The Modern Man VS. Walletzilla

Sometimes a man is faced with obstacles so huge, so large, so ominous, and so life threatening, that he must rise above the mediocre and face the challenge head on, regardless of fear and heedless of the very threat to his own life. As Rocky faced Apollo Creed, as King Kong faced Godzilla, Indiana Jones faced the Nazis, and as the Sisters faced the evil Traveling Pants, I must face my own demon. As I bravely stare it down, I wonder what horrible plans it has for me. Will it cause back pain? Will it rip out more pockets? Will it pull me under the cold, black, swirling water to a certain death if I fall in the next time I go fly fishing?

Oh wallet, why, why, why??? Why hast thou forsaken me?

Now I have a Solomon like task at hand. I must met out a tough and possibly contentious decision upon an object that I need to get through life with. But how does one met out justice upon a wallet that is growing more and more dangerous every day? It started off with a few pictures, some money, and a banking card. Now it is about the size of Rhode Island, only less comfortable to sit on.

Now let's not get fooled into thinking that this wallet is full of money. Quite honestly there isn't enough room in it for a few dollar bills, let alone a stack of fifties. My wallet used to be fairly thin, but not it's growing like the national deficit. The issue is my wallet is being taken over by an assortment of plastic cards foisted upon me from every angle that I feel I can't get rid of because if you don't carry them at all times, you never have them when you need them. First, my wallet just had my credit and banking card, then it was infiltrated by a King Soopers card, then a Safeway card. Let's look and see what else is in here. There is a Qdoba card (burritos the size of a brick), Ace Hardware Card (motto "We only charge twice as much as Home Depot!"), Rocky Mountain National Park Card, two insurance cards, a drivers licence (Motto: We make Sears Photography look good!), Big City Burrito punch card, Local Nursery Discount Card, three business cards that I can't remember ever taking, two library cards, Sam's Club card, my electronic card to get into work (Motto: Schools are always open, so why bother?), a fairly new flex plan credit card, and punch cards for coffee, burritos, and cheap pseudo-Mexican food.

Plus, of course, I have some pictures of family I can foist upon unsuspecting people, as well as the bonus picture of all time: My prom picture. Sure, that would save me 1 millimeter of space if I got rid of the evidence of the most ridiculous high school extravaganza since homecoming, but you'd be surprised how you can liven up boring conversations by plopping your prom picture from 1989 down in front of a group of people. It's entertainment in itself, plus, you'd love my mullet and black and white tuxedo with the beautiful purple cumber-bun.

I'm surprised nobody has a band named The Cumberbun yet.

My wallet has been responsible for destroying every pair of dockers I have ever owned. They get a lovely worn patch in the back pocket, and then get a hole right through the two layers of fabric. Seriously, my wallet wears my pants down faster than the Snake River is wearing down the Grand Canyon.

Since I've learned wallets are bad for the back, I've moved it into my front pocket, which quite honestly, isn't much better. When I'm sitting, my wallet looks like the largest, squarest hive in the world trying to find freedom by burrowing itself through my pants. I don't even know if I can fit my cell phone in the same pocket without being arrested for indecency here at work.

My wallet, is literally, a foot thick and probably weights as much as a small dog. It should probably be registered with as a deadly weapon as I think with the proper throw, I could hurt someone pretty badly. So, what do I get rid of? If I leave any of the cards out, I won't have them when I need them. If I get rid of the pictures, what kind of husband am I? And leaving the cards our for when I would need them is kind of like my cloth bags for the supermarket. I always leave in the back seat of my car and finally realize that when the cashier asks if I want paper or plastic.

But, why don't you just chuck it all?  Why put up with being tied down by discount cards from "the man".

Seriously?  I'm cheap!  Do you know how upset do I get when I don't get the 15 cents off on the candy bar when I don't have the proper card?

So I'm pleading for someone to invent the ONE CARD. A card you can transfer the magical powers of all my other discount cards into one, easily handled, and more easily lost card. Think of the health benefits, the safety factors, and the generally handiness of such card. In fact, I'm looking for investors right now for this venture.

Only you'll have to come to me, I don't think I can get up with this wallet in my pocket.

The Modern Man: Quick Hits

Cell phones and Star Trek:

We finally broke down and purchased a Bluetooth ear thingy (actual technical term) for our cell using a $15 class action lawsuit settlement against Verizon to save a little cash on it. I have to say, it is a handy little device, but I’m finding it excruciatingly difficult to not answer the phone, “Yes, Captain!” every time it rings. It’s really bringing out the hot black inner sci-fi chick in me. Err. I think I’ve said too much.

Class action lawsuits:

Seriously, a $15 coupon when the lawyers made millions EACH? If I wasn’t able to say things like “I’ll turn on the universal translator,” when the phone rings, I might have had to complain.

Swimming (again):

Why are fog-free goggles so important for the lap swimmer, such as I? I mean, what is there to see, really? Does it really matter if the black line is foggy?

Amazingly, it seems to be that it really does matter. I’m as thrilled as a middle school student at a dance with a power outage with my new $15 fog-free swimming goggles. Not only do I get to see the black line in HD (as well as the floating Band-Aids, phlegm strings, and lifeguards), but I can also finally see the comedy of 40-70 year olds doing flip turns while they swim at 2 miles per hour.

There is nothing in this world like a hairy pair of legs which appear detached from body as they flail and rotate in slow motion. Like the flight of the Monarch butterflies, the flight of the hairy white man-legs is a sight everyone should see once in their lifetime. Unfortunately, I have to see it three times a week.

Tivo:

I may be a modern man, but I might not be a real man and quite honestly, I'm not all that disappointed if I'm not lumped in the same group as GW Bush. I'm not a real man because I do not need to see ANY sporting event on television in real time. At this point, I can barely even watch sports without speeding through the commercials and time outs anymore. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to sit through 2 hours of commercials for a one hour game. I can watch a whole game in under an hour. I can watch regular hour long television shows in 43 minutes. As perfect as this seems to me, I know it has to end. The advertisers won’t allow it and I’m waiting for the fallout which I envision will be something like this. We'll call it the New Television:

New television for Drama:

Jack Bauer (on fancy cell phone): I can diffuse this bomb, but I need something to eat.

Chloe (looking surprising dour, yet amazingly perky, also on phone): How about I send you some pizza from Dominos? If we order three mediums, they’re only $5 each! Plus we get free bread dipped in fat and coated in sugar!

Jack Bauer (pausing dramatically, then whisper talking for some reason.): Great plan, but let me finish my Coke first.

Chloe: That must be refreshing.

Jack Bauer (staring into camera): Oh, yea, it’s the real thing.

New television for sports:

Announcer 1: It’s a touchdown to Chad Johnson!

Announcer 2: And now it’s time for the Chad Johnson Viagra football dance, brought to you by Miller Lite.

Announcer 1(shaking head disgustedly): You may want to tell the children to leave the room for a moment.

Announcer 2 (oblivious to announcer 1 as he starts dancing as well): Man, I love that dance.

Announcer 1: Is there something you’re not telling me?

------------------------

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Grandma

My grandmother died recently and I spoke at her funeral as the grandchild representative. I'm sharing this because I think we often take people for granted and don't think about what their lives really mean to us and that maybe it would help our relationships if we would just inventory what people really mean to us when they're still living. I'm sure it would help a lot of good relationships as well as those that are strained. I've altered my name to protect me from my previous posts. Thanks for reading:



As some of you know, I teach middle school, which many people would say you have to be a little crazy to do. Being a C-----, I’m highly qualified for the job.

As a teacher, you learn that people learn from every situation that they are in. But some of the best lessons learned are not those that prepare you for a standardized test, but those that teach you about life.

Grandma taught us all many lessons and I cherish the things that I learned.
I learned from her that nature is amazing, birds are beautiful, and you can still be in tune to the world around you by just taking some time in your backyard to see the beauty.

I learned that you’re never too old to learn something new.
I learned that there is no shame in standing up for what you believe in when you’re in the minority and you know in your heart it’s the right thing.

I learned that you can do the impossible, like raise 3 wild boys who all grew up to do good in this world and help make it a better place.

I learned that if you love to do something like paint, but you’re not a Van Gogh, you need to keep doing it if it makes you happy.

Show your art proudly. It shouldn’t be hidden away.

I learned that family is the most important thing. Each yearly visit I walked into her house feeling like a stranger and left feeling like I was losing a friend for another year.

Yesterday I was standing outside in the rain struggling through thoughts of some of the ugliness that life brings us.

As the rain poured down, I began to sadly think of Grandma. All I could see was gray, dreary things and all I could feel was the biting cold around me.

Suddenly a bright red cardinal, which was one of Grandma’s favorite birds, flew and landed in the tree right in front of me. We never see these birds in Colorado so I watched it closely. I noticed its beautiful scarlet color, and then I noticed the magnificently colored leaves of the tree it was in. The bird suddenly flew away and I saw the red and yellow trees shining, even in the rain, the beautiful green grass in the yards and I could hear the birds singing to each other from the trees.

I could almost feel Grandma with me and noticed that I didn’t feel as sad. She showed me that the word can be a beautiful place. You just need to take time and find the beauty.

Thanks for the lesson, Grandma.

The Modern Man errr... Give me a second, I'll Remember

Are you a modern man? Have you ever...

... had your significant other asked you to bring something down from a room, but as you enter it, you pick up a wayward sock, find a quarter on the floor, then noticed your Sodoku book. With super-human effort, you manage to avoid the Sodoku book, grab your wife's hat, then head downstairs with a proud smile on your face at overcoming that Sododu obstacle and a job well done.

"Did you get what I asked?" your significant other asks testily as you enter the room.

You stand, panic in your eyes, but decide you are sooooo prepared for this one. "Yes, oh beautiful one, I have the hat you requested. I have traveled long and through dangerous places to garner this truly wonderful and unique head apparal..."

No laughing. Then you have a long moment of dead air, as they say in radio. You suddenly realize that your ears may actually be sweating.

"You realized I asked for that yesterday?" she smiles, yet doesn't look happy.

"No." Sweat now dripping off your nose.

"Do you remember what I asked for?"

"My undying love?" you smile and try a waiter laugh as you wrack your brain for some clue as to what you were supposed to get. You end up slinking to the basement to watch football, and for some reason, know the name of every single player, play, penalty, and general history of both teams.

Have you ever...

...rushed headfirst into a room to grab something, then stood for over 3 minutes with your lips pursed, eyes stairing intently at the ceiling, trying to remember what the @#$@ you were there for? Well, as long as your there, you might as well listen to a tune or two on the 'ol IPOD while you finish that Sodoku.

You can't fight your brain.

As my great, great, great grandfather used to say, "You never forget anything, you just remember it too late."

That would be funny, but I can't remember his name.

Modern men have a lot on their plates. I'm not talking about eating and the obesity that is running amok in America. I'm talking about our poor minds trying to keep up with the modern world and the millions of things we need to remember to get through a day. This is having a detrimental effect on our memories. At least I think it is, I honestly can't even remember what the topic was.

Oh, yea. The power of remembering. To get to the bottom of this forgetting thing, I think it is important to study the etomology of the word "remembering." Broken into it's component language roots, remembering shouldn't be that hard.

RE means again, such as in refried beans will haunt you again and again.

Ing is some sort of bank whose commercials I never quite understand.

Member is a vague inappropriate euphamism that shouldn't be talked about in a blog such as this, but is often used in horror movies in such great lines as, "I can't believe that beast killed him by attaching that tentacle to his member."

Now, if you put all three parts together, it really makes no sense at all. I aplogize. I wonder where I was going with that, but I really can't remember.

But there is something in men's brains. They say that men think of sex every few seconds. However, I don't believe it. How the heck could we even remember to do that?

Men can remember stats like you wouldn't believe, they can remember to get their fantasy football team ready every week, and a joke they heard when they were 12 that still kills them at parties. Women of course use their brain power to remember every stupid thing we men have done our entire lives and save them up for arguments.

Woman: "Honey, do you remember when we were first dating and had that big fight after "When Harry Met Sally?" You're acting like that now."

Man: "That was funny, the scene in the restaurant. But I can't believe that one guy gave up his wagon wheel table. Good movie, though. Princess Leah was in it."

Woman: "You don't remember that big fight! How could you not? You're just pretending so I will stop yelling!!!"

Man: (Rambling on, despite the yelling.) "Did you know that Tom Hanks was once in a really bad movie about a guy addicted to Dungeons and Dragons? It could be possibly the worst movie ever. Even worse than Cabin Boy. I remember staying up to watch it since I played a little D and D myself. (now smiling reminiscently)"

Woman: (sobbing) "How can you not remember? HOW?"

Man: Looking generally confused and wondering if the couch is already made up for him this evening, then ticks off 10 Tom Hanks' films in his head, just for good measure.

No, ladies, we are not making this stuff up.

At least, I don't think we are. Quite honestly, I can't remember.
----

Have any stories you remember about forgetting? Send me an email and maybe I'll post-em.

The Modern Man: Putting the Dumb in Wisdumb

As one ages, it is assumed that you will gain wisdom at the expense of your youthful persona.

For instance, I've learned to CHECK the breaker box to make sure the electricity is off when wiring my basement. It was quite a shocker, but I did learn.

I've learned that middle school is a perfect place for puns like "shocker", but adults weary of them quickly. However, I'm not a quitter, which might be a jolt to some of you.

I've learned good music is ageless, but our stars of the 70's and 80's weren't ageless at all, even with highly paid for plastic surgery, as shown by the following pictures, here, here, and here.

However even with all these neat bits of wisdom, with age comes confusion as well. The world moves forward at a technological pace equivalent of a (choose one... bike racer, sprinter, football player, or baseball star) on steroids.

So, as I should be getting more and more wisdom, there are more and more things I don't understand. So I've possibly coined the phrase wisdumb, which seems to show the state I'm almost constantly in. I should be getting smarter and wiser, but I keep seeing more and more things that confuse me. For instance:

I don't get stickers on fruit. Dear Lord, I just spent three minutes poking and prodding my lunchtime plum to pull that sucker off. Now it's stuck to my finger and I'm trying to flick it in the trash. Of course, it's now on the floor and I'm wondering if I should just leave it there, or take more time from my lunch break to unstick it from the floor. Do I really need a sticker to tell me it's a plum? It was in the plum pile for @$#@ sake. Am I going to pick it up and ask, "Hmm, I can't remember what kind of fruit this is? Thank God! There's a sticker! It's a plum!"

I don't get how a group of three people in a car all be talking on cell phones at one time (I actually saw this the other day)? Are they talking to each other? Do they hate each other? Is this the new ménage a trios, and if it was, why wasn't I invited?

I don't understand when a video game copies reality, and within the game I control a player who finds someone playing a video game in that video game, is that person whose playing the video game controling me?

On that note, do we control the video game players, or do they truly control us as we play at 3:00 AM hoping to make the next level and go to bed to get that 3 hours of sleep before work/school starts.

If reality shows mimic the human condition, then I'm beginning to wonder what condition my condition is in.

I don't understand how my wife can talk for 2 hours on the phone with a friend she's going to see that day.

If myspace.com is really your space, but technically it doesn't take up any real space at all, shouldn't it be called mypretendvirtualspacethatno-onereallycaresabout.com?

I don't get how NASCAR vehicles turn to the left all the time, yet their constituents tend to vote to the right.

I don't understand why radio stations are giving away "free money". If they are just giving away money, do I have to pay them back?

I also don't understand why I haven't made a million dollars with the inclusion of my new google ads.

I do understand that the google searches the blog for topics that they can sell and then places relevant advertisements, but last time I checked, my two ads were "Teaching Aids" and surpisingly, "Toilet Parts".

Toilet parts?

Now that's something I understand.

The Modern Man Sells Out!

It's hard to see your famous people sell out. I mean, The Who sold out to Humvee and others, Bush sold out to big oil, Steppenwolf sold out to another car company, and Jerry Fallwell sold out a long time ago, possibly to Satan himself.

I'm not quite willing to go as far as Jerry, but a little extra cash couldn't hurt. Which means I have to make this blog incredibly popular, get syndicated, and then rehash my old material over and over again, like Dave Barry or Bill Simmons, only with much less talent.

The problem is, my average weekly visits were occasionally in the negative numbers, which means more people are trying to avoid my blog then read it.

Oh, the horror.

However, something miraculous happened after my post, Law and Order: Modern Victims Unit. My site visits went through the roof. I mean, I was getting more hits than Jennifer Aniston at a singles' bar. Usually, my site meter sleeps most of the time, only to be interrupted by an occasional visit from a relative, a friend, or someone I made look at my site in the computer lab at school as I gazed over their shoulder saying, "Isn't that funny? Isn't that funny? Where are you going?"

But now I'm averaging almost 81 visits a day. So I had to find out why. So like Dr. Quincy or CSI, I went searching for the truth, without all that murder getting in the way.

So I examined the reason that people would visit my blog. Was it my scintilating prose touching the hearts of modern men everywhere? I'm pretty sure that can't be the case, since I'm not quite sure what that sentence even means. Was it my funny, whistful, and insightful slice of life reports from an Everyman type connecting emotionally with the masses? Seeing that I spelled wistful incorrectly, I'm pretty sure that can't be it either. Maybe it's the free homebrew I give to people I know who have at least pretended to read it. That might explain some of the hits, but I don't know 81 people.

The answer, it turns out, actually has something to do with a word that rhymes with hex. It's all due to one link to Pamela Anderson that I whimsically placed in one of my blogs. I'm now getting hits from people searching for that picture from all over the world. I've had hits from Chile, Singapore, New Zealand, and for some reason, The White House. The last one, however, may be due to my current bumper sticker, and not the cleavage of a woman who, God bless her, is single handedly trying to resurrect the lives of B level rock and roll men everywhere.

So now I've learned what M.B.A.'s, MTV video directors, and advertising executives all over the world know. Sex sells. Add a few links to good looking semi-stars, and you've got yourself an audience.

So today, I'm selling out, but like all semi-cool sell outs, I want to appear to do it without selling out at all. How to sell out is the biggest question? WWFCSD? (What would former child stars do?) The obvious is getting on television, yet my IQ prevents me from qualifying for a reality show. I'll have to find another, more sneaky way, so I'll try my best to not not sell out.

So, you won't not find any links to Angela Jolie , Elisha Cuthbert, or Number 6 (Tricia Helfer) here. You won't probably not find Salma Hayak or Lindsey Lohan either. You ladies definately won't not see Mathew Mccohohy, Mcconohy, I mean McConaughey, Johnny Depp, or George Clooney if I can possibly not help it.

Let's face it, I'm way to not cool and to moralistic to ever become one with "the man." I'll never truly sell out. You have to have talent to do that. But after looking in the old wallet, it can't hurt to try.

Back to School and the Modern Man

Did you hear that? It's a sound that started out as a whimper but it building up to the roaring of a freight train screaming through your back yard. A sound is beginning to roar through the atmosphere like rolling thunder, only with a slightly despondent 'waaahh' at the tail end of it.

"What is this sound?" you ask. Many an untrained ear has murmured this as they locked their doors and looked to the heavens for the coming apocalypse.

Is it a jet? A thousand low riders with playing a long mournful bass note a pumpin'? Is it a million Buddhist men chanting?

No, it's much worse.

You need to visualize thousands upon thousands of people yelling, "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" like Darth Vader at the end of Episode III to really get the magnitude of the issue. Teachers in the thousands are screaming out in one long loud wail. Yep, only a couple days left of summer break.

Teachers are mourning their loss of freedom, exactly unlike this country after the passing of the Patriot Act.

Speaking of freedom, thousands more parents are shouting, "Freedom!" like William Wallace did before attacking the Jews in the movie Braveheart and freeing all of Scotland from whatever people are blaming them for now.

These screaming teachers and parents are creating conflicting sounds are creating quite the cacophony, kind of like a Motley Crue concert, only much more melodic.

What about the students, you ask? They're too groggy from sleeping 14 hours and using the rest of their day for bad daytime television and violent video games to really care. Just give them a Red Bull on the first day and send them to school before they realize their summer is gone.

Yes, the S.S. Summer is about to sail. I've got to shave EVERY DAY! I've got to wear a TIE. I've got to WAKE UP before the sun comes up. My God! I actually have to SHOWER!

It's like summer is a wet bar of soap. I feel like I'm trying to grip the bar and am staggering around and around, just barely keeping it from hitting the ground and sliding away for ever. Only I'm realizing I'm no longer outside and having fun, but in a prison, and dropping the soap, well, that's really just a bad, bad, bad idea.

Yes, life moves on. We can kick and scream and complain or we can figure we've got 184 days to make an actual difference in our jobs, unlike about 95% of the other people out their working for a living. I'm looking forward to helping the world be a little better place. So, I'm just glad I got to enjoy myself this summer, spend some quality time with the family, and I know that summer will come again. I'm happy helping the cute (raving), intelligent (hormonal), middle school students move towards successful adult lives.

But excuse me for a moment. Cover your ears. I've got to scream really, really loudly....


NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH.

Sinking Like a Stone

"And cool water
Washes me all over
Washes me away
And still I'm drowning" Joe Jackson

"(I'm) a brick and I'm drowning slowly." Ben Folds Five

"I’m sweating,
And breathing
And staring and thinking
And sinking
Deeper.
It’s almost like I’m swimming." Tool

Swimmers. Can you hear the contempt in my voice? Of course not. I'd worry if you did. For as long as I remember I've avoided swimming. But now, kicking and screaming, I have had to become one. I'm being literal of course. Most of my swimming consists of kicking and screaming when I'm not actually inhaling chlorine filled water.

I've avoided the big plunge forever, but my 39 year old knees decided that the day would be more fun with IT band swelling and general knee pain. I swear that my knees are giggling every time I squat down to play with my kid as the knees snap, crackle, pop and I groan like a 1500 year old Sequoia in the wind, only louder.

"Daddy, your knees sound like breakfast!"
"But son, they feel like ___." I'm never allowed to finish that sentence, as the glance from my wife tells me it's time to change the subject. Ah, if only I could stand back up.

I know swimming is good for you, but I've never really identified with these broad shouldered, muscle encrusted, rubber headed, eye goggled, body shaving, kick flippin', "we're the best exercise" gloating, chlorine breathing, please shower before entering the pool area bas**ds.

Ah, that helped. I feel better already.

Being a runner, biker, rollerblader, and doing any other sport that allows oxygen freely into your lungs, I've always considered swimming only one step away from the treadmill. You start at a wall, go to the next, and come back 'home'. Then you do it all over again. It's like commuting, only less fun and with dirty water left over from the previous hours pre-school swimming program. You know what I'm getting at and I'm sorry.

So there's no scenery, no favorite loops, no dodging cars, and no talking to a friend. Just the goggle distorted site of a black line, lost Band-Aids, water suspended phlegm, the sound of gasping, splashing, and the funky green colored bottom where the lifeguard will probably find me dead since he is too busy talking to the girl sunning herself in a bikini the size of the Sacajawea dollar.

But I'm not bitter. I just can't breath. Plus, I smack my head on the concrete every time I do the backstroke. Dear Michael Phelps, please save me or at least show me where I can find some air.

But I'm attacking the pool like we attacked Iraq, with my WMD being the green water. I liberate a little water from the pool every time I leave. A little in the lungs, a little in the belly, and a lot in the ears. However, unlike Iraq things might be getting a little better.

My last swimming experience was as follows:

So back and forth I go. I'm moving like a large, flailing rock, only less boyant. I've noticed that they've positioned extra female lifeguards for some reason. Maybe they just think I'm cute? It's tough to say with goggles that see the world as clearly as Donald Rumsfeld. Nope, that's a look of worry on their faces. I just took my pulse, and it was 358.. That has to be good. Did my right arm just fall off? Nope, it's just numb. I've just had the head of the local triathlon club offer her coaching expertise as I gasped for breath gripping the side of the pool like a vice. Her introduction was, "I can help you with your form." That can't be a good sign. At the end, I seem to have breathed more air and less water this time around. As I stagger out of the pool, I notice something.

I feel like I've exercised.

As Tool said, "It's almost like I'm swimming." I may have to do this again sometime. Now if I could only get this water out of my ear.

Taking the Dive

Make no mistake: I'm a soccer fan. This is especially true during World Cup time. Quite honestly, half the fun of being a soccer fan is seeing the glazed over expression your male friends get as you discuss the beauty of a particular set play or bemoan the ref in the USA vs. italy match. However, you press on because these are the same looks your received your whole life as you discussed AD&D in high school (if you don't know, don't ask), Monty Python, Terry Gilliam films, the Bush administration, home brewing, and the Tour de France (before this year's controversy).

Hey, I say press on. If you have to listen to discussions about golf or this years NBA draft, they should have to reciprocate the favor. Preferably while being forced to drink your home brew while watching BRAZIL or The FISHER KING.

But things are getting a little out of hand in the futbol world. There are too many penalties and way, way, too much diving. I mean, I haven't seen this much diving since before Greg Louganis retired. I haven't seen this much flopping since my cross country team did the amazingly illegal Great Naked Winter Night Run of 1988. (Although there would have been more flopping if the weather had been a wee bit warmer.)

To make matters worse, the flopping seems to come from countries that drive many in the US crazy for their silly parlimentary procedure, their attractive and slim women, and their distain for fried food; such as Italy, Spain, France, and Portugal. Ironically, three of these teams made the final four, which shows how @#$#ed up this flopping is becoming.

So to fix this, I've got an idea. First, if a team has more than 10 penalties in a half, someone has to sit out for 2 minutes, like in hockey. Next, if you're dragged off on a stretcher, you're also out for 5 minutes, unless the coach wants to sub for you. Third, if you dive, you're also out for 5 minutes. No more red or yellow cards. Have the guts to make it hurt the offending team on the field. Plus, it would help the "beautiful game" get back to beauty instead of free kicks every thirty seconds. Now add in instant replay on penalty kick calls and you've got an exciting 90 minutes of sport. However, this makes way too much sense, so let's add a little drama to spice it up a little.

If you flop or are taken off the field in a stretcher, you're place in a penalty cage with an enforcer that is picked by the other team. Let's say a retired Mike Tyson, a desperate for cash OJ Simpson, or that crazy ex-soccer player that was in Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. If you can get past him before your five minutes, you can rejoin the pitch. Think of the ratings as Figo, C. Ronaldo, or Henry are getting pummeled for real behind the goal instead of prancing about the field seconds after appearing to need a trip the ER. Think of the goals scored as they serve their penalties. Think of the TV ratings in the USA.

Think of the royalty checks I'll receive. Now, hopefully these will be the only flops we'll see next time at the World Cup.

Survival of the Modern Man: Three Days Until Summer Break

Have you noticed your local teachers recently? You can hear them humming a tune, singing along to the Musak at the store, or even, God forbid, smiling for no reason at all?

Have you also seen the fear and panic on parents faces in the same stores?

One man's joy is another man's scream for boredom saving ideas for their pre-teen.

Ahhh. It there must be only three days until summer break. Smell the teen-spirit. Yuck!

Summer is a 'wonderfunly' time. Yes, I know that is 'unproper' English. But after another year of working with middle school kids who feel it is their duty to destroy the English language, run around punching each other, and who feel scientific discovery is finding what foods splat the most colorfully on the concrete when thrown out a second story window, it takes a few weeks to recover and become an articulate, semi-normal functioning member of society.

Me need still time to more recover now.

I don't get paid for summer breaks. Let's make that clear first and foremost. Teachers are only paid for the days they work, but have their checks pro-rated so that they aren't living under bridges in the summer and eating ramen noodles every day.

As a teacher, you feel you've earned summer break, while the rest of society feels you don't:

Let's see...

It's said teachers make 5-10 decisions every five minutes. Now, I know most of them have to do with the bathroom and making Solomon-like decisions over homework excuses, but they are still decisions, none-the-less. That means that I've made 87,840 decisions this year, minimum. That of course, is on top of teaching, dealing with good parents, bad parents, kid horrible and triumphant back stories, kid failures, and kid successes that make you both question and celebrate the very humanity that we are all a part of. Plus, google 'teachers suck' and find 3.8 million hits. Type "teachers are awesome!"and you’ll get 2 hits, both written by lonely teachers. No stress here.

All of this decision-making may be why I often stare blankly into the fridge late in the evening. My wife will ask me what I'm getting and I suddenly break down crying, "I just can't decide anymore!"

I know, a little too much information.

That's when she closes the refrigerator, opens the cabinet, and pours me a glass of the hard stuff. Yep, herbal tea is helps sooth, calm, delicious, and prevents one from becoming a raging alcoholic.

Smart woman, my wife.

So, let's just say I don't have any summer vacation guilt, or an herbal tea problem, as far as I know.

So if you're going to survive this craziness that is the last few days, remember the following:

Your control of the classroom is now hanging by a string. Live with it:

First, you know, the students know, and the parents know that there is nothing left to do. It's just killing time from here on out. This may be the only time of year when you ask a student to do something and when they chirp back like they always do with a, "Why?" you really have no legitimate reason. From what I've seen lately, the answer is usually, "Because this video is interesting," or "Because kickball is fun and exercise is good for you." It's time to throw away the lesson plans and just enjoy the circus or your head will explode.

There are more hormones flowing than at a NFL weight-lifting session (but these are legal):

Be careful. You may actually need to wipe yourself down with a towel after walking through the hallways because you're swimming in a sea of teen and pre-teen hormones that rage like a hurricane on the coast, only it's slightly more damp. See the grabbing over there? See the hugging over here? Carry a pry bar to pull the kids apart, love is in the air. Remember, teenage and pre-teenage love is natural. It's just not legal.

It's graduation time!

The kids in the high schools are getting their graduation gifts, which tend to be automobiles that you, as a teacher, could never afford. Remember, don't be bitter. However, it helps by making a slow leak in the student's tires for emotional fulfillment in these situations. You can't be too smug with a flat tire on your new Cobra.

Sing:

Hey, in three days, I'm gonna be singing "No more teachers, no more books!" with the kids as we run giddily out of the building. Just admit it, it's a catchy tune.

I didn't expect to see you here:

An added bonus is that we all get to look forward to the uncomfortable feeling as student and teacher meet accidentally in various stores and amusement areas over the summer. Discomfort you can actually cut with a knife!

Yep, as a teacher life is good if you can just survive the next few days.

I just have to make sure I clean my school towel before I hit the beach.

The Modern Man and Boring Sports Sorts Part II

I know that you my loyal reader, hang on every word. I mean this literally, as someone hung (hanged just never seems correct to me) themselves after reading this this blog just the other week. So here is the link to PART I, just in case you missed it. You also might want to click here for a stunning example of free speech at our nation's capitol.

2) The Pitching Change

One of the reason's we were raised on AL baseball (which allowed us to hate the Yankees) is that there are fewer pitching changes. However, just last night, the Yankees changed their pitcher 3 times in 4 batter. Donald Trump doesn't change wives that often.

Now, the pitchers get warm-up time in the pen and then more pitches on the mound. There are about 10 minutes of commercials and I swear that they hire people to wake the crowd up from their warm-up induced beer stupor at the games.

The following is a completely true falsification of a conversation with my wife who came down to say high during a baseball game, but there was another pitching change:

Wife: What are you watching?
Me: I can't remember.
Wife: Can you clean the garage.
Me: Sure. I can't think of a reason why not.

How wrong is that? This is dangerous stuff I'm talking about man.


Solution: Let's go with softball on this. Three pitches for warm up and PLAY BALL! If you can do that, your team can drink on the field. We'll call this the David Well's rule.

3) The free throw

I know, you get excited when your team gets fouled, but it completely halts to flow of the game. It also gives them an excuse to do a TV time-out. Plus, they always do a close-up face shot of the guy shooting, and quite honestly, I don't need to see the sweat, zits, and phlegm on Chris Kaman in HD. Really, I don't.

Solution:

How about playing an ancient guessing game of skill and luck, using the cheerleaders and the dancers? We could call it:

"Thong, briefs, or nothing!"

The fouled guesses the correct underwear type of a random cheerleader/dancer pulled from the group, your team gets 2 points and the ball out. If you get it wrong, you just get the ball out. You could throw in guessing the color in the second half. Not only would it be more entertaining, but it would be a huge boost to the ratings.

4) Golf

John: "Bob, we're waiting for Sergio Garcia to hit the ball. We'll be back in five minutes."
Bob: "Thanks John! Tiger is lining up his put, we'll be back in ten minutes."
Jim: "Tigers last shot reminded me of a similar shot made by Johnny Miller in the 1972 Hooter's Invitational. However, that shot was interesting because the ball got lodged in the bellybutton of an overweight ex- gymnast and Johnny made his next shot standing on a lawn chair, while smoking a Camel, drinking a Crown Royal and dog-gone it, put it two feet from the hole. He popped that sucker right out of that enormously fat navel with a seven wood, I believe."
Bob: "Really Jim? That's amazing!"
Jim: "No Bob. I'm just so bored. So bored."

Solution: The Flake and on the Lake Invitational
Each golfer is given a set of clubs randomly put together from garage sales and Goodwill sets. There could be real wood-woods. There could be left handed clubs. There could be clubs so old that they are endorsed by golfers who are actually dead. Plus, they will be forced to use only balls that have been sold by a kid who found them in the lake.
Plus: Two hour time limit. Sorry, John Daly. running will be required.

Solution 2: NASCAR GOLF: Players must drink one beer at everyone other hole. Betting is mandatory. Smoking prefered. Swearing is required. Hey, John Daly needs a chance, too.

So there you go. Let's take the BORING out of sports! Or else, people will only Tivo sports from now on. With Tivo, I can watch an entire football game in one hour. However, that does mean I'm free to clean the garage. Hmm. I wonder if this Paint Ball World Championship is boring?

Oh my gosh, yes. I may have some ideas to help...

The Modern Man and Boring Sports Sorts

As a modern man, you believe sports were invented a few thousand years ago when the caveman walked with the dinosaurs. Sports were a great invention because they allowed men to interact and talk to each other in socially acceptable ways and stop whacking each other over the head with clubs. Can you imagine a conversation with a man now days without sports?

“How are you doing John?”
“Great! How about you?"
"Fine!"

Now three hours of uncomfortable silence as they watch the bugs fly by.

In fact, some believe sports was invented by women as an experiment to stop men from all the whacking that was going on (insert your joke here), but it was an experiment that went horribly wrong. It did prevent men from much of the violence they were doing to each other, but caused untold and unexpected emotional damage. After all, sports has caused huge amounts of damage to once loving relationships, torn apart family life, and emotionally scarred thousands of Detroit Lions fans.

Aren't sports great?

Sports are supposed to be entertaining, but I'm finding that in my old age, sports is getting more and more boring. So I've created my top 4 most boring experiences in sports as a warning to all. I'm not sure what the warning is, but I want to make sure that you're warned. I just don't know why.

1) The television time-out, injury time-outs, and time-outs in general.

If there is one aspect of sports that can kill an emotional high quicker than a meeting with your boss, it's the TV time-out. This has to be a reason I'm getting less interested in football and basketball and more interested in interacting with my family. Here's the actual play by play from an actual, fictional, game:

Football:
"Welcome back from the commercial break! Here's the kick off. (Five seconds of action). He's taken down at the 22. We'll be right back after these 30 commercials!"

Problem: Football has become:

kickoff-commercial-three and out, punt-commercial-injury-commercial.

Solution: Since football players need the money, we can still have commercials, but during the action by using a simple microphone.

Mike the QB: "Five! Thirty-two! Drink! Budweiser! Budweiser! King! Of! Beers! Hike!"

Mike the LB: "I'm going to rip out your AFLACing lungs, Jake Plummer!"

Basketball and time-outs:

"Whoa! You just missed it during the commercial break. What a great play! He jumped in the air and called time out! We'll be back in 20 minutes with the next five seconds of the game, when another exciting time-out will be called."


Solution: Seriously. How many time-outs do they get on top of scheduled time-outs? The last two minutes of any game takes at least 45 minutes!

New rule. Twenty second time-outs only, last five minutes. You get one.

Or at least make the breaks interesting:

"After this commercial break, we will have the results of Kobe Bryant's paternity test!"

Otherwise, I don't have time for this.

Hockey: one time out.
Soccer: None.

Part II: The Pitching change, coming soon....

Tears and the Modern Man

"My eyes are leaking!" my young boy once said as he lay in bed crying.

My wife and I emotionally witnessed this tragic but comical expression one day, but suddenly I found myself turning away from my wife to hide the little welling of something that was suddenly coming from my eyes.

As I attempted to stare out the window and regain my composure, I thought of the emotions involved with a young child like that, reminding me of my own childhood and its bittersweet memories . . . bittersweet memories?

This of course, begs the question:

What the @#$# is happening to me?

Of course, you expect a budding young toddler to cry and cry often, but something has been happening to me lately that has been more insidious than a Bush press release, more worrying than gas prices, and more embarrassing than noticing your fly has been open for God knows how long and to make matters worse, you're not wearing underwear.

I'm of course, talking about a grown man tearing up at the most interesting moments. Before having a kid and getting married I was a tough manly individual. But now I'm Dick Vermeil with an onion neckless. Where is this coming from? As a good history major, I know that before looking at the present, we must look at the past.

• The end of ET? No problem.

• The Shuttle Disaster I: Solid as a rock.

• Lions losing the NFC championship? No big deal!

• U.S. Hockey Victory over the USSR: Just good, solid, excitement.

• Being turned down for the senior prom. I'll get over it. Really, I will.
  

But now, any little thing starts to set me off and I have no way to stop it.

• Olympic hockey repeat of beating the Russians:
  
• "Do you believe in tearing up? Yes!"

• The endings of Field of Dreams, Forest Gump, Saving Private Ryan (beginning and end), Billy Elliot, Glory, any movie with a boy and a dog who dies, etc.:
  
• My eyes? Literally, a river runs though it.

• Certain Mark Knopfler guitar solos under certain conditions.
  
• H-eye humidity.

• 9/11 Homages:
  
• Just give me the @$#ing box of tissue now.

I don't get it. Was it 9/11, the birth of my kid, a decrease in eye muscle control brought on my old age (that's the one I'm sticking to), or just wussiness brought on by watching too many modern men like Alan Alda and Johnny Depp?

Was it Clint Eastwood sobbing during Million Dollar Baby? Was it a permanently lodged piece of fiberglass insulation in my eye? Or how about a plucked nose hair?

Yeah, that's the ticket.

There's no crying in male middle age!

Now, the next time my wife is out of town, I'm going to retrain myself. I'm going to watch Brian's Song, Fried Green Tomatoes, Rudy, Whale Rider, and any other tear jerker that I can find until I can retrain my male senses back to a normal Neanderthal, like their supposed to be. Maybe I should also go out and shoot a small animal and eat it.

But first, I see that Old Yeller is on television.

Oh, boy. I can do this.

Now where did I put the tissues?

Hot Talk and the Modern Man

The biggest fashion in teaching now is for curriculum makers and textbook writers (these people must be a fun lot, but that's for another post) to write a script that you, the teacher, are supposed to read from and not deviate in any way if you want to 'maximize teachability.' (Or some other made-up word your principal fell for after his three margarita lunch at a conference.) This prevents the teacher from actually getting involved in any discussions that may lead to controversy, such discussions on science, reading, or history.

However, these scripts assume your students will answer the questions like the writer of the script intended and also assume that they'll actually care about what you're supposed to be teaching them.

So for instance, if the script says to ask, "How does this make you feel?" and one kid blurts out "horny" when the book provided answer was supposed to be "Sad and lonely", it can really throw the class for a loop. A less talented teacher might decide it was time to do an easier, less stressful job, like say, being an air traffic controller.

This is from an actual script in an anti-bullying class I have to teach. (Remember, you're not allowed to bully in school, but you are expected and praised if you do as an an adult, as in here, here, or here.) The bold is what the teacher is supposed to say. Remember, not to deviate, or you could lose your job.

-What was Janelle's "hot talk". (Book Answer: I can't believe it! She stole my jacket!)

KID'S ANSWER: Isn't that something on those 900 number advertisements on television?

Of course yelling at the student could get you arrested, giving them detention will bring the wrath of the parents, and notifiying the principal means you don't have good classroom management, so being a good teacher, you press on. . .

TITLE: The Fire Within (Now as a teacher, you're not supposed to laugh at these things, even if it sounds like a made for Cinemax movie.)
Think of seeing the jacket as a match that lights a fire. The fire is fueled and burns hotter when Janelle "hot talks" to herself (KID: I thought you were supposed to talk hot to your girlfriend). You ignore and continue . . .As the fire burns, Janelle has bodily sensations . . . (class is now laughing uncontrollably and you, being the professional you are and against all odds, skip the rest of the lesson and head to the nearest bar. You can't even get to the part about her anger being misguided, since her friend had bought the same exact jacket.))

No, actually you finish the rest of the lesson bravely and professionally, only to find the term HOT TALK is being used comically in the hallway for the rest of the week.

Fires burning? Hot talk? Bodily Sensations? Just what our hyper-hormonal students need! Luckily, I'm a mature adult, and can't be affected by such talk. Now excuse me, I have to see if my phone allows 900 calls.

(DISCLAIMER: The script was real, the answers expected, real, the kids' answers were hypothetical and so was the principal (who is a mix of the many I've had), just in case mine is reading this as we speak.)

Ask Mr. Teacher Man!

Today is an exciting day, as Tales of a Modern Man presents, "Ask Mr. Teacher Man!" Seeing that today's teacher is technically supposed to be the repository of human knowledge since the beginning of history, it seems unfair that once you graduate, you no longer have access to this incredible well of wisdom. So I've taken real questions from actual, breathing, fictitious people, and will share my wealth of information with you, my one and only reader. Why Mr. Teacher Man? Mostly, because that is what many of my Spanish only speaking students would call me (or Mr. Profesor Man).

Dear Mr. Teacher Man: What is a Huguenot?

The Huguenot is an important knot for sailing. In fact, Christopher Columbus, who led the Pilgrims to the new world, states that the improved technology for the knots in sailing (way back in 1776) led to his discovery of Hudson Bay. Rumor has it his favorites were the sailor's knot, the double bowline knot, and the Hugoknot, which allowed him to keep a mutiny starting Hugo Franchelli tied to the mast and prevented the sailors from turning the boat around and heading back to Columbus's district, which has now been renamed, The District of Columbia.

Dear Mr. Teacher Man: I'm a high school student and wondered if I can find a college where I can improve my video game skills?

I would say your best bet is the presigious Com Mu Nity College. They have a great dorm area called "Mom's Basement." From what I hear, HALO skills, which sound vaguely angelic, transfer well to religious schools everywhere.


Dear Mr. Teacher Man: One day at happy hour, my wife and I made a celebrity list of people who we'd be allowed to sleep with if we met them. Well, I've met one of the people on my list and Jennifer is all over me like a duck on a junebug. What is the proper course of action here?

America's Declaration stated that as American's we wanted to have "Life, Liberty, and the Persuit of Happiness." Your wife gave you the liberty to pursue this happiness. However, I would probably bet if you follow through on this situation, it might force her to end your life.

However, if it's one of the three Jennifers I'm thinking of right now, there would be only one real question to answer:

Would it be worth it?

Hope this helps. Mr Teacher Man, signing off.

Law and Order: Modern Victim's Unit

My wife is addicted to Law and Order. I'm not sure whether this is because it is a good show, or because it has taken its place above WINGS as the show that is on television any time you turn the television on. Does being popular make it good? Budweiser is drunk by close to 50% of our nation, but it doesn't make it a good beer? Bush was elected by over 50% of the population, no, wait, yes, he was the second time. Does that make him a good president? Pamela Anderson has been "seen" by a majority of Americans. Does that make her a good girl?

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I hope not.

Oops. Did I type that out loud?

I have to admit, I occasionally watch the show, so here it is. Me being the LAW and finding something that should be illegal in our society, but then me being the ORDER as well, wreaking havoc with my fair, but probably pretty outlandish sentences for the guilty's transgressions.

Of course, this is only my opinion.

Please take a second to post what you think the appropriate punishment should be.

So I'll occasionally post these things as they happen to see what type of judge you are.

LAW: Loud Motorcycles, Usually Harley Davidson

The other day my wife and I were getting passed by a group, or possibly violent gang, of leather clad, boomer aged, men and women riding Harley Davidson’s. As I shouted unsuccessfully to my wife over the space shuttle-like roar of their engines, I noticed something that may have actually caused a small part of my brain to crawl out of my head and jump out of the car as it realized there really wasn't any reason to go on anymore.

Why was this?

Every person riding was wearing earplugs.

ORDER:

SOOOOO. IF something you own is too loud for you to handle the old fashion way, I sentence you to...

Sentence 1: Thou shall be forced to ride your Harley naked for 24 straight hours, in 100 degree weather, wearing nothing but a steel World War II style helmet.

Sentence 2: Thou shall be forced to listen to the extended version of Steppenwolf's "BORN TO BE WILD" turned up to ELEVEN on repeat, with headphones, until my hearing recovers from the last time a group of Harley riders passed my vehicle, or until your ears bleed, whichever comes first.

The doctor says my recovery could take years.

The Modern Boy and the Public School Restroom Part II

I have to say that the comments I got about the last post were very good, although I had one relative tell me the ladies room was just as bad. Hey, I just always thought they looked something like this, but with perfume dispensers and lockable stalls.

The public school restroom, though, is a totally different situation. I can totally understand Finch's phobia and total avoidance of using the high school's bathroom in American Pie. He was just rightfully concerned about the cleanliness of a room which is on the final "get to if necessary" checklist of the school janitor.

For myself, and many other modern men, cleanliness wasn't the major problem with the school bathroom Although I don't remember soap every being provided in any of my school bathrooms. That may be because some idiot ripped the dispensers off the wall, or it was considered an expendible budget item after years of educational cutbacks.

The real issue of the public school bathroom wasnt' that your friend Mark always tried to hit the urinal from ten paces (and I don't mean "Hit" as in striking with a blow). It wasn't that the high school bathroom was actually full of long haired kids who were really smoking in the boys room. It wasn't even that you began to wonder where the bathroom pass you were carrying might have been placed by the hundreds of students before you who had carried before you. After all, it always seemed to be a little moist. It wasn't the off chance one of the school bullies would show up at the same time you did and attempt to see if you could be flushed down the toilet. No, it wasn't even the urinal 'cake' that someone creative had placed in the only working sink.

It was the stalls, or let's say, lack there of. At my high school, most of the bathrooms had no doors on the stalls. The urinals were of course, on the far side of the stalls, so you usually ended up getting the uncomfortable "How you doin' " as the next ten people walked through the door and tried not to make eye contact as they passed by. How do you answer that question with your pants around your ankles? Is there any dignified way? On the positive side, at least there was good reading material on the walls.

The locker room was worse. It was the most pristine bathroom I had ever seen. Clean floors, sparkling white toilets, and not a stall or wall to be found. Plus, there was no door entering the room, so if you had to "do the 2" you knew that the entire football team would be walking by on the way to or from their lockers. When they wave, was I supposed to wave back? Is this supposed to help in bonding? Who planned this? I'm begging somebody to tell me. Do I need serious counseling? Good Lord, am I sweating as I even recall this?

Thank God the modern man can drink beer.

My wife seemed to think that I was adding a little truthiness to my stories to gain sympathy for my childhood. Then one day, we were in a middle school for a conference when it happened. I walked into the boys bathroom, fully confident that bathroom technology has changed so much in the past 20 years there would be no worries. I walked to the only stall in the room and may have screamed like a girl.

There was no door on the stall.

Needless to say, after pulling my wife into the bathroom to show her proof of my previous rantings she finally acquiesced and agrees I'm not crazy.

Although I may have heard her mumble the word "truthiness" after she told me that.

The Modern Man and the Public Restroom Part 1

Every now and then something so important needs to be discussed, that uncomfortable and embarassing subject matter must be talked about frankly, scientifically, and professionally (Like your middle school sex-ed classes!).

This is not one of those times.

Recently, as I walked about a local shopping establishment, my body began to cry out that the diet Mountain Dew I had imbibed earlier wanted to return to the mountains immediately. I won't discuss the Power Bar.

I had a tough decision to make.

Do I ignore the call of nature, which at this point was starting to become more of a scream than a gentle cry, and hope I make it home before serious internal damage is done?

Or do I simply use the public restroom with the ubiquitous MEN'S sign and save myself possible future surgery in an area not meant for surgery at all? (Although I thought this sign was more appropriate) I mean, how bad can it be?

It sounds like an easy choice, especially if you happen to be one of the two ladies that actually read this column.

But it really isn't. It can be a choice that can redefine your mood, health, and belief in the overall goodness of the human race.

I of course, am talking about the life-altering experience of entering a public men's' room.

If a woman ever wants to be elected president, all she has to do is show a picture of a typically knarly men's public restroom and she'd be a lock. How can men run a country when they can't even keep a bathroom clean?

The amazing thing is how little women know about the men's' room. It's kind of like Elaine's surprise during Seinfield's "Shrinkage" show, but with slipperly floors. It's like the "I don't have a square to spare," show except with see-through toilet paper, a possible ax-murderer in the stall next to you, and graffiti that would make Eminem blush.

There seem to be three different types of men's public bathrooms to fear. These would be the basic store restroom (including gas stations and rest areas), the sporting event restroom, the public school restroom, and the port-o-potty. Four, four types of restrooms. (That's for Monty Python fans.)

Now I'm just talking about the public "store" restroom. As soon as you enter, you can feel the despair. That is, if the forbidding smell doesn't kill you outright. Dozens of normal modern men have entered before you only to find 1 of the 4 stalls empty, and I'm not talking about empty being "free of another human being." The one "clean" stall has a toilet seat with dubious backsplash marks on it since men can only leave the toilet seat up in their own homes.

As an aside, if you're a man and don't know about backsplash, use a typical urinal while wearing shorts.

If you're lucky, the stall door will actually function and maybe even lock, but more than likely you'll probably have to deal with that hole where the lock used to be which a ten year old always looks through to see if anyone is in the stall. Of course, the stall has no toilet seat protectors available, which is okay since you wonder how something manufactured out of paper that could be thinner than a row of molecules could actually protect you from anything. Seriously, if the manufacturers of public rest room toilet paper and seat protectors got together with scientists, we'd finally be able to miniaturize all those things like in the science fiction movies.

"Hey look John! A microscopic submarine! How did they do it?"
"Well, Biff, it's all due to our friends in the toilet paper industry!"

Now you notice that there is a liquid on the floor that could be from the janitor, it could be from condensation on the toilets, or, it could be something else. Whatever it is, it is now coating the bottom of your shoe. You try to hang your coat, but there's no hook. The urinals haven't been flushed in what appears to be days and you seem to be getting dizzy from that strange breathing shallowly out of the mouth thing you do whenever you enter a public restroom. Plus, you're doing that strange "hold the door closed with one foot thing" because the lock was broken and a man muttering Bible quotes has entered the facility.

"Pop quiz hot shot!" "What do you do? What do you do?" (Click here for the movie quote that came from)
a) Do the levitating toilet bit. (If you're a guy, you know what I'm talking about, although it's tough if your doing the hold the door closed thing.)
b) Try to expose your skin to as little of the seat as possible.
c) Just do what you do. If it doesn't kill you, it will make you stronger.
d) Run outside screaming and hope for the best.
e) Use the women's room. They're always clean.

Seriously, who are these guys? Who does this to a place that at home you probably spend most of your quality time in? Does this same phenomenon happen on the space station? Is this a reason to lose faith in mankind?

Whatever it is, I think maybe we just need one of these to make the world a better place.

Current Events and the Modern Man

As a modern man, you keep well informed of the world around us. With the internet, we have an unlimited amount of news at our fingertips that we can read if we can only find time between our online Texas Hold 'em games and our unfettered access to the Victoria's Secret website.

With that in mind, and literally minutes of hard, cold research, here's some interesting and timely news with insightful commentary that will help educate you, the modern man. (I know you haven't read a word now that you've clicked on the Victoria's Secret link, but hey maybe this lovely lady will help snap you out of it!)

It has been found that a television in the bedroom cuts sex in half for most adults. Logically speaking, that means that by removing the television, your sex life should double. In a stirring development, millions of modern men around the world have moved their televisions out of the bedroom only to learn after wild scribbling and the application of third grade math the following heart crushing fact: Doubling ZERO still leaves you with ZERO.

That sound you hear is the scraping of furniture as millions of televisions are moved back into the bedroom.

On the bright side, since this study was done in Italy, it was found that thousands of fires were prevented by the television's effect of lowering sexual encounters since it cut down on the friction caused by hairy Italian legs scraping against each other in heated passion.

In related news, the The Refuge, a site for converting homosexuals from their supposed sexual addiction, is now fundraising for plasma televisions to be placed in the rooms of all their clients. Of course, Cinemax will be provided free of charge.

In other news, a new invention has perfected a way to remove the odor from hog manure. Within hours, the invention was placed within the White House and in the halls of Congress. It was found the political stench in Washington is just too strong for an apparatus meant only to function on millions of pounds of hog@#it every day. The invention is now petitioning OSHA for cruel and unusual working conditions.

And finally, news so true that you'd think God would be ready to press the big red button after seeing:
William Shatner has agreed to donate his kidney stone to goldenpalace.com and let the proceeds go to charity. I really have nothing funny to write. The headlines speak for themselves. I guess this is just another Hollywood 'passing' fancy.

Sorry, I couldn’t help it. But as Bob Dylan once said to modern men everywhere, "Everybody must get stoned."

Birthdays and the Modern Man

"Rudy's on a train to nowhere, halfway down the line." Supertramp

I woke up to this lovely metaphor at about 3 AM the other day struggling with my own mortality creeping up behind me, slavering and slobbering over my shoulder while I picked up the ringing phone:

"Hello?"
"Hello! This is Death; we'd like your body back."

This can only mean one thing: It's almost my birthday.

Birthdays.

The very idea brings up memories. You remember as a child the taste of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream, the wonderful presents, and giggling friends running about the house with a measurable 90:10 sugar to blood ratio running through their veins. Whether it was your birthday, or you were a guest, you’d have a great time. Your stomach may have felt sick from your 100 percent glucose diet, but it was worth it.

You can even look back at the fun you had in high school with your friends messing around, talking about hot girls, Miami Vice, and you’d be running about the house with a measurable 90:10 sugar to blood ratio running through your veins. Whether it was your birthday or you were a guest, you’d have a great time. Your stomach may have felt sick from your 100 percent glucose diet, but it was worth it.


Ah, but let’s not forget about the early 20’s. You and your buddies hitting the bars, drinking shots, arguing about politics, laughing about Seinfeld, complaining about Astroturf, and being part of an unstoppable ratchet effect as the women got more attractive as the night went on. You might even be involved in the frightening ritual of uncoordinated white dancing followed by the eye goggling gyrations of something called an “exotic dancer.” Of course, you had a measurable 90:10 tequila to beer ratio running through your veins and it all sounded like a good idea at the time, although you're pretty sure a few friends ended up tied up in crate on a boat heading to South America. Whether you were a guest or it was your birthday, you’d think you may have a good time if you could only get your head to stop hurting. Your stomach might have returned everything you put into it at around 3:00 A.M., but with all the fun you had, it was well worth it. Plus, how often do you get to snuggle with the toilet at night?

However, as a modern man of a certain age, birthday fun is definitely not as quantifiable as it used to be. I mean, how much fun can a person have without the stylish and ridiculous Miami Vice and Seinfeld plots to keep you entertained? Plus, all your friends are now doing wheat grass shots, drinking caffeine free, fat free, flavor free double lattes and arguing about the merits of such wonderful products as Soy and Quinoa, which I have been told are healthy food products, but could be the names of new, hip, bands. This sort of talk really puts a damper on the fun. Plus, your friends won’t touch the beer because they’re on the South Beach Diet and someone actually brought a wheat free low calorie chocolate cake with natural soy frosting. To make matters worse the only exotic dancing you see is when your friend chipped his tooth on a piece of uncooked quinoa and his constant screaming in pain and running willy nilly about the house is making it difficult to find where to put the dollar bill. In addition, no matter how much you try to keep up with the new music as you listen to alternative radio, you wonder why you get strange urges to crank up Van Halen, Yes or Styx on your IPOD whenever you get a chance, especially at work.

Your students ask who you're listening to then wonder if Van Halen, Yes and Styx are some type of health food, and have no idea that they are really rocking bands.

If you're a modern man and it's your birthday, you have to endure the relentless procession of ‘old man’ birthday cards with the usual running jokes about missing teeth, adult diapers, and Viagra. Let’s not forget the various gag gifts and the fact that you have a huge project due the day after your birthday, so you can forget about even going home early to celebrate with your family.

Plus, a young child at work just walked by, looked sweetly at you, and then asked his mother, "Who is that old man?"

I'm beginning to wonder if they should just change the whole birthday thing to, "Death is just around the corner Reminder Day." I guess that would put a crimp on the whole nature of the day and kill our greeting card industry, so it's probably not a good idea. (Although killing the greeting card industry has a certain primordial fascination you'd probably agree with).

However, as a modern man I'm not going to let this day become anything but a good one, @#$# it. I'm going to enjoy the early morning call from my mother reminding me that I put her through something like 325 hours of labor. I'm going to laugh at the goofy birthday cards, be jovial at the repeated digs I get about my age from friends and family, and I'm going to eat fully sugared chocolate cake and drink a carbonated alcoholic beverage. I will also continue my tradition of running a short distance outside in what I was born in, if you know what I'm saying. If you do, you now probably have an image you really didn't need in your head and I apologize in advance. Hopefully I won't get arrested and it won't be below zero like it was last year.

Ring, ring (pick up phone):
"Yeah, death, I'm not quite done with this body yet. Yeah, I blame that on the cold weather. You've never heard of shrinkage????"

Your Top Five New Year's Resolutions

Seeing that my attempt at finding fame and fortune through a quaint, cuddly, self-help approach failed, I figured I'd have to try another tact (Click here for that fiasco.) In this case I'm focusing on how you, my loyal reader (and I mean that as a singular noun) can help make my life better through resolutions that will not only help you, but more importantly, help me enjoy life more. Taking my cue from President Bush, I am going to refuse to admit I've ever made a mistake and keep the course for this year. I have written these wonderful resolutions in the first person, using I, but of course I mean you.

Resolution 1: This year I resolve not to pay for anything in any store with a check.

Checks are sooooo 1980's and I don't want to wait behind you in line as you search for your checkbook after everything is bagged and set into your shopping cart.
This is an example of my last check writing experience at a store.

Woman: How much was that again?
Cashier: 120$
Woman: Let me get my check book. (fiddles around purse and and finds it stuck to used tissues.)
Me: (vein in head is starting to throb as the line behind is getting longer and longer)
Woman: Do you have a pen I can use?
Cashier: Sure.
Woman: (Writes the amount in her check register before starting to write the check.)
Me: (Screaming noises similar to those on Pink Floyd's Wall album are starting in my brain.)
Woman: Can I write for over the amount? (Line is now somewhere out to Nebraska, only less friendly. My head may be looking like when Agent Smith in the Matrix exploded, or maybe when those guys heads melted in Raiders of the Lost Ark.)
Cashier: Did you hear some strange screaming noise?
Me: (Brain explodes)

Plus, a man can only take so much "Musack", so get yourself a @#$# check card and help us all!

Resolution 2: I will resolve not to complain about my weight if I don't exercise.

Resolution 3: I will resolve to not allow my dog to bark in the backyard all day, all morning, or all night. In fact, if he is barking, I will let him in and allow the neighbors to avoid being forced to buy stock in Advil.

If I fail, I will allow my neighbors to wake me up whenever I decide to sleep and allow them to wake up any sleeping infants or toddlers I have to remind my of my evil ways.

Resolution 4: I resolve that after pulling out of the garage, the first thing I will do is drive, and not immediately dial someone on my cell phone.

Seriously, everyone in our neighborhood does this. Nobody waves to anyone in the neighborhood as they drive because they have one hand on the cell phone and the other hand on their drink. I'm more scared walking through my neighborhood because I'm afraid someone is going to drive right over me and not even notice. I enjoyed this highly visual example of this phenomenon.

Resolution 5a: I resolve never to use a hands free cell phone set in public and talk loudly on it.

This is starting to get frightening. I'm beginning to wonder if people are talking to me, at me, or to someone else. Maybe the person is actually crazy and really talking to their invisible friend, but just puts an earplug in to make it look like they're on the phone. The last time this happened a slightly disheveled woman was behind me in line and I hear very loudly:

"He's an idiot! I'm telling you an idiot!"

I look back to see if this is directed at me. I see the headphone thing stuck in her ear and nod while she continues to talk about her ex-husband in front of everyone at the local Safeway. Then the person looks pissed at me like I'm interrupting a private conversation. I look back like with my best "What's the problem look" and then she turns around and continues the conversation twice as loud as if turning her back to me is going to prevent me from hearing about how she's screwing him for child support.

Now I'm visualizing how the celery in my hands would look crammed down her throat. I'm not a violent person, but I think the fine for this should be this high tech device.

Resolution 5b: I will not use my cell phone in a theater, restaurant, or other public place without getting up and leaving the premises.

We went to a movie with friends once who got a call from their baby sitter and then proceeded to talk for 5 minutes without getting up and leaving for the lobby. Have you ever eaten with a bunch of friends and were having a perfectly good conversation, when someone up and answers their cell phone in the middle of it and instead of saying they'll call back, keeps talking for 10 minutes? It kind of kills the buzz, you know? How about the uncomfortable situation at work when in the middle of a meeting someone's cell phone rings and then everyone has to wait until they're done talking to continue whatever mind-killing thing that was going on at the meeting?

I'm not saying these people are evil, but that they should be prepared to eat their cell phone the next time they do this.


So, these are good New Year's resolutions that will help my life be a less stressful endeavor. Please follow them. You never know if I'm carrying a bunch of celery.