talked with quite a few students who mentioned it's the social centerpiece of their entire collegiate life. A guy from one of the bands told me it was better than his birthday and Christmas rolled into one. I suppose it's a little difficult to imagine the magnitude of it all when I initially planned Skidfest to be nothing more than a little rinky-dink backyard party. Oh sure, I had delusions of it being humongous and having a statue of me erected in the middle of campus as some sort of Party Savior, but, the truth is it far exceeded my expectations that first year. The folks who, year after year, perpetuate this gala are the real heroes of Skidfest. To date, tens of thousands of dollars have been raised for various charities as AIDS Delaware, Juvenile Diabetes, The Emmaus House and the survivors of Hurricane Katrina. When I say I am proud of Skidfest, I am not saying I am proud of myself. I am saying I am proud to have been associated with these students over the past 19 years, if only peripherally. As I told Alex, who was on of the people in charge of yesterday's bash, "Skid Row isn't a strip of ancient houses. It's a state of mind." And it's true. To look at all those joyous faces in the crowd, to see the various musical acts, it looked like a Benetton orgasm. People of every ethnicity, religion, economic standing, political inclination and sexual orientation claim it as their own, embrace it and remember it, long after they receive their diplomas.

As the steady stream of students paid their cover charge at the door, I thought to myself, these are tomorrows doctors, scientists, painters, lawyers, accountants, inmates, millionaires, business owners and politicians. These are tomorrows leaders. Tomorrow's parents. And not one of them - not a single one of them - will ever forget their years here. They will never forget Skidfest. I know. I'm living proof.

Of course, what would Skidfest be without some colorful characters? The first person I noticed was a huge muscular dude, about 6'5", shaved bald and shirtless, with tattoos all over him, including his head. You could always tell where he was, because when he walked through the crowd, a cone of silence followed him because people were awed. He's the kind of guy who looked like he would take on an enemy machine gun nest and kill every soldier with his bare hands. The kind of person whose hometown pubs would be rich with stories about the time he beat up a locomotive. I had some cat sit next to me, who was obviously trying to freak me out (sorry, no luck) with these vampire-looking contacts. They were pitch black with this almost neon blue on the corona. He seemed like a decent guy, but I think he was a little disappointed he didn't get a reaction out me. Wear those contacts to a job interview with me and he'll get a reaction, though. But, it's college, and if he wants to fly his freak flag high, I'll salute. I saw another cat who had metallic green hair, and damned if it didn't change color when he turned his head. I thought, we've finally done it. We have synthesized human beings with disco lights. I'm giving some serious thought to having that done to my hair.

Another amazing thing was seeing so many familiar faces. I'm not talking about people I have seen there in the past. I'm talking about seeing the faces of so many students who were the spitting image of people I knew back in my college years. It was downright spooky. It did occur to me, however, that I am now old enough that some of these students could be THE CHILDREN OF PEOPLE I KNEW IN SCHOOL!!!! A cold sweat raced all over my body. I hesitated to ask anyone their name for fear the response I would get back would be, "Hi, I'm Lolita!" I had an old biker-looking guy take a seat next to me who was verbalizing everything I was trying not to think:

"Man, look at the jugs on that one!"
"She's pretty sweet-looking."
"They're not too young for me!"
"I'd do her in the can."

He said he was there with his son. I was thinking this guy probably ate a lot of bad road in the 1960s and 1970s. I came to find out he was two years YOUNGER than me. I reached up and felt my beard coming in, long and white. Then I thought to myself, to hell with it. I may grow older, but I don't think I'll ever grow old. Hitting on girls who could reasonably be my daughter isn't my idea of a good time - and it certainly would be a giant slice of hell for them, so I concentrated on looking at the tree branches, the hot dog cart and the ground. I must have looked insane.

I took a look at my old room at 32 1/2 Academy Street, right there on Skid Row. I talked to some of the students living there, shared some old war stories (they all like hearing how things were "back in the day") and made some contacts for next year's event. I collected a rather radioactive glow from being in the sun all day, enjoyed some great music and met some decent people.

But, after next year, that all ends.

Next year will be the 20th year of Skidfest. The year after that will be the 20th anniversary. 20 years. Man, that's something else. 20 years of memories for me and countless thousands of other people. 20 years of good times, charity and spirited fellowship. I have seen relationships end there. I have seen new ones take blossom. I have seen old friends reunite in a cluster of hugs and spilled beer and I have seen heartfelt goodbyes, with promises to keep in touch. I have seen U of D students, townies and students from other colleges descend into the yard to taste the waters of unbridled youth. To guzzle it, bathe in it and share it. I have seen the denizens of Skid Row work tirelessly to pull off that legacy that has been handed down to them for almost two full decades. No one wants to be responsible for dropping the ball. Skidfest has to go on. It MUST go on. But, after next year, it won't go on with me.

I am no longer relevant. In truth, after that first Skidfest, I never really was relevant to it. At first, after I graduated, I attended because I still knew people there. I would check in every now and again over the next 10 or so years, just to soak it back in, to feel the rush of youth inside me, if only vicariously. In the last several years, Skidfest became more of an old lover, one that you pass on the street, smile reminiscently, glad to see she is well and happy, without any feeling of regret that things are no longer the same as when you dated her. You wave goodbye without any promises of calling or emailing, and indeed, none will be forthcoming. You'll reflect on the memories of her from time to time, but you have to get on with your life. 20 years is a long time for a casual relationship, even one that meant so much to you at the beginning. It's time for me to let it go. This time next year, I will attend my last Skidfest. She'll do fine without me. She always has. I will walk away without any remorse, without any sadness. I'll look back at the good times, the feelings of community and the memories, glad she is well.

Then I'll get on with my life.

Legacy

I am going to do something a little different here. Basically, everything I have written here has been off the top of my head - unedited and unmodified - except for a few spelling corrections. The entry below was written by me seven or eight years ago. This was before I found Dear Abby, Ann Landers, Erma Bombeck or anyone else had a similar entry in the paper. It was also before I ever saw Fight Club (if you've seen the movie, you'll know what I mean). Of course, I've never seen or read the book, either.

This was something I wrote when I deconstructed myself in my early 30s. I was not happy about a lot of things and embarked on a journey to remake myself in a way to ensure I was truly happy and not what I thought happiness was. It was a grueling, difficult process, but the effort has paid off thousands of times over. So, I am reprinting this piece here, although I have never publicly shared it outside of a few emails I sent those many years ago. Like all things here, I have not edited it, save for breaking up the one big paragraph into more easily digestible sentence groups. If you can find even one sentence that makes you stop and think, this entire effort would have been worth it, and even if you don't, it was worth it to me. I hope you enjoy it.

An open letter to the children I may never have:

I hope that you grow up healthy and happy. I don't care how much money you will make, how popular you will be, or how you will reflect upon me. You have a great big world of wonder in which to carve out your own personal happiness. I have worked hard all of my life to provide a life for you that I did not have for myself. I may not have made all the correct decisions in life, but I learned from every mistake. I also learned from every surprise. For a long time, I never felt completely comfortable with my life. I over-compensated my dissatisfaction in numerous ways, but, finally, I found a peace in my heart and soul that has washed away years of yearning, years of worry, and years of unhappiness. May you also find that peace.

I hope that you aren't afraid to make mistakes in your life. I wish for you to pursue whatever it is that makes you happy. Don't rush to judge anyone just because they do not fit into your way of thinking. However, don't be afraid to have an opinion and stand by it when challenged. By the same token, if you encounter another point of view that makes more sense to you, have the courage to adapt.

Never settle for anything or anyone. There is always something and someone better for you if you are not happy. Laugh. Laugh loud and laugh long. Nothing makes a soul feel better than a good laugh. It is hard to be angry when you are laughing from your toes on up. You will be taught a lot of things in your life, but never feel that all you need to be taught comes from school. Go out and learn! After you learn, do the noble thing and teach. Teach to those who look to you for guidance. Teach your children, teach each other, and teach yourselves. Knowledge is power. Never forget that.

Never let anyone else tell you if you are successful or not. If you are truly happy, at your core, you are successful. Do not worry about what you do not have - instead, rejoice in what you do have. Where you live does not matter. How much you make does not matter. What car you drive, the job you have or the stuff you accumulate - none of these matter. If you are in a relationship or not, it does not matter. If you have children or not, it does not matter. Do not live your life by the expectations of others. I do not have expectations of you - only hopes FOR you.

Whatever you choose to do, do it well. I'm not talking about the results. I'm talking about the effort. Don't do anything you don't want to do, except listen to your mother and your teachers. Believe it or not, your elders WERE your age at one time. Teenage angst is not a modern invention. I went through it, too. Adults aren't out to get you. No one is out to get you. Sure, I was unhappy when I was a teenager, too, as were most teenagers. You have every right to rebel, but rebel in a way that is going to be productive. Trust me, it passes.

May you be happy with your lot in life. Each day, do something positive. Say ‘hello’ to someone you don't know, especially children and your elders. It makes them feel valued and can brighten your entire day. It will be easy to awake one day and think your entire life is in shambles. It’s not. Many good things happen to you every day, so don't just focus on the negatives. Somebody loves you. Start with that.

Don't run FROM anything. Instead, run TOWARDS something. Getting away from trouble solves nothing, for it will always be there. If it’s too big for you to handle, have the courage to lean on a loved one if they offer their support. Asking for help is a sign of STRENGTH, not weakness.

When people are talking, do them and yourself a favor by listening to what they are saying. You may not always agree with them, but you at least open yourself up to another point of view besides your own.

Don't try to make everyone happy. You cannot. Make yourself happy instead. Remember: you have to live with yourself for the rest of your life. Those who cannot appreciate that you have to make yourself happy first are not true friends. You will be asked to do things socially that you will want to do and will not want to do. Don't do the things you do not want to do. People who really matter will respect you, but, more so, you will respect yourself. Sex is NOT love, no matter what your friends or significant other says.

Question everything that does not make sense to you. Please exercise your right to vote. One person CAN make a difference. Chances are that your first impression is the right impression, but leave yourself some room to change your mind.

You will be marketed by companies trying to sell their product to you. If they have to use sex to sell their product, chances are that the product is inferior. This includes television, movies, music, and clothing. Don't let marketers tell you that you aren't hip, sexy or cool if you don't buy their product or watch or listen to their programs.

Read. Read voraciously. Improve your memory. Have a hobby no matter how uncool it may appear to others. People like you the way you are. Don't let anyone change you. You are here for one reason, and one reason only: to make this world that much better for having you in it. Be a good person, above all. Remember that a polite word can disarm a potential argument. Compliments are just as easy to give as criticism, so give them freely and sincerely. One kind word can make another person’s day and lift your spirits as well.

Take an opportunity to write down your thoughts. What you do with those thoughts is up to you. As I once read, no one can take advantage of you without your permission. You are going to make mistakes. Learn from them. You are going to get your heart broken. It is inevitable. The pain will pass into a pleasant memory. You will have days where nothing seems to go right. Congratulations, you are human. You may sit and evaluate your life and think you are a failure. You are not. Just don't give up. Please never give up. Someone, somewhere, is thinking pleasant thoughts about you at this very moment.

If you choose to follow a religion, do it because it makes sense to you and not because it was the only one you know. Sometimes, things that appear too good to be true ARE true. Take time in your day to daydream. Think, wonder, imagine, fantasize, or just clear your head of thought and relax. The Earth will still spin if you sleep late on the weekend.

A day without learning is a day wasted. Learn more about other cultures and customs, and be respectful of them. Gossip is poison - avoid it at all costs. Some things are none of your business. ALL things are rumor until they are fact. Don't worry what others think about you. If you know the truth and are happy, that is all that matters. Those who try to undermine you are jealous of you, no matter what they say.

Be in touch with your feelings and emotions. Feelings are never wrong; they just may be misunderstood. You are entering into a world that is much more technologically advanced than the one I grew up in. You have more choices than I ever had, and your children will have more choices than you. With computers, the Internet, and who knows what else at your fingertips, take some time to learn how to write cursive, play outside, use your imagination and read. Don't let technology take the place of the joys of being human. Never forget what a wonderful human being you are.

Remember this: I never had all the answers. No one does. But, I do have one wish I would like to share with you now.

I wish that you may never have to read this. This is my legacy to you.

Friday, Bloody Friday

Well, it's that time of year again. That time of year where reasonably sane people - almost overwhelmingly of the female persuasion - completely lose their minds and set the human race back several thousands of years. That time of year is today - Black Friday.

Personally, I never liked the usage of the word "black" to denote anything negative. Call me racially sensitive or a complete idiot, but I never really cottoned to its usage. Actually, don't call me racially sensitive or any other kind of sensitive because the people who know me best know I am not the most politically correct person in the world. If you think about it, there's really nothing correct about politics at all. In fact, the notion of a two-party system has long outlived its usefulness....

Ok, now that I've driven that steaming pile of free-form nonsense off the cliff on Tangent Road, let me get back to my point. Black Friday is complete and utter ridiculouslessness on parade. Women camp out in front of department stores and malls all around the country like tie-dyed, shaggy haired neo-hippies waiting for Grateful Dead tickets to go on sale (yes, I am aware that Jerry Garcia died well over 10 years ago. Save the hate mail). Shivering and hostile, like Cold War-era Russians queuing up for potatoes and vodka, these maniacs are just suffering through the preamble before the doors are unlocked. That's when the real action starts.

Seeing as that I am a rational and level-headed idiot, I've never had the slightest desire to suffer through one of these retail feeding frenzies, so I'll just go on reports I've collected through the years, although I'm not above making stuff up just to make for better reading. Women, who spent hours in line filing their nails into razor-sharp weapons of death, start lunging at display tables, stepping over - and on - their competition, flinging helpless children to the side with mighty swipes of their paws. Helpless salespeople shiver in their chainmail armor or cower in corners as loud-mouth, wide-hipped Berthas come tear-assing through the Juniors Department to find something to fit their overly plump pre-teen daughters. Store security guards are easily overtaken by the bull rush of conspicuously-consumptive soccer moms hell-bent on getting the new Play Station - the very one that will be obsolete exactly 365 days from this very night. Like mother tigers training their young, divorced and unmarried 20-somethings are hurling their children into the toy section mosh pit, smiling proudly as their offspring pummels another child and rips the head off the latest craze in ugly dolls, thinking, "well, if my perfect child can't have it, nobody else's bastard child can have it!"

We men are simple creatures. We don't like to shop. Oh, we like to buy, but buying is a brief walk into the store, grabbing what we like, easing our way to the register and getting the hell out of there - all without breaking stride. Try things on? Absolutely not. We know what fits and what doesn't already. We're not trying to fool ourselves into thinking, "If I lose 10 pounds, I'll look great in this." No, all we care about is if it covers our ass crack when we bend over - and that's only if we REALLY care a LOT. Don't go throwing those metro-sexual guys in my face, either. We both know they are not really men; they're more like the bigfoot of men - the missing link between genders, just like women who can belch as long and loud as a water buffalo's fart. If we bring home clothing that doesn't fit us, we just say, "the hell with it" and toss it into the bottom dresser drawer with the unpaired socks, cardboard shirt collars and the Victoria Secret catalog we stole from our neighbor's mailbox five years ago.

But, back to the animals.

For some reason, these people cling desperately to the misguided notion that the customer is always right. Well, having worked in the service industry before, I can tell you one thing - the customer is not always right. More often than not, the customer is a freaking idiot. Except for the fem-bot perfume Nazis, most salespeople are scared to death of these cut-throat blowhards who demand they produce an item that sold out in five seconds with a wave of their plastic name tags. Unless someone has a name tag that says "Merlin" on it, just wait until the following week when you can buy the same damned thing for maybe 5% more money. It's like these lunatics declared Manifest Destiny with their holiday shopping lists and would rip your still-beating heart out of your rib cage if they think it could get them the last item left on the shelf.

This brings me to one of the chief instigators to this orgy of de-evolution - the "hot" gift. Allow me to rattle off a few to you and let me know if you are among the guilty who has committed the sin of adding to this insanity. In no particular chronological order:

Tickle Me Elmo - What in God's name was behind this nonsense? First of all, Elmo will never be a real Muppet in my eyes because he wasn't around in the 1970s when the Muppets were actually hip, cool and relevant. Second of all, Elmo is a fruit. I have nothing against people of alternative lifestyles, but even Rip Taylor would say Elmo is an over-the-top flamer. He's a wimpy nancy-boy who has directly contributed to the softening of an entire generation of kids who are coddled and suffocated by parents who think the Cookie Monster will irreparably harm their little angels because he likes Oreos. Yes, those same parents who think nothing of the dozens and dozens of Happy Meals and snack cakes they give their kids are worried about the Cookie Monster. These are the same idiot parents who want to take scoring out of youth games because it promotes competition and losing don't even consider for a second that it also promotes accomplishment, teamwork and sportsmanship and that life is all about losing and overcoming your losses. As the prophet George Carlin once remarked, "your kid is AVERAGE at best. There are some really smart ones, some really dumb ones and whole hell of a lot that are just AVERAGE." Once these idiot parents realize their kid has an outstanding chance of being average like the rest of us, maybe the kid can lead a healthy, well-adjusted life. But, back to Elmo. A "Tickle Me" doll? Does anyone else find this creepy besides me? It sounds one step away from the "Anatomically-Correct Creepy Uncle Phil Doll."

The Furby - Oh, they're soft and cute and look like the precious relatives of Gizmo from that Gremlins movie, and they can also apparently communicate with people. Personally, I think the people who snatched up this toy like free mints at the T.G.I.Fridays were more in love with the soft, fluffy name of this abomination than anything else. Apparently, Furbies were banned from many government workplaces because they could be used to record sensitive information. I can just see the new James Bond movie about this one: The Man With the Golden Furby, Live and Let Furby or The Furby Who Loved Me. It's basically a smart tape recorder plunged into a fricking teddy bear. Morons.

Beanie Babies - Bean bags. Shaped like animals. Fat women obsessed with bean bags shaped like animals. 'Nuff said.

Cabbage Patch Dolls - One of the pioneers of the hot gift craze, these abominations were about as ugly as your grandmother's feet. When future anthropologists unearth the shattered remains of our society hundreds of years from now, they'll uncover one of the dirtiest and shameful secrets of the 20th century in how the whole Cabbage Patch Doll mania practically brought America to its knees. For those who may read this decades from now, let me give you a brief description of what they looked like. Imagine a gigantic pierogi with fat arms and legs and yarn hair combined with a creepy small face and dimples riveted into place. Now imagine them with some equally-creepy birth certificates and adoption papers. I have to stop here because I'm getting a little spooked out.

Play Station 3 - These over-priced video game conveyance systems were selling for thousands of dollars on online auction sites within hours of their debut. Someone help me out here, but, I know, having been a kid for a decent part of my life, if I received this gift in January or February when my parents could have paid the normal retail price, I wouldn't throw myself into the path of a city bus or write some nihilistic death poetry on my MySpace page because I received it a month or two after someone's desperately-hip parent bought it for my friend for the holidays. You see, people are basically idiots when it comes to stuff like this.

Hey, call me crazy, call me handsome, call me one sexy beast, just don't call me from the Emergency Room because you voluntarily wandered into the war zone. But, if you ARE going out on Black Friday, well, at least pick me up something nice.

Shalloween

Today is Halloween. Of course, if you're reading this after the day it was written, today is whatever day it says on your calendar. This is my favorite time of year and October is my favorite month. The smell of burning leaves, kids dressing in costume and sports fans across America screaming at their football teams to go for it on fourth down. Halloween was always a magical time of year where you could dress as the most foul, gruesome disgusting creatures by the very same mothers who made you stand in the corner for getting mud on your new shoes.

I remember there was a certain electricity in the air as Halloween night came closer. It was indescribable and exhilarating, like dipping hot McDonald's french fries into a cold vanilla milkshake. Children across the land would do the pee-pee dance anxiously awaiting the moment they could step into their costumes, pose for various pictures with friends and family members and await the parental warnings of not opening their candy before it could be inspected by mom or dad first. Someone always had a horror story of a razor blade apples, LSD-laced lollipops or stale peanut chews to strike the appropriate amount of doubt in a kid's mind about digging in before mom and dad could inspect it first. Now, I'd like to take this opportunity to add both my parents inspected my candy. Mom would check for opened wrappers while dad would check for whatever candy he liked and then steal into the shadows to devour my Butterfingers bars. Did I mention they were "bars"? Yes, back in my day, people actually gave us actual-sized candy bars. Today, kids get those fraudulent "fun size" candies. I don't know about you, but a 1/2 ounce piece of candy is about as much fun as peeing in the shower - it initially feels good until you realize what a disgusting pig you are.

Like most kids who grew up in the late 60s and 70s, my costumes had three phases:

First phase: You would go to the local dry goods store and pick out a large square box with the flimsiest cellophane window - which was usually already punctured by the time your bitching and complaining finally motivated your mom to get your costume. Inside would be a cheap plastic mask of a superhero, monster or something even more hideous - a Disney character. These frail little jobbies had an elastic string that attached to either side of the mask by sharp, perpendicular metal endings which always broke before Halloween night, and would snap violently like Chinese martial arts weapons. You could always tell the next school day who wore these costumes. The deep cheek gouges would give them away. Beneath the mask was a pathetic little rayon or polyester "suit" that only reached your knees and tied in the back like an ill-fitting hospital gown. My biggest complaint was that when I wore a batman mask, I wanted a suit that looked like Batman's suit. Oh no. Instead, there was some low-rent picture of Batman and Robin sporting creepy smiles like light-loafered cheese-eaters. As an adult, I have no problem with people and their sexual preferences, but at six years old, I wasn't very self-actualized.

Second phase: Mom was too tired of shelling out good money for the el cheapo costumes so she decided to either make something for you or cobble something together from clothes she was getting ready to burn in the backyard anyway. This was the height of Halloween costume creativity. Once, my mom made my brother Dave and I pirate costumes. Dave was the captain, so I guess that made me the Gilligan pirate. Dad made a super-cool hook for my brother, but he made me a cutlass - both out of real metal. When we did the Halloween costume parade in school, no one even took a second notice to the fact that I was carrying a dangerous weapon and could have aced my teacher right there on the spot. I should have ransomed the other kids for their lunch money. One Halloween, my mom actually came to ME and said she had a great idea for a costume - I was going to be a mummy. To that point, I hadn't ever dressed as a monster, so images of stealing souls, summoning sand storms and one day having Brendan Fraser star in two movies about my awesomeness filled my head. Long story short, I was a few safety pins short of making a complete circuit around the block. I kept getting snagged on bushes and branches and it looked like I toilet papered my entire street. By the time I made it home, I was completely naked. Mummies don't wear underpants.

Third phase: By this time, it's all about the candy and torturing the younger kids. Dave and I would go out as bums or car crash victims without ever having to get into costume. One year, we didn't even put THAT much effort into it. We would ring the doorbell of a house and someone would answer with a bowl of candy and ask where our costumes were. I would say, "Oh, I'm him and he's me." Unimpressed by our ingenuity, they would slam the door in our faces so we had absolutely no choice but to kick in the heads of their jack-o-lanterns and high tail it out of there.

Oftentimes, I would go trick-or-treating with my best friend, Ray. If you don't know about Ray from my other stories, suffice to say even Satan himself would cross to the other side of the street if Ray was coming towards him. Ray and I were responsible for roughly 99% of the mischief that happened in our neighborhood, but that's another story for another time. In the late 70s/early 80s, designers came up with costumes that had large inflatable heads, such as aliens, animals and Ben Affleck. You could always tell which street we were on by the mobs of screaming kids as Ray and I chased them down with safety pins to pop their costumes. Back then, parents didn't walk their kids around, they just sent them out with their friends while they stayed home, played cards with friends and had quick gropes with their neighbors while waiting for the bathroom. We would always find the kids with best costumes and follow them around. When the door opened, we would push the little kid to the front. Invariably, it was a woman who answered and would squeal about how cute the kid looked and wanted to show her guests the costume the kid was wearing. Then, she would pivot, look back and say, "There's the bowl. Only take ONE piece of candy!" After she turned back around, Ray would grab the bowl, run out the door with it, dump half of the candy into my bag, half into his and toss the bowl back onto the lawn. Good times.

Today, it's all about product and profit. I knew summer was over the horizon in April when Halloween candy displays appeared in the drugstores before kids had a chance to bite the ears off their chocolate Easter bunnies. Candy bars are now 1/8th of the size they used to be and Hollywood doesn't green light a kid's movie without tying it up in some merchandising with Halloween. Look, God bless Harry Potter books and movies. I truly enjoy them, I really do, but if I see an entire gaggle of Hogwarts students at my door, I might just projectile vomit over their nice, expensive costumes then watch them battle to the death on my lawn as I lob a mini Snickers into the air.

I guess they ARE fun sized after all.

Smell Ya Later

I smell. Now before you get the wrong idea, I'm not saying I stink - but, then again, I'm not saying I don't. What I mean is that I have a very sensitive nose. I can tell the age of a person sitting four rows behind me in the movie theater without ever having to turn around by how they smell. I can smell one-billionth of an ounce of cumin in a swimming pool-sized vat of tomato sauce. I can tell what someone had for lunch three days ago by the lingering stench of a fart they left on an elevator that I am unfortunate enough to step into.

Look, I don't want to have a sensitive nose - I just do. It seems every time I'm on an airplane some elderly woman with big dew-drop glasses and polyester pant suit squeezes herself into the seat next to me wearing the unholiest of perfumes. You know the type of woman I'm talking about - the one who wants to know every detail of your miserable life before she explodes into every detail of HER miserable life. They always seem to wear the cheapest of perfumes, which brings us to the math portion of the program:

If perfume (X) is cheap and pungent (Y), the more that person will drench themselves in it (Z).

X + Y = Z x 100

Okay, pencils down. It's not only annoying, it's downright unhealthy for the rest of us. The stench is so thick it almost takes the form of a solid and wrestles my nose into a half-nelson. I have actually asked to be moved to another seat on the plane because a woman's perfume was physically attacking me. I'd rather be stuck under the bus seat of two overweight gassy Packers fans on a cross-country trip home from a chili festival. Now, before you think of me as an age-discriminatory guy, I have news for you. Women of ALL ages are guilty of this. Don't get me wrong, I didn't say all WOMEN are guilty of this, but women of all ages, so please call off the dogs, Rosie O'Donnell and Jeanine Garafalo. I'm constantly bombarded by perfumes with names such as Adultress, Prick Tease and In Your Dreams, Loser. Don't even get me started on Patchouli oil, which smells like sweat from the crotch of a desert-dwelling hippie.

Hey, guys, you can stop high-fiving each other, because we (collectively) are no better. I can't exactly describe to you what Grey Flannel smells like, but every guy in the dorms my freshman year was provided a little vial of it in our welcome kits and it was applied liberally. The aroma would be so thick the walls and ceiling would be sweating that stuff. Even smells I genuinely did not mind, like Polo and Halston bring back images of drinking and vomiting (and drinking some more) binges. You see, the olfactory (get the dictionary. I'll wait.) sense is the one most tied to memory. Ever smell your grandmother's house? You'll never forget that smell for the rest of your life. I've been brought to my knees by the smell of spaghetti sauce that smelled just like hers. I've smelled perfume on strangers that old girlfriends wore, and it's taken 5-6 decent-sized people to keep me from tearing out that poor woman's throat.

I've been told there are five main scents that turn on a woman: cucumber, lavender, pumpkin, vanilla and melon. Your mileage may vary. Personally, I'll save the expensive colognes for the weekend Romeos. Just give me five minutes to roll around in the produce aisle. I live in fear that an old Bugs Bunny cartoon will prove prophetic where Smellavision will replace television. I'd never be able to watch an episode of "Murder, She Wrote" or "Golden Girls" (not that I have anyway, but one likes to have their bases covered). I don't like scented shampoos, soaps or toilet paper. I like my deodorant to be void of anything that would twitch my nose hairs. It's not easy, with commercials showing scantily-dressed bimbos throwing themselves at men, legs thrown wide like a bag of chips opened by a preteen. The marketing arms of these companies try to hook you into buying their smells with names like Chest Hair, Deep Thrust and Infinite Bulge. What self-respecting man wouldn't genuflect at the altar of manhood validation after all that?

This man, that's who. I have no problem with people who don't want to breathe second-hand smoke. For me, breathing second-hand perfume and cologne is no better. It's like walking into a spider web, face-first, and no matter how many desperate waves of the hand and body gyrations later, it's still with you. The only difference is you're not doing that jump-rope hop and finger wiggle trying to get that spider off you. The very same spider that's still sitting in the remaining part of its web thinking, "What an idiot."

Have you ever smelled food and knew exactly how it would taste? I know I have. As has been documented before, my mother tried to get me to eat sweet potatoes once (or was it candied yams? No matter, they're the same to me). I mentioned before I thought sweet potatoes smelled like the boys bathroom of a condemned middle school. I KNEW how they were going to taste by the mere smell of them. Long story short, I took the smallest of bites and projectile vomited all over the table. I have a simple rule of thumb when it comes to food: if it smells like ass, it tastes like ass. That goes for all food. You could make a dinner of candied warthog anus, and if smells good, chances are I'll be back for seconds. Steak, which is one of my favorite foods, is pretty hard to foul up. Once, I had a steak delivered to me in a diner (yeah, I know, it was steak from a diner. I should have known better) and it smelled like crotch. I couldn't eat it. When I was paying my tab, I caught a look at the cook who had a very satisfied look on his face. It's a good thing I didn't order the Cream of Broccoli soup.

Ah, what's it all matter anyway? You're still going to wear you colognes and perfumes. You're still going to sit next to me on the plane and fart on my elevator. I'm still going to bitch about it and you're not going to care. Believe me, I know what you're going to do.

I have a nose for these things.

.

Personal Growth

I was chowing down on a particularly uneventful turkey burger at lunch today. Fittingly, I was reading USA Today - a fast food paper if ever there was one when I stumbled upon an essay by a writer who shall remain nameless. Anyhow, he was writing about mustaches and their mysterious absence from society at large - relatively speaking. After reading the article, I sat back, chewing blankly and without purpose when I realized I had something to say about this topic. I just hated that the idea had to come from McPaper. Oh well, some people read tea leaves while others read bird droppings for inspiration. I took what is used to line the cages that collects those bird droppings and sought to bring it to a higher purpose.

First, let me say that I have nothing against facial hair. On some people, it completes their face. Have you ever seen someone who had a mustache and/or beard for a long, long time and then one day, it's gone? You know it's them, but half their face is missing. Suddenly, you start to panic and look for the nearest exit while cramming handfuls of Xanax down your throat like they were Skittles. Facial hair gave their heads balance. It's a bit unnerving discovering behind that mighty Zeus beard hides a chin as small, soft and weak as a hamster's ass. My father has such a beard. When it's in full bloom, he looks like the second coming of Ernest Hemingway - full of masculinity and windblown fury. Slap a turtleneck on him and plop him down on a barstool in a seedy Key West dive and even the natives would call him "Papa". When he had the audacity to shave it off one time, he looked like Gepeto - and I don't care how many tattoos, Harleys or enemies's bones you have littering the front yard, Gepeto is about as intimidating as a marshmallow peep.

My family has always had an easy time growing facial hair - even the women (well, not you, Mom, since I know you'll be reading this). My brother, Dave, starting working on his mustache in second grade. I had a more difficult time, as it took years of “pressing it in” and holding up a comb under my nose to see how irresistible I would look with a thick hedge of black hair over my lip. Finally, the day came and I experimented with all manner of facial grooming. Eventually, I settled on the goatee, which, even then, I knew looked ridiculous. My goatee looked like the aftermath of eating a chocolate pudding cup with my hands tied behind my back. Besides, only two types of people wear goatees anymore – bad ass biker types who would just as soon use their grandmother’s asshole as a bottle opener as they would the gaping eye socket of their best friend, and guys who hang around comic book stores, wearing ponytails, memorizing scratching habits of tertiary characters from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine while stuffing an 8-pack of chimichangas down their gullets.

So, if you’ll humor me, I’d like to pay tribute to that guy-est of guy things – facial hair:

Well, we have to start someplace, I guess. For the man who has everything, including comically weird hair and wants to finish off his look with a maw covered in what looks like possessed cotton candy, this dandy little number will have the dinner guests whispering into their whiskey sours and checking their watches. As an added bonus, for those with a modicum of athleticism, you can stand on your head and do an impression of Don King.

Was the word “second fiddle” ever more appropriate? For those wishing to ride the coat tails of another and bathe in the warming glow of reflected glory, we offer you the John Oates mustache. Easy to maintain and certain to keep you from climbing the corporate ladder, this beauty will cover that harelip and keep you dateless on those nights spent hanging out at the bus depot.

Power hungry? Syphilis-ridden? Charlie Chaplin fan? Well, do we have the mustache for you! You’ll be singing, “I beg your pardon, I never promised you a beer garden” in less time than it would take Heidi to skip through the Maginot Line. Great for scaring off house guests and nagging relatives, when cornered you can always say you are honoring Moe Howard of the Three Stooges. While they ponder that, you poke them in the eyes and make your getaway.

You’re a man’s man. Hell, you’re a goat’s man. In fact, only the toughest can pull off the permafrost beard like this intrepid adventurer. You don’t mind frozen snot in your whiskers – yours or anyone else’s. Mother Nature is your bitch, and dammit, you’re gonna treat her like one. Finger sandwiches and doilies aren’t your cup of urine. In fact, it’s best if you avoid human contact altogether.

Go ahead! I’ll let you write this one.

You’re suave! You’re cool! You’re unable to raise your eyelids more than a few millimeters. When you tap your filterless Lucky Strike on your gold cigarette case, the room knows you mean business. Bartenders the world over know what you’re drinking as soon as you glide into the room. You favor women in long evening gowns and feathered boas, grabbing them around the waist, pulling them tight and calling them “dames”. You’re a high roller and you pack a mean left. Then you go home to your mom’s basement, order a pizza and play video games until dawn.

For the man who has nothing – and likes it that way. Be the first – and likely only – person on your block to sport the Amish corona. Stride confidently through the farmer’s market and raise a barn or two before 8 a.m. It’s just another day in the life for you. Whether your name is Jebediah, Zachariah, Jeremiah or Bucky, this is the look for you.

For old school porn fans, nothing beats the glory ‘stache of the infamous Harry Reems. Well, old Harry has been long forgotten, but his lip hair lives on in the exquisitely styled Tom Selleck offering. Spend hours getting your hair just right? Well, if your hair is who you are, why not accessorize it a bit? Be the talk of the dance floor at the gay disco as you boogie to the sounds of Donna Summer. With a single nod of the head and a gleam in your eye, there’ll be no mistaking that you’re a “top” as you wiggle your bottom.

So, there you are. You just struck out the side and now it’s time for some domestic beer and ball-scratchin’ in the clubhouse. A few tokes from a joint in the trainer’s room and 15 minutes later, your Maserati is kicking up roostertails of gravel in the parking lot while Jimi Hendrix sings “Stone Free” from the 8-track. Then, it’s an evening of tequila and shooting birds in the backyard while your old lady, in a methamphetamine daze moans, “Baby, come back to bed” before she vomits into the top drawer of the nightstand. Not for the faint of heart or the boring.

The devil made you do it! Whether you’re gathering fresh souls, appearing on the shoulders of people who can’t make up their mind or being mistaken for Salvador Dali, this over-the-top combo will raise Hell with the damnation set. Ideal for those born with cloven feet, the triangular beard provides a nifty yin counterpoint to the yang of your horns. Forever hip to the latest trends, this fashion never goes out of style.

Not a facial hair grower? Wasn’t blessed with the genetic material to pull off a successful mustache? Perhaps you want to take a trial run without committing? Well, we are a full-service operation and we’re here to help. Introducing the Groucho, a grease-based application that takes the risk out of the equation. If you’ve been longing for a Snickers-shaped swath of grease across your face, then maybe the Groucho is for you.

Well, some guys have all the luck. If you are one of those “all-or-nothing” guys, you can’t go wrong here. They’ll be howling from here to London when they see you easing down the street with a massive explosion of testosterone on your face. Bags under the eyes? Gone! Acne? Fuggetaboudit! The moon is always full as folks come up to you and tell you how much they loved you in those Geico commercials. Patience is your strong suit, as you know that, any day, a casting agent will be hiring you for Teen Wolf III.

Ho Ho Ho! You’re big, you’re jolly, and kids around the world love you while parents are divided about your presence. No, you’re not Barney, you’re ol’ Saint Nick! Red is definitely YOUR color as people stop dead in their tracks and take pictures of you on their cell phones. Earn some extra cash around the holidays holding impromptu photo opportunities while precocious kids yank your beard and piss all over your lap. Load up on cheesesteaks and chicken wings all year round, because, as Mrs. Claus says, “No one wants a skinny Santa!”

Oh, I’m sure I left out many other facial hair styles, such as the soul patch, the Clark Gable/Prince-stache, and the high school cafeteria lady flavor-saver, among others, but I had to shave a few of them off to be able to fit this in. Besides, I’m hungry and I need to get something to eat.

I wonder if I have any pudding left…

Big Shoes to Fill

I have some shocking news. Now, I'm not one to believe in ghosts, UFOs or truly fat-free frozen yogurt, but, I stumbled upon something that has made me re-think all that stuff. At first, I wanted to believe, but as I became older and more cynical, I drifted further away from having faith. Faith in another being. Faith in a greater power. Faith in something where I required physical proof. Now, that faith is restored.

I believe in Bigfoot.

Now, I'm not some run-of-the-mill whack-job conspiracy theorist, but I came across something while walking through the woods one day that certifies my claim. I found his journal. Well, some pages from his journal, at least. From what I could gather, he is left-handed and makes big loops on his lowercase "L"s. The title page, which was the clincher, said:

Name: Bigfoot Hanover

Birthdate: June 3rd

I couldn't make out the rest of the page because it looked like he dropped it in the mud. I couldn't decide what was more curious - that his last name is Hanover or that he is a Gemini. Eventually, I decided that the most interesting thing was that he didn't put his year of birth on the title page, which leads me to believe someone is long-suited in the vanity department. Fortunately, I have some pages that were easy to read, and I'd like to share some of them with you here.

"July 17th - Mood: Contemplative

First day of vacation. Stopped off at mini-mart for powdered donuts. Now I have powder all over me. If they wouldn't makes those things so damned small and easy to eat...Oh well, couldn't get the fire started so ate the Dinty Moore beef stew cold. Good to be out here amongst nature. Lots of bees. I'll write more tomorrow."

"July 19th - Mood: Wiped Out

Meant to get back to this yesterday. Smoked a joint and was singing "Mr. Tamborine Man" was last thing I remember. Woke up half-in/half-out of tent. Had some of Mom's brownies but no milk. Bummed me out. Cheryl's supposed to stop by and she better bring the beer. Last time, she brought Coor's Light and I almost knocked her across the lake. Humidity is a beast today. Thinking I should have got a haircut before I left. Thank God for satellite radio. I'd go nuts without Howard Stern. Wish I brought toilet paper. Using old hot rod magazine. Nap sounds good right about now."

"July 20th - Mood: Pissed Off

Rained last night. Guess who forgot to roll up the windows in the Miata? Can't get cell phone service out here and haven't heard from Cheryl. I THINK I told her I was going to be at this state park. Went fishing and caught nothing. Came back and squirrels were in my food. The Pringles were saved, but the salt & vinegar chips were toast. REALLY regretting not bringing the toilet paper. Have to tune the guitar because the rain warped the neck. Thought I heard something near my tent last night. Had my 5-iron ready to go. Damn, I'd even drink Coor's Light right now."

"July 21st - Mood: Things Looking Up

Watched "Family Guy" on the laptop last night. Cheryl arrived this morning with beer AND toilet paper. What a life saver! Having brie, grapes and pinot noir for lunch. Normally don't drink during the day, and when I do, it's usually a wine cooler or two. Wondering how the guys back in the office are doing. Have to get together with Phil for racquetball next Thursday. Cheryl mentioned something about "our relationship" and "where is it going?" Tuned her out. Told her I'll let her know when we get back. Kept telling me that her eyes were "up here". Wonder how my fantasy baseball team is doing."

"July 23rd - Mood: ?????

This chick is getting on my nerves. Used all my fresh water to wash her hair. Oh, yeah, right, if I only had that luxury out here. Found a tick on my leg and I about freaked. Cheryl wanted to burn it off me. I asked her if she had lost her mind and - get this - SHE got pissed off at ME! Should have dated her sister - she's a Republican. These hippie chicks have too much attitude and always smell like patchouli. Plus, they hardly ever shave their legs. I don't know who's hairier, her or me. Have to give her kudos on the tuna steak, though, and she DID bring out the tequila. Don't know if we're meant to be together, though. I can see it now. The first thing she'll want to do is throw out my Christina Aguiliera posters. What can I say? I dig her music. So sue me. Have to remember to take a look at that condo in town."

"July 24th - Mood: Relaxed

Last day of vacation. Had to get rid of the tangerines. They were getting moldy. Found a spider in the tent and had Cheryl kill it. Good to get back to nature, roughing it like this. My flip-flops smell like smoke. Dig it. Dreading going back to the office. Probably have a thousand emails and I'll bet half of them are jokes from Phil. Need to check eBay for that bike tire. Looking forward to a latte and a cruller. Think I'll put the top down on the Miata. Could swear I heard something in the woods last night. Kind of embarrassed that I woke up and let one rip before I remembered Cheryl was still in the tent. This might be the "out" I was looking for. Be good to sleep in my own bed again."

So, as you can see, Bigfoot is real and he's a savage monster. You won't find me in the woods without a big gun and a pack of angry dogs. Take a tip from me. If you find yourself alone in the woods and you hear something moving in the bushes, make sure you have a roll of toilet paper. It could save your life.

My Interview With God

Several weeks ago, I had the opportunity of a lifetime. I was granted an interview with God. Now, I know what you're saying: "Yeah, right. Like God would talk to YOU." Well, he didn't talk TO me - he talked WITH me, and boy, it was nothing like I expected. I received a call about a month ago saying to meet him at Jake's Burgers, which is a local legend for, well, burgers. When I arrived, he was already finishing up a jalapeno burger and kicking it down with a chocolate-vanilla shake and crab fries. He didn't look the way I expected. I mean, the hair and teeth were right on target, but the Ray-Ban aviator shades threw me a bit.

As I walked over the gravel parking lot after getting out of my car, he gave me one of those big arm waves, like he was trying to hail a cab in the rain. I had already eaten, but he pushed the crab fries plate at me and gestured towards the paper cup of wine vinegar. As I reached for my pen and notepad, images of ZZ Top videos ricocheted through my mind. With that, I was ready for the interview of a lifetime...

Me: So...God, what's new?

God: Are you kidding me? You have a chance to talk to the creator of the universe and that's the first thing you can ask me? Why don't you ask me about my son, Jesus? Or what I think of the world's religions? How about my favorite movie?

Me: Ok, what is your favorite movie?

God: The Breakfast Club. I felt I could really relate to those kids.

Me: That wasn't really a serious ques...

God: Although I laughed my ass off watching Blazing Saddles. Do you remember the campfire scene?

Me: It was a classic. So, anyway, God, what motivated you to submit yourself to an interview?

God: I need the publicity.

Me: You? C'mon!

God: It's the truth. With so many people killing and dying in my name, there is a growing segment of the global population that is doubting that I even exist. You know the ones: "How could a wise, all-powerful God allow all of this suffering?"

Me: Well, since the question's on the table...

God: Free will! Free will, man! You think I set you bozos up so I would have to pull your strings 24/7? I have so much more on my plate than man. Ever look outside at night and see the billions and billions of stars?

Me: Yeah.

God: Guess who is responsible for all that? ME! While you're worried about your sickly 401ks and your low-carb diets, I have a freaking universe to run! Not only that, but I have hockey practice Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.

Me: Must be a real drag.

God: Tell me about it. Hey, toss me one of those Marlboros. I usually smoke Menthol but I forgot to stop by the store on the way here.

Me: So, is Jesus really man's savior? Is he really your son?

God: Do you have kids?

Me: No.

God: Well, let me tell you something about being a single parent. There I am, busting my ass, creating this little universe, with the light and the animals and the plants and all that business, and I basically give it to my kid and tell him to die for man's sins. I mean, it's not like I asked him to cut the grass or clean the pool, which, was a huge waste of money for me since all he did was walk across it. I guess I can't complain. He was a good kid. Never bugged me for money, kind of found his own way, but some days, whoa! it was like he was the anti-Christ...

Me: You mean...?

God: Figure of speech, Einstein. I mean, I love him all right, but's kind of tough when your only son doesn't fight back. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that I'm a pretty tough cat, myself. Here, let me roll up my sleeves. See that? Feel them. Feel those guns.

Me: I'd rather not. Hey, is that a tattoo?

God: Where?

Me: Right there! Does that say "Judas"?

God: Oh, hold on, let me roll it up more. There it is.

Me: Ah! "Judas Priest"! I didn't know you were into metal.

God: I'm not into the hair metal thing, like Poison and Motley Crue. But, I played bass and I can play "Smoke On The Water" from Deep Purple. Thinking about taking up drums.

Me: But, what about the Satanic symbolism in heavy metal music?

God: Please! Have you ever SEEN Satan?

Me: I used to date her.

God: Cut the comedy, kid. Leave it to the pros. Well, Satan doesn't look like what you think he looks like.

Me: What does he look like?

God: He looks like...oh, what's that dude's name? Deezen! Eddie Deezen. He looks like Eddie Deezen.

Me: That's hard to believe.

God: Hey, kid, nothing, and I mean NOTHING beats good PR, and Satan is with the best firm around. He uses Tom Cruise's agency.

Me: But people HATE Tom Cruise.

God: Yeah, but he still makes the cover of a half-dozen supermarket tabloids every week, doesn't he?

Me: Point taken. So, when does the world come to an end?

God: Not sure. I have no timeline.

Me: Yeah, but you're God. You must know.

God: Of course I know, but do you think I'm going to tell you? Next thing you know, you're on Oprah, or screaming about the end of the world on some city street corner wearing a sandwich board. Besides, who would believe you?

Me: Well, I have this interview right here.

God: Ok, Sparky, you're going to tell people that you interviewed me on the deck of Jake's Burgers? Get real, man!

Me: Well, does the world end the way Revelation says it is going to end?

God: Man thinks he knows how the world is going to end. He thinks he knows his future in the afterlife and what it will be like. I think that man is in for a surprise. A BIG surprise.

Me: Care to share a little bit more?

God: No. C'mon, man, help me eat these crab fries.

Me: Do you have a message for mankind? Anything I can pass along?

God: Nope. You're on your own. After all, you people wouldn't have it any other way. I gave you free will. I have no interest in controlling mankind. I'm God, not George Steinbrenner.

Me: What about the...

God: The meaning of life? This old chestnut again. The meaning of life is to have a life of meaning, which means, yes, that the meaning of life is different for everyone. Want a tidy answer? There it is, sport. Slap a bow on it.

Me: What do you think of George Carlin saying you don't exist?

God: I hate to beat on the free will drum again, but, y'know... Anyway, I kind of wish I had his audience.

Me: But, don't you have billions of worshippers?

God: Yeah, but he attracts a hipper audience. You won't find the American Gothic crowd at one of his shows. I still get a kick out of his "Seven Dirty Words" routine.

Me: What...

God: Look, Ken...

Me: Kevin

God: Kevin. Whatever. Instead of asking me these tired old stuffy questions, why don't you ask me something fun? 10 questions. Quick, off the top of your head. Go!

Me: Um, what's your favorite color?

God: Sea foam. Did the downstairs bathroom in that color.

Me: Favorite cereal?

God: Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. Now you're getting the hang of it.

Me: Favorite album?

God: Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here"

Me: I would have thought "Dark Side of the Moon"

God: "Dark Side" is nice to chill to, but, I just learned how to play the opening to "Wish You Were Here" on guitar and I'm wearing out that CD right now. I usually just download off of Limewire, but, you don't get the same fidelity.

Me: Favorite food?

God: I'm a meat and potatoes kind of God, but sometimes all I want are chicken wings. Not too hot, though. I'm also not against eating Beefaroni straight out of the can.

Me: How about..?

God: Oh, and Godiva chocolate. Have you tried the chocolate raspberry?

Me: Favorite TV show?

God: Oooh, that's tough. We only get basic cable, but I just picked up the entire Sopranos series on eBay.

Me: So, do you know how it ends?

God: Of course I know how it ends - I'm God. I can't BELIEVE they copped out with that ending. I thought Tony was going to get whacked, but then I didn't want him to, but part of me still did. I'll never be able to listen to "Don't Stop Believing" without kicking my Playstation across the room.

Me: Ok, last question, but it has five parts: If you could have dinner...

God: With any five people throughout time, who would they be? You know, I always liked this question. Ok, here goes: Spike Lee, Rachael Ray, that Burger King dude, Jimmy Smits and Justin Timberlake.

Me: You've GOT to be kidding me.

God: Nope. Swear-to-Me. Look, I have to roll. Marshall's is having a sale on cargo shorts and we're almost into summer. Anything else you want to ask me?

Me: I'm sure I'll have a lot to ask you in the afterlife when I'm in Heaven.

God: Yeah, ok. Remember what I said about a "BIG surprise". Here, chief, you can pick up the tab. Nice chatting with you. And stop picking your nose in the car. I can see when you do that and we both know you don't wipe it on a tissue.

Me: Thanks, Lord. You're a real peach.

God: Don't mention it. Ever.

April Fool

It's Friday night and here I am, happily filling my gullet with Coke and beef jerky - or petrified horse anus, if you prefer. I was reminded today that I completely took a Mulligan on February, hence ending my consecutive month string of at least one entry. Now I have to start from scratch if I'm ever going to pass Anais Nin for most consecutive months of blogging. I'll also probably need to live far into the 21st century when the polar ice caps will be no larger than the par-4 at your local miniature golf course.

The pressure. It's unbelievable.

As many of you know, we are on the cusp of one of the most useless "holidays" on the calendar. No, I'm not talking about Valentine's Day or Bring Your Mother to Confession Day. I'm talking about April Fool's Day. A little history here...nah, forget it. Suffice to say that we've all fallen prey to some knucklehead screaming "April Fools!" in our faces. The shame registers long enough for them to escape before you can organize your head in order to say, "Ok, now I must kill you." With kids, it's a little trickier. They giggle and snort their way through their joke, and before you can reach for the Ritalin bottle, they drop the punchline and squeal in triumphant delight. Since they're kids, all you can do is smile patronizingly and think, "Ok, I'll wait until you reach 18 and THEN I must kill you - or send you to college on the other side of the country." Then you head out to Barnes & Noble and buy up all the S.A.T. study guides for your precocious 3rd grader.

April Fool's Day is such a slippery beast. If you're like me...God help you. If you're like me, you get up on a typical April 1st, greet the sun with a soft, warm middle finger, go through your routine, get in the car, flip on the radio where the hosts are playing grab-ass with each other and hitting on every female caller when they announce that the listener with the best April Fool's Day story will win backstage passes to whatever members of the Doobie Brothers are alive and playing at the local VFW hall the following weekend. Good times. Then, you get to work, flip on the computer and...completely forget it's April Fool's Day. You log onto you favorite sports chat forum and see a thread entitled, "Cincinnati Reds moving to Havana". Still not aware of the cloud of idiocy that has invaded the weather system above your desk and completely ignoring the ironic Cold War reference to the "Reds" relocating to Cuba, you click on it, ready to throw your mighty two cents into the fray when you discover some wise-ass kid completely owned you the second you clicked on the link. Immediately following the mental wedgie you just endured, you begin to take inventory of all your academic and intellectual awards, scores and platitudes and conclude, "It's official. I'm getting stupider." This, of course, sets off a chain reaction of self-doubt triggered by the question of whether or not "stupider" is a word or if you should have used "more stupid" instead. Naturally, a Battle Royal erupts in your brain, with neurons and synapses and such being cut down like grain. Eventually, a regal, almost Zen-like calm overtakes your senses and you realize it's 11:30.

Maybe April Fool's Day would be worth celebrating if people actually put a little thought into their tricks.

Instead of: "Hey, the boss called and he said he needs the reports by noon instead of next week"
Try: "Hey, a guy on the night cleaning crew was fired today. They just found out he pissed in the coffee maker last night. What's that, your third cup?"

Instead of: "Dude, your mom was hitting on me yesterday"
Try: "Dude, you do realize that you had a snot hanging in your nose the entire time you were talking to that chick, right? Seriously."

Instead of: Telling your buddy you have a tape of you and his girlfriend having sex.
Try: Sending him the tape

Any one of these suggestions is a sure-fire way to lose old friends, make new enemies, and generally make you one of most reprehensible people on the planet.

But, hey, at least you'll have a shot at seeing the Doobie Brothers next year.