COME RAIN OR SHINE

When did the evening TV weather reports become full-blown productions taking on a style suitable for a National Geographic feature? And, when did the TV weather people start treating me like an idiot. Do you notice that they usually start their evening telecast with a commentary on the day's weather? Like "well today was a beautiful day…sunny and warm…a perfect day to be at the beach!" I don't need some talking-head to tell me what the weather was like today. I don't live in a submarine…I saw the weather…I know what it was like. I watch the evening news because I want to learn something I don't know. Like what's going on in Afghanistan…what's the latest development on the financial reform bill…what dumb thing did Joe Biden say? Do the television producers think we need to know what the weather was? "Hey, honey what was the weather like today?" "Gee, sweetie, I forgot to look. Better turn on channel 7!"

Next annoyance, …"a perfect day to be at the beach"?? Well, I didn't go to the beach and 90% of the viewers of the evening news didn't go to the beach. Most us work during the day, but some smug clown in front of a blue screen is telling us we should have gone to the beach? We don't need to be told what we should have done today.

Here's what I want to know from my TV weather person at the end of the day: what is the weather going to be for the next 5 days. Where I live. Period. I don't care about rain in Boise, Idaho. I don't care about the temperature in Dubuque, Iowa or the humidity level in Littleton, Arkansas. I care about the weather in Duxbury for the next 5 days. (It might be interesting to know what the weather will be for the next 10 days, but 5 days gets sketchy enough.) And I'm not alone. Realizing that I have a tendency to jump to conclusions, I actually did a random survey of 20 area residents asking if they cared about the weather in Casper, Wyoming. 17 responded that they would rather have their eyelids tattooed than listen to a Casper weather report, two actually had their eyelids tattooed, and one had no idea that Wyoming was a State.

Another thing I don't need to know is why it's going to be 95 degrees this week. I don't care about a high pressure area over Coos Bay or anything to do with air masses or thermals or station pressures and I still don't understand dew points. Finally, I don't need computer-generated graphics showing me what rain looks like. I know what rain looks like. Nor do I need little graphics of suns pulsing yellow rays or cartoon clouds spitting yellow bolts. Unless you're aiming for the kindergarten group, most viewers know what the words " sunny" and "stormy" mean.

So, here's the deal channel 7: just report the basics, cut your weather segment in half, and you'll have a lot more time for Joe Biden gaffes. I guarantee a 20% increase in ratings.

MAYBE ELEVATOR SHOES COULD HELP

If I seem a little cranky this week, it is due to a new scientific report from Europe that posits short people are more prone to heart problems than tall people. In fact, the study claims that short people have a 50% higher risk of heart problems or dying of a heart attack (which certainly could be considered a "problem") than tall people.

I have had great empathy for short people ever since Randy Newman dissed them in a song some years ago. (Don't you just love people with speech impediments who make fun of other people?) Personally, at 5" 7" in height, I have never considered myself short. Apparently, the authors of the study agree as they define "short" as any male under 5' 3" and "tall" as anyone over 5' 9". So, here's my first problem with the study…how about us guys in the middle? The 5-foot 7-inch guys?? Or the 5-foot 4-inch or the 5-foot 8-inch ..etc??? What are our odds? They absolutely disregarded the concerns of 50% of the world's male population. (I just made that number up, so prove me wrong.) Or, what if you're 5-foot, 3-and-a-half inches tall??
Are you 30% more likely to have problems?

Here's another problem I have with the study. The lead author was Tuula Paajanen from Tumpere University. Over the years, I have learned to be very wary of anyone with successive matching vowels in their first and last name. My, shall I say, skepticism in her study was confirmed when I read her attempt to console the targeted short people. "Height is only one factor," she confessed while noting that other factors like smoking, exercising and diet may come into play. She suggested that short people concentrate on those issues since, as she pointed out, "those are easier to change than your height!" Do you suppose that everyone at Tumpere U. is that insightful? (Lest you think I'm picking on a foreign school, the runner-up for scientific insight this week came from the Harvard School of Public Health which, following a study of 11,000 children, announced that children living in nonsmoking homes are less likely to be exposed to secondhand smoke!!)

This is the very sort of study that makes me convinced, more than ever, that when I become King, I'm only going to allow scientific reports on important issues that people care about. Studies that produce results. I'll guarantee you that no one under 5-foot 3, is going to be eating more broccoli after this report or standing in line to join a gym. And as for some of those other studies, let's face it…there are only 9 people in the whole world who really care about the future of three toed spotted salamanders or how much methane gas the average cow releases.

No, when I'm King we will only spend money on big issues that aim to produce results:

~ Why we need 3 remotes for 1 television set
~ Why big fat people usually have little bitty dogs
~ Why we can't keep Kate Gosselin off television
~ Why NASCAR is so popular

If you have your own list of issues worthy of government funding, please let me hear from you at john@wryontherocks.com. (Unless you have successive matching vowels in your first and last name.)

WILL THE REAL ILLEGAL ALIENS PLEASE STAND UP

Dr. Stephen Hawking, one of the great minds of our time, recently rocked the scientific world by proclaiming that he believes in the existence of aliens. He claims that considering the billions of worlds out there, it is "perfectly rational" to believe that they exist and he expects that they may come some day in "massive ships". Dr. Hawking goes on to caution, however, that we should not be in any hurry for a close encounter of the third kind. He forewarns that, "we only have to look at ourselves to see how intelligent life might develop into something we wouldn't want to meet." Obviously, the good doctor has been watching far too much reality television. Could even Stephen King conjure a more nightmarish image then a massive ship full of Kate Gosselins waiting to descend upon us?

It's interesting that Dr. Hawking terms belief in the possibility of little green men as perfectly rational; it's just too bad my Uncle Clarence didn't live long enough to see himself vindicated. Unfortunately, Uncle Clarence passed away in 1958 under "mysterious circumstances." At least that's the way that the Orange County Register reported it at the time. Personally, I didn't believe there was anything mysterious about it whatsoever. Even as a ten-year-old, I knew that when a 94-year-old man plugs one end of a hearing aid into his ear and the other end onto a 12-volt car battery, he is probably going to die under some pretty "obvious circumstances".

What the Register reporter didn't realize was that Uncle Clarence was the sole conduit for alien messages to the citizens of Orange County. He was able to transmit the fact that Colgate toothpaste was fluoride free, for example, and that Elvis would someday be re-born as an Illinois Governor. For most of his life, he was able to receive those messages through a 1949 Japanese transistor radio… cleverly designed in the shape of a baseball complete with painted red stitches. Uncle Clarence might have lived to be 100 if his neighbor's son hadn't hit the radio over the house with his new Louisville Slugger. From then on, it was a futile search for an alternative receptor leading ultimately to the car battery incident. It also led Sony to re-think their original bowling ball design for the Walkman.

Although, Dr. Hawking and my uncle shared a belief in the existence of aliens, they differed in their opinion of what we could expect. Whereas Dr. Hawking sees the dark side…the possibility of drooling neo-Cro-Magnons, coming to feed on the planet… Uncle Clarence was convinced an alien invasion would only be a positive for the human race. He would have envisioned a world free of Kate Gosselin. Or Lindsay Lohan… Keith Olberman… brussels sprouts…hardwood floor commercials…Nancy Pelosi…static electricity; in short, a bright, intelligent, stress free future for the entire human race.

But, then of course, Uncle Clarence never had the chance to watch "Jersey Shore."

WHO NEW?

I don't know how many of you have noticed, but Katie Couric may single-handedly be responsible for what is destined to be the most revolutionary change in the history of journalism. OK, maybe there is a little hyperbole in that statement and Katie "the Cutie" Couric probably didn't come up with the idea all by her lonesome, but nevertheless she is the one that introduced me to this new form of television journalism.

The background: for the first time yesterday morning, I'm watching the CBS television show, Good Morning America and at exactly 8:05 AM Couric previewed the news for her 6:30 PM newscast. Let me repeat. At 8:05 in the morning, Katie "Legs" Couric knew what news she was going to report that night! Apparently, this is a daily feature on CBS and the amazing thing is that none of her fellow CBSers seemed surprised at this. They obviously are un-awed by this incredible gift of their fellow newscaster. Understand that his is not some Nostradamus clone dashing off enigmatic prognostications of cataclysmic events two centuries hence. Or even, the Obama administration's Daedalus inspired 2014 budget divinations. This, folks, is Tom Werner's former girl friend telling us what's going to happen IN THE NEXT TEN HOURS!

This horoscopic approach to the news has not appeared to help boost the CBS evening news rating, which is quite simple to explain. Who wants to wait 10 hours to hear Katie repeat what they already heard? However, television networks have never been run by particularly bright people, but rather by people originally descended from Lemmings. So, given the nature of broadcast news…you got a female anchor, we got a female anchor… they are not about to be left out of the revolution.

NBC, for example, has just announced a new format for anchor Brian "I love purple ties" Williams. Beginning next week Brian will be broadcasting his Tuesday newscast on Mondays. He will then proceed to broadcast each evening's news one day early. ABC News has announced its' new evening broadcast will be entitled, Next Month and Fox News has re-named its' nightly news, News Today which will advance it's outlook by ten years. Even the print media, wary of playing second banana, have joined the fray. The New York Times has replaced its' slogan, All the News Fit to Print, with All the News Not Yet Printed.

I suspect that once this "new" news is in place, we won't notice much difference. The competition for "exclusive" interviews with an exposed mistress or two or a re-habed actor may intensify; coverage of newsworthy personages such as Kate Gosselin and Jesse James may increase; there may be expanded footage of Angelina or Madonna slogging through third world villages; and predictable comments from politicians, athletes and Wall Streeters will continue.

I doubt if any of this "new" journalism" will affect my viewing habits, so here's a better idea. Why not have Katie announce the Wednesday Powerball number….on Tuesday!

WRONG WAY TICKET

President Obama was in Tampa last week to announce a $1.24-billion-dollar plan to build a high -speed train service from there to Orlando. I find it comforting to know that my government is on top of America's needs. Who knew that there was a need for a 100-mile-an-hour train from Tampa to Orlando? If you had asked me a month ago, for example, where I thought there was a need for a $1.24 billion-dollar high-speed train route, I would have said something like…oh, I don't know, maybe from Boston to New York…or maybe New York to D.C.. which of course shows you why I'm not running this country.

But, at the risk of sounding like a forty-firster, I have some questions. According to my Google map, it is only 91 miles from Tampa to Orlando and the trip takes 1 hour and 29 minutes by car. I have to wonder just how fast does the President think people in Tampa need to get to Disney World? It takes that long just to get across Tampa some days.

Maybe the President is concerned about Tampa residents that may have to daily commute to work in Orlando? Well, If the projected speed of that train is only 100 miles per hour, you had better be living in the Tampa train station and hope your job in Orlando is across the street from that station depot. I have a better idea..why not just give everyone in Tampa money to buy a house in Orlando? Thanks to Barney Frank, you can buy any house in Florida right now for about $89. I figure you can relocate the entire population of Tampa to Orlando for no more than sixty-five-grand. Throw in another three-grand for new shuffleboard courts and half the people won't even notice the difference.

But, the President's plan doesn't just stop in Orlando. Once finished with the critical Tampa-Orlando link, he plans to run another high-speed rail line from Orlando down to Miami. There is just one problem with that idea. People in Orlando don't go to Miami. Sean Penn goes to Miami. People from New York go to Miami. People from New Jersey go to Miami… together with people from Germany and Russia…Brazil, Ecuador, Chile, Bolivia and Japan. They all go to Miami. But, people from Orlando don't go to Miami and they won't in the future. And, why should they? They already had Disney World, Universal Studios, Sea World and the Motorcycle Hall of Fame. Now throw in all those new homebuyers from Tampa and a bunch of new shuffleboard courts and Orlando folks aren't going anywhere. Well, maybe to The Villages, but it has shuttle buses.

I realize that my idea for saving a billion or so dollars doesn't mean much to someone unused to dealing in such small numbers, Mr. President, but, if you're really looking for a transportation project that will resonate with the American public have you thought about a pick-up truck?

THANK GOODNESS IT'S THURSDAY

It's that time of year when many of us make sincere, mostly sober, promises called New Year's resolutions. Some of these fall into the oh- give-me-a-break category, like "I-promise-to-be-a-better-person", or the, how-you-going-to-do-that category as in, "I promise to make the world a better place". These are generally made by people who own an Al Gore tee shirt. But, most of us have a more pressing issue…and that is to lose weight. And, the best way to keep that resolution? Exercise! An exercise program, according to the experts, that involves working out regularly every other day. And, therein lays the problem. Our 7-day week. It's why only 3% of us will keep our resolution.

Let's say you start out with the best of intentions. You start on Monday. You're a little sore that night, so you rest on Tuesday…as recommended. Rested by Wednesday, you're back at the gym again. Not quite so sore, you rest again on Thursday… then back on the treadmill Friday. Now you're rolling. Rest on Saturday, work out on Sunday. The day after Sunday you rest as prescribed before going back to the gym on….Tuesday?? Tuesday? You had scheduled a meeting on Tuesday…your Blackberry can't help…what day is the 17th?...am I jogging or power-point-presenting on the 20th?... and by the end of the month you have no idea where you're supposed to be so you pack up the gym bag and quit.

It's clearly not your fault. The fault, Cassius notwithstanding, lies with Julius Caesar and his Julian Calendar, which saddled us with the 7-day week. (The later Gregorian calendar retained the 7-day week, but eliminated three leap years, which instantly killed sales of Gregorian Chants among single women, which gave us The Dark Ages, and Barry Manilow.)

How did J. Caesar come to inherit a 7-day tradition? Because, people that go back even further than Larry King thought there were 7 planets. So, here we are in the 21st century…capable of space travel, caller-ID, and 852 friends on Facebook...yet, still servile to a calendar designed by people who thought the moon was a planet and cats might make good pets!!

So, here's my simple plan. A six-day week. This of course means that we have to eliminate a day. It's obvious it can't be Saturday or Sunday; no one is going to give up his or her weekends. Monday is out. How would you start the week? And, obviously, we need Tuesday to do work we should have done on Monday. We can't eliminate Wednesday…that's hump day. Thursday is questionable, but useful for regaling office mates with your golf round on Wednesday. That leaves Friday. And, let's face it, when was the last time you really worked on Friday? The truth is Friday is archaic… antediluvian… disposable… the appendix of the calendar body.

With that settled, I'll be starting my campaign, Lose Friday and Lose Weight, just as soon as I settle that pesky lawsuit by a certain restaurant chain.

FEELING THE PAIN

President Obama passed a milestone today in his latest televised speech. He has now been on prime time television more often than "Law and Order." In fact, he could be the Billy Mays of health care reform. I am genuinely surprised that no one yet has asked him if his health care package includes shipping and handling.

There is a big difference, however. Billy Mays used to look directly at the camera as if he were talking directly to me. He wanted to sell that augur to ME! Now, do you notice that the President never looks at you or me? He looks at someone on the left. He looks at someone on the right. Then back to someone on the left. Doesn't anyone in the audience ever sit in the middle aisle? Is there some reason he won't look at us? Maybe it's like how I couldn't look at my father when he asked why I was suspended from school. Again. Unfortunately, I didn't have an audience to my left or right. My shoes served as my audience. I talked to my shoes a lot in my youth.

On reflection, the President reminds me quite a bit of my father. With some obvious differences of course. My father didn't own a dog. Other than that, the President's favorite expressions resonate like yesterday. Like, "Make no mistake…" That was the opening phrase to a variety of situations in my youth, as in, "make no mistake, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you!" as he lay me across his knee. This of course, was a ridiculous statement and completely illogical even to a ten-year-old. However, to this day I have never spanked either of my children. I mean, what if he was right. Nevertheless, you can imagine why I cringe whenever I hear the leader of the free world start a sentence with, "make no mistake…" He might not be laying a hand on me, but he's spanking me. And you. He just can't look at us.

Another of our President's favorite expressions is, "let me make myself perfectly clear…", which is simply a variation on my father's, "Have I made myself perfectly clear?" This carried the not too subtle message that being grounded for a week was too complex a punishment for a ten-year-old to grasp at first utterance and needed some gestation time to be fully comprehended. This was often repeated at least once for emphasis and to accommodate the pre-natal brain I was assumed to have at that point. This was sometimes reduced to the simple…"Have I?"…to which, of course, I was to humbly answer," yes sir".

To this day as a reasonably intelligent adult, I sense a condescending attitude whenever I hear the expression. Once again, I am thought to have the comprehension level of a ten-year-old who needs IMPORTANT ISSUES reduced to one-syllable words and short sentences. Of course, I can't fully blame the President for assuming that no one else can appreciate his eloquence without a syllabus. After all, he went to Harvard.

So, if President Obama were to ever look directly at me and ask if he had made himself perfectly clear on the latest government program, I would humbly answer, "yes sir". But, I would still strongly doubt it hurts him as much as it hurts me.

COMING CLEAN

Memo to my wife: I love you dearly hon, and I don't mean to offend, but it's time we had a long talk; about the soap. Not the stuff on the kitchen sink or the boxes in the laundry room, but that bizarre collection of "cleansers" I face every morning in our bathroom.

First of all, soap should not be black. Nor should soap be brown. You see, brown and black is what I'm trying to get rid of with soap. It's actually one of the prime reasons I bother to bathe. Some other colors soap should not be include green and purple. Green and purple is also something I could be trying to remove with soap.

Another thing…soap should not have the consistency of congealed grease leftover in the frying pan. Nor should soap appear to be growing hairy little soapettes on its surface, because it was deemed to be organic or botanical or herbal. Soap is not organic or botanical or herbal. Real soap is fat! Animal fat!

Soap should not be translucent. I don't need to read through my soap while taking a shower.

Soap should not be square or round or rectangular. Soap should not have the size, shape and weight of a brick with sharp edges. I don't want to shave with my soap nor do I plan to use it as a first line of defense against home invaders. I simply want to wash with it.

Soap should not come in a liquid dispenser except in the communal showers of gyms or prisons or fraternity houses. Unless you know something I don't, I know who has been using my soap and whose hairs those are on the bar.

Soap should not come on a rope unless one plans to spend a great deal of time showering in the woods with bears and things. Or is extraordinarily clumsy and probably shouldn't be allowed in showers in the first place.

Soap should not be bought in any store with the word "au" or "eau" in its name. It should not be bought in a store that doesn't know how to spell perfume. Soap should not come wrapped in designer paper best suited for the inside of wedding invitation envelopes or packaged in cute little boxes printed with scenes of Paris or London or Florence and tied with cute little hemp strings. It should not smell like perfume or "parfum".

Now, here is what soap should be. Soap should be white. All white. Not off-white, not mostly white, not white with flecks of color, but white white. And it should smell like soap. Sort of like an open box of Tide. But not as strong. It should fit naturally in the hand…rounded at the edges…not too big, not too small…about half-way between a brick and a motel give-away. And it should sting like heck when it gets in your eyes. And it should float.

When you read this memo, I hope you don't think I'm being unreasonable and recognize that this is not some childish whim on my part, but rather a simple request from your adult husband regarding his need for real soap.

We can talk about the fake butter another time.

RUNNING ON EMPTY

This week saw the 113th running of the Boston Marathon, billed as the oldest and largest marathon on the planet. This year's event featured 26,331 runners lined up to navigate the 26-mile circuit. Let me say from the outset that I don't understand it. The whole running thing. I tried it once and didn't like it. It was in the 9th grade when every red-blooded Florida youth was expected to go out for track. I was told to run the mile since no one else wanted to do it. Cool guys did not run the mile. Cool guys pole-vaulted or ran the hurdles or competed in the 100-yard dash. Cool guys definitely did not run the mile. I ran the mile. I ran the mile with my fellow competitors who usually wore large glasses and even larger shorts that must have belonged to their older brothers.

Actually to say I ran the mile is a bit of a stretch. The only instruction the coach ever gave me was that I had to learn to pace myself. I was never very good at the running thing, but I became very good at the pacing thing. I probably still hold the Orange County pacing record. I read that marathoners are always trying to finish with their personal best…their PB. My PB was finishing before the bus left.

I would not qualify for the Boston Marathon, however. The ruling body, the Boston Athletic Association, has very strict rules for those wishing to run. First and foremost, you have to provide a letter from your doctor stating that you are sane. Personally, I don't think that the word sane belongs in the same room with the phrase, 26-mile-marathon. In fact, if I ever decide to kill someone, I think I'll run the marathon first. "And on just what do you base your insanity plea?" the judge would ask my attorney. "Well, your honor, my client just up and ran 26 miles!" Case dismissed.

But, proving sanity is just the first step. Next you have to prove that you have completed a 26-mile run in prescribed times. For example, a 25-year-old male must show he has run the distance in 3 hours and 10 minutes or less; a 60-year-old must go the distance in 4 hours or less; and an 80-year-old must prove he can run the distance in 5 hours or less. (This latter requirement awed me since I just returned from Florida where most 80-year-olds can't even drive 26 miles in 5 hours!)

Despite meeting all of the above requirements, American runners once again were among the missing at the finish. I think the BAA needs to tweak the rules a little to restore American pride in the event. I've watched how our local men and women train and I think we should take advantage of our skills. In the future I would like to see the marathon road fully opened to on-coming traffic, with all runners required to either run with a dog on a leash…preferably a golden retriever…or run while pushing a baby carriage..preferably a double. And cell phones are a must. USA, USA!

COVER YOUR MOUTH PLEASE

The timing could not have been better. Just when I was waffling on whether to stick to my fruit and veggie diet following my holiday excesses I find that my weight gain has nothing to do with the extra helping of stuffing I had at Thanksgiving; nor can I blame the mountain of mashed potatoes and quart of gravy at Christmas dinner; or the pastry-laden hors d'oeuvres at holiday parties, bowls of Nachos and cheese dip during the bowl games or the…well you know..all that other stuff that we consume during the holidays. No, it was none of those. My weight gain, in fact, was caused by a virus.

Yep, just as I was about to toss all good intentions to the wind and break open the Ben and Jerry's, which of course would cause an onslaught of guilt, relieved only by several shakers of the duration-banned martini, science rode to my rescue. The Pennington Biomedical Research Center in Baton Rouge, Louisiana has just published the claim that fat tissue is enlarged by a highly infectious virus. The virus, named AD-36, infects the lungs, according to the study, and then spreads through the body causing fat cells to multiply. The head of the project, one Nikhil Dhurandhar, stated that the virus can be spread through a person's coughing or sneezing and can cause sniffles and sore throats in the victims.

With typically condescending skepticism, a researcher from the World's Greatest University stated his belief that the Pennington Biomedical Center has discovered the common cold. He went on to express his surprise that people in Louisiana knew how to spell biomedical. Of course, he probably wouldn't know a Po-Boy if it hit him in the face.

I choose to believe the fine folk at Pennington. I always suspected it wasn't the ice cream; all along it's been that damn AD-36! I think that this study could very well be the answer to the economic stimulus this country needs; the very impetus that brings consumers back to the grocery aisles, fast food lanes and the much-maligned Twinkie. You don't think there's going to be a run on MacDonald's and Taco Bell when this news gets out? I know that I'll be busy stockpiling Chunky Monkey.

Of course, there is a downside for some folks and their products. Like diet companies. No more Dan Marino on TV pulling out his waistband and telling us he's back in the game while a bikini-clad blond makes a painful pantomime of throwing him a football.

On the other hand, this will be a giant boon to many new and existing hucksters. Any day I expect to see Billy Mays screaming at me that he has a product that not only wards off the AD-36 virus, but unclogs the sink, darns socks and removes unwanted hair. Or, maybe we'll see a drug company ad featuring an obese couple holding hands while lounging in separate bathtubs before a setting sun while the sound track plays "Why Not Take All of Me".

Yes, I see a giant mantle of guilt lifting over a large part of our populace. So, the next time someone sneezes near you…it's OK, go ahead… have another piece of cheesecake. It's not your fault. This is the change America has been waiting for.

THE SPACE POTTY

Despite what the politically correct police would have us believe, there are definite differences between men and women. While I have written many inches of newsprint offering proof of that, I submit the following as the latest example. My wife is the woman in this example (for the record she is bright, good-looking and a whiz at Sudoku). This bright-good-looking-Sudoku-whiz woman recently read to me (I'm the man in this example) that one of the missions of the current space station astronauts is to add a second bathroom and kitchen to their home-away-from-home. She was amazed that they could construct a bathroom in the space station. As far as I know, she never once wondered how the thing got up there in the first place. It is apparently completely understandable that somehow an international consortium was able to build a 627,000 pound laboratory in space; consisting of 25,000 cubic feet of space; solar panels large enough to cover six basketball courts; that has made 57,000 orbits around the earth in ten years amounting to over one and a half billion miles; but it is absolutely amazing that they're going to build a second bathroom.

I don't understand her amazement. I can tell you if I were an astronaut picked to spend a few months in space station with five other people, some of whom I've never met, the first thing I'd ask right off is, "how many bathrooms?" There are only two people living in my house…me and the aforementioned bright-good, etc….and we have three bathrooms. And I know that my house doesn't have 25,000 cubic feet of living space and I'd take a wild guess that it doesn't weigh close to 627,000 pounds. At least not when all the dogs are outside. Up in space, there's going to be six people living in a five-bedroom station. (My second question might be "who has to share a bedroom?", but that might be considered a little too picky.) No, I completely understand the second bathroom and that's without even pondering that weightless thing that I'd rather not think about.

But, here's what I don't understand. Why do six people need two kitchens? Is the next crew Kosher? Wouldn't two sets of dishes make more sense? Or maybe they're expecting Rachel Ray to drop in? God knows she's hard enough to avoid down here. So, am I just being a man wondering why my bright-good, etc. questioned two bathrooms, but didn't blink any eye at two kitchens? Was I wrong to think that one set of granite counters was enough for anyone?

So, here's a man question for you…what are the guys going to be doing while the Rachel Ray is messing around in the kitchens? How about adding a TV room? Or a tool shed? Maybe if they had a place to sharpen their tool skills they wouldn't be dropping them all over space. Not that I'm worried about an errant wrench or two falling on me. With two kitchens and two bathrooms up there, it's not falling tools I'm worried about.

If you think that I'm a sexist after reading this, call my bright-good, etc. She'll telll you that I'm not sexist, I'm just perpetually confused. It's a man thing.

THE ROCCO ROCKY HORROR SHOW

Marshfield's Town Manager, Rocco Longo, (remember him?) has a real problem on his hands in the form of a 50-pound pit bull terrier, one Rocky by name, who has allegedly bitten four people and a dog over the past 5 years. It seems that Rocky's less than sociable side was revealed as far back as five years ago when he bit one of the owner's relatives. Two months later, Rocky bit an interior decorator who had come to the house.

From here, the saga of Rocky becomes almost comic. First, the town orders the owner to install invisible and chain-link fencing around the yard. That, however, didn't stop a determined biter like Rocky. He subsequently bit a repairman called in to the owner's garage. (We're up to three human attacks at this point if you're keeping score.) Following this latest incident the selectmen ordered the owner to extend the invisible fencing on every doorway including the entrance to the garage. Two months later, old Rocky attacked a dog in a pet store. Apparently, the store had neglected to install invisible fencing in their doorway. (Latest score: three humans, one dog and counting.)

At this point, the selectmen decided something more drastic was in order and voted to ban Rocky from the town. But, it didn't end there. The owner, as tenacious as his dog it would seem, appealed the ban twice and Rocky was left to roam the un-fenced regions or Marshfield.

Here is where our former Town Manager comes into play. It seems that the owner recently drove Rocky over to Town Hall and invited said Manager to the parking lot to see his dog. Mr. Longo, unaware that one should never introduce an employee to a dog with a rap sheet, then invited a town employee out to also meet Rocky. At this point Rocky, who had usually dealt in surprise attacks thought this was too good to be true. Not being of a political bent and fed up with the meet and greet stuff, Rocky promptly took a chunk out of said employee's hand.

Now biting relatives, decorators and repairmen is one thing, but when you start tasting body parts of town employees you've gone too doggone far. My sympathies are rather split here as over the years there are several people that I have wanted to bite; come to think of it Mr. Longo was one of them. On the other hand, I have never even once desired to bite a dog, so I completely understand that the town needs to mete out some sort of punishment. One of the options being considered is re-visiting the banishment order. But here's the problem with that option as seen by Mr. Longo. "The Town wouldn't want to send a dog like that to Duxbury," he was quoted,"then they might send one of their own to Marshfield."

Personally, I think Mr. Longo is being a little paranoid here. I mean he knows I was only kidding about wanting to bite him. And unfortunately a quick check with our animal control department reveals that we have no equal to Rocky at the present time. Therefore, with no feasible reprisal threat at our hand, it is obvious there's only one protection against a possible Rocky banishment: an invisible fence along the Town line. Either that or we buy a dog. A very large dog. A large dog named Spike or Fang.

SPEAKING OF COWS

Researchers in one of those Scandinavian countries… I can't tell them apart, but I know one has the reindeer, one makes good vodka and one has a cute way of saying Min-a-so-taa…and now one has recently concluded a study that indicates that cows tend to face north when standing in the pasture. Not all cows mind you, but enough cows to lead these researchers to conclude that most cows face north when standing in the pasture. While it would have been easy to dismiss this study as yet another piece of worthless information, I was intrigued. I never know when the opportunity will arise to score with some obscure factoid. As in, "Speaking of cows, John, I've often wondered which way they face in the field." I live for those moments. Once in a conversation about the slow pace of commuting traffic I was able to casually impart the fact that a snail can sleep for three years.

Being a person that doesn't always believe everything he reads in the paper (unless it's this paper of course) I felt it prudent to do a little cow research of my own to avoid possible embarrassment such as when I once explained to a rapt flock of twenty-somethings how Al Gore invented the internet. So, using my journalistic skills honed after years of writing silly columns, and watching re-runs of The Mary Tyler Moore show, I phoned a local dairy farm. Speaking to the head farmer, I posed the simple question: which way are your cow's heads facing? This, as it turns out, was probably not exactly how the Scandinavian researchers gathered their data. Unless Scandinavian dairy farmers are accustomed to being quizzed on the compass bearing of bovines and thus offer a more informative, or at least civil response, to the question than I received. Although, it's entirely possible that the particular dairy farmer I phoned thought I was asking which way my head was pointing when he explained where I could put it.

Not one to give up on a project, I decided that some actual field research was in order and so I set off to observe first hand which way our New England cows face. Now the first thing you should know about cows is that they are not God's brightest creation. In fact, I think that God was thinking of salamanders on that particular day and the ball of clay somehow got away from him. (Cats, by the way are not among the sharpest pencils in the box either. Studies show they have a 30% less chance of surviving a 7th story fall than a 20th story fall because it takes them 8 stories to figure out what's going on!) Cows are rather curious by nature, however, so the particular group of cows I approached studied me intently as carefully moved in toward them. Unfortunately, before I could get a compass bearing, they had figured out that I was not a large patch of grass, a sheaf of wheat or a salt lick and returned to other distractions.

So, absent any first hand evidence to the contrary, I'll accept the Scandinavian result as fact. Unless, of course, they turn out to be the Scandinavians that make the vodka!

By the way, did I happen to mention that Polar Bears are left-handed? Or that elephants are the only animal that can't jump? Or that…..

A SUMMER OF THEIR DISCONTENT

It was recently brought to my attention that no alcohol is served on municipal golf courses in the state of Massachusetts. This has been chafing the shorts of many practioners of the sport who apparently think that nothing says golf like an ice-cold Bud. This situation may soon be reversed if Taunton Democrat James Fagan has his way. He is sponsor of a bill that would ban the ban because alcohol, as he argues, "has become an important part of the experience that golf courses provide." (I'd like to hear him explain that to the next generation of golfers. "Kids, I know that integrity and good sportsmanship are important, but don't overlook the experience of the beer cart.")

Now I have to admit that in my 40-plus years playing the game, there have been times that I probably should have downed a pint or two in the middle of the round: like the time I tossed my entire bag into a creek (tip: if you're going to toss your bag into a body of water make sure you first remove your cell phone); or slung my five-wood into Buzzards Bay or threw a brand new Titleist into the woods because it failed to successfully consummate a two-foot putt.

While a cold beer is certainly less costly than a new cell phone, there is something about drinking while participating in a sporting event that is…well not sporting. At least not in golf. I realize that Babe Ruth was reported to like a snort of two between innings and Bobby Layne liked to have an occasional pint at half-time, but successful golfers have been strict teetotalers while practicing their art. Did Bobby Jones whine that there was no beer cart at Augusta? Did Arnold Palmer toss back a shot after hitching his pants and flicking his cigarette? Does Tiger Woods include martinis in his pre-shot routine? Of course not. Even John Daly restricts his daily libation use to the 19 hours he isn't on the course.

Now, of course there is a reason why Massachusetts is the only state in the country that bans alcohol on public golf courses. (actually, Alaska also has a similar ban, but since there are no known golf courses in the state, it's a rather empty gesture. Sort of like Maine banning urban sprawl.) We've all seen what happens to the Boston sporting crowd after an alcohol fueled evening of celebration. Can you imagine the scene on the course if someone shoots a birdie after several visits to the beer cart? How about a hole-in-one? Over-turned golf carts….burning flag pins…riot police being called out. Over clubbing could take on a whole new meaning.

And, the game itself would have to take on a more equitable set of rules. First, your handicap would have to adjust during the round depending on the number of drinks consumed. You could start a round at 15 let's say, but with sufficient patronage at the beverage cart, work your way up to a 20. Or more. (In a test of this scoring system, a foursome in Franklin shot a net 39 for 18 holes, but was disqualified for neglecting to sign their card. Well, actually they didn't forget, it was just that when they finished they couldn't remember their names.)

Strokes could also be rewarded on the green for aiming at the right cup when a player sees more than one. Aiming at the wrong cup would incur a one-stroke penalty as would belching during an opponent's backswing. Hurling when the ball is in play would be automatic loss of hole. (Dry heaves should be covered under local rules.)

In order to maintain the goal of a four-hour round for 18 holes including re-loads at the beer cart, frequent pit stops and the occasional fore-mentioned hurling time, some adjustments to the courses will have to be made. Certainly the cups should be should be enlarged. Nothing slows up play like the theatrics produced by a missed two foot putt (see earlier "thrown Titleist" reference.), although it should be the only time you're allowed to smash a beer can on your forehead without penalty. Next, the holes should be shortened and all rough removed. Finally, par for the course should be decided by consensus at the conclusion of the round. It is a well known fact that some days are tougher than others.

After reflecting on the savings on balls, five-woods and cell phones that could accrue if I support Rep.Fagan's position, I can only say, this Bud's for me!

A PENNY EARNED

I was very pleased to recently read that our Fiscal Advisory Committee has approved fee increases on permits issued by various town departments. I assume that this is designed to help ease the tax burden on you and me. Bravo and huzzahs to them for making a move in the right direction. Giddy with excitement I quickly scanned the new fee schedules, contemplating how I was going to spend my expected savings.

The first item was a newly created processing fee for a one-day liquor license. According to the town office, this will bring in an anticipated $700 per year based on the average 35 events per year. Now there's $700 we can subtract from our 54 million dollar budget. I expectantly sought out the next windfall. That would be the town office recommendation that we initiate a new fee of $75 for new or transferred liquor licenses. In the past there have been one, sometimes even two transfers a year, so ever the optimist, I'll chalk up another $150 a year in income.

There will also be another new fee of $25 for any Sunday entertainment permits. While I wasn't able to obtain an exact number for the number of Sunday events in an average year, let's say 2009 is going to be rocking, so how about a party every other week; that's 26 times $25 or $650. You see how quickly this can add up?

Now we get to the real heavy lifting. Automotive dealer permits has been raised from $50 to $100. Now looking at Duxbury's own Miracle Mile, I count one automotive dealer in town. So, ching, another 50 bucks in the till and thank you Millbrook Motors. Then there's the $10 increase in fees for all inn holder permits; ching, ching, thank you Winsor House and maybe another ten inn keepers that no one is aware of for another $110.

We've now brought in…lets see, 700 carry the two, add the…..I think we've taken in, well easily over $1,000 and still counting.

One increase that particularly caught my eye was a $5 increase in the fee to change your birth record. Who knew you could change your birth record? I think this should be increased at least $20. I mean who wouldn't want to change their birth record? Personally, I've always thought John Britten Rockefeller had a nice ring to it. Especially nice if it's 35-year-old John Britten Rockefeller.

Not to be out-done, our Inspectional Services department announced a $15 permit for a portable toilet permit and a $50 fee for all of the town tanning salons: ching and thank you Endless Summer. Oh, and the parking lot permit had been raised by $10 to $35 per year. I mean an extra $10 may not sound like much, but if you add up all of the parking lots in town, well…

I'm surprised that the town over-looked fee increases for future NASCAR events, U2 concerts at Train field or UFO landings at the Gurnet.

Anybody keeping score here? How big a dent these increases make in our 54 million dollar budget? Well, while I sincerely applaud the intent, let's just say that unless there's a run on portable toilets in the coming year, I wouldn't sit by your mail box waiting for that tax rebate.

CALL ME IN THE MORNING

PUMP IT DOWN

Big Oil has been the focus of a congressional investigation lately over what some claim to be obscene profits due to rising gas prices. While clearly not as important an issue as whether Roger Clements did or did not inject steroids, Congress has agreed to take time out to study the issue. The leading offender in the "obscene" profit race appears to be Exxon which reported income in the most recent quarter of over 9 billion dollars. That's as in 9 BILLION DOLLARS which translates into 36 BILLION DOLLARS A YEAR! With 84,000 employees on the pay-roll that comes to an average wage of over $500,000 per year. What has Congress particularly concerned is the trend here. If this were to continue, the average employee in another 50 or 60 years could be making as much money as the Clinton's did last year. No congressman itching to get out of office and become a lobbyist, write a memoir, hit the lecture circuit and become a consultant to outlaw nations wants to open that can of worms.

Personally, I could care less how much money Exxon or BP or Shell makes. Not that I don't have a beef with them, however. As a patron of gas stations for more years than I care to relate, I have patiently put up with a continued decline in their treatment of the customer. First, their attendants stopped wearing those snappy uniforms. Next, they stopped cleaning my windshield and offering to check my oil. Then they stopped pumping my gas altogether and turned the job over to me. Not once did I complain; I held my tongue. Like Hyman Roth, I said it's nothing personal, it's business.

But, Big Oil, you've gone too far. I can handle wiping my own windshield, checking my own oil, looking at my tires and pumping my own gas, but I can't take that music- for lack of a better word. Now it's personal. I can't pull up to a gas pump anymore without being assaulted by a barrage of overhead speakers pumping out what someone at Oil headquarters believes passes for music. Did some idiot 20-year-old in-house marketing wonder think my gas-pumping experience would be enhanced if he could flatten my hair with sound waves; that there's a whole generation of consumers dying to moon walk around their cars while pumping four-dollar-a-gallon gas; whose hearing has become so impaired by iPods that he as to out-amplify a Metallica concert on a bad night?

When I finished pumping gas at one station last week my face looked like it had just flown at 4 G's; paint had been stripped off the driver's side and two hubcaps fell off on the way out.

The volume might be a little easier to take if I could recognize the "songs". Mostly it seems to be the same song, only sometimes played backward. As if I could tell. Maybe there was a time that I wasn't bothered by thumping bass lines, echo chambers and unintelligible lyrics played at a volume equivalent to an F-4 afterburner, but not at ten in the morning. And not when sober. But hey, I don't want to have to take a couple of shots in order to survive the experience.

So, here's my deal guys: I'll ask Congress to back off you and go after the really important issues, like did A-Rod really hit on Conseco's wife, if you'll just turn it down. I'll pump up your gas if you'll pump down your music.

ANYBODY SEEN TOM?

LOST ON THE RANGE

I recently had the good fortune to go on my first quail hunt. Not just any quail hunt mind you, but a fully paid, four -day, hunt-fun-food-fest outing with several long time high school friends hosted by our class success.

I was flown by private jet to his ranch located at the southern tip of Texas, otherwise known as the edge of America.

I was barely strapped into my seat (did I mention it was a private jet?) when we descended to our destination. Apparently, private jets fly much faster than commercial jets; it has to do with complex math involving altitude, speed, the jet stream and lots of money.

The "ranch" was an updated version of a 19th century working farm, now expanded to roughly 20,000 acres. I could have said "approximately", or "about ", or "almost", but I didn't. Because it was rough-ly 20,000 acres. South Texas landscape might be considered attractive to some, but outside of the aforementioned quails, a stray armadillo or two and assorted illegal immigrants on their way to Mitt Romney's yard, it can be pretty ugly. Sort of like Florida, but without the ocean.

Upon arrival, we were introduced to the staff.

The ranch's foreman was a cross between Chuck Norris and Rambo. Only tougher. You spend four days with this guy and you find out what's really wrong with America. I believe he thinks we should have quit when we were ahead, which was sometime around 1872. Apparently, it's been downhill ever since.

In addition to Rambo, the ranch is run by a small army of "Mexican- American" professionals. (Funny how I've never been referred to as a "Welsh-American".) It was their job to interrupt the real work of the ranch periodically and take care of the week-end guests. This primarily involved trying to keep us from shooting ourselves, falling off our horse or making the mistake of actually using the hot sauce available at every meal. (I was destined to go one for three.)

Rounding out the staff was a coterie of very attractive, attentive young hostesses in charge of the meals. The result was a bunch of older men trying to look younger by walking around all day with their stomachs sucked in. It probably saves a great deal on food costs.

But, by Friday morning we were ready to fight us some quail. First we were led to the "gun room" where we were issued guns, snake-proof boots and orange hunting jackets. (For some reason our guides were wearing lime hunting jackets. If things got sticky I guess they didn't want to be mistaken for "Welsh-Americans".) Following the out-fitting we were given a safety lecture which basically consisted of a warning not to shoot at something that didn't look like a quail. Particularly if that something is wearing an orange or lime colored jacket.

Finally, I was in the 'bush" looking for quail and trying to forget why I was wearing snake-proof boots. Now here's the thing about quail. One, they're very fast, two they never fly where you're aiming and three they're bullet -proof. I know this for a fact as I shot at least twenty or thirty, but it didn't seem to faze them. Only on the last day did I finally get one to drop.

All in all, it was a wonderful four days and I learned several things. Like how a meadow lark looks an awful lot like a quail… except for that bullet-proof thing. I also learned a horse doesn't really care where you want to go. But, most important, I learned to never, ever pour something on my taco from a bottle featuring flames, a tombstone and the words I Dare You!

COLON ALL SENIORS

The AARP group recently held their national convention at the Boston Convention & Exhibition Center and drew crowds of over 25,000 for the week-long event. Many attendees came see the various celebrities scheduled to sing, sign or talk which included such marquee names as Rod Stewart, Tony Bennett and father and son Douglas. One of the major attractions however, was not messrs. Bennett, Douglas, et. al., but rather a large inflatable colon. A large inflatable colon through which one could walk. Now call me squeamish, but I have no interest in walking through colon…inflatable or otherwise. None, zero, zilch. In fact, I think I speak for most men when I say that I don't even want to think about walking through an inflatable colon. Don't get me wrong. I firmly believe in periodic checkups and have actually gone through "the procedure". But I was asleep and at no time did my doctor suggest that I might consider a walk through a colon.

My aversion to a personal encounter with that particular body part, in fact all body parts, probably stems from my early schooling. I believe it was in the fourth-grade that I was first exposed to human anatomy. It was in the form of a large shiny chart that Mrs. Scudder tacked on the wall one morning. It was an outline of a man, arms at his side with palms facing forward and his head turned to the right. It showed his heart and veins and arteries in bright red together with his lungs, brain, stomach, liver and various other body parts in varying shades of gray and brown and purple. The artwork, however, only depicted a frontal view and the rendering became a little vague somewhere south of his kidneys and north of his knees. If it hadn't been for personal experience, I might have imagined that any food intake by a human being just evaporated somewhere south of the stomach never to be seen again. Which, by the way, is how I would have designed us.

My next encounter with biological functions was in the sixth-grade and came in the form of a large frog. To this day, I have no idea what 28 sixth-graders were supposed to learn by dissecting a formaldehyde-drenched, rancid toad. The best I can figure is that it was more a sociology lesson. At the first sight of the splayed amphibian, the girls would commence squealing and shaking their hands in disgust which, of course, was the equivalent of a mating call to the masculine side of the lab table. It was amazing the number of repulsive things a sixth-grade lothario could do with a dead frog to attract attention.

They probably don't cut up frogs in school any longer, which is too bad. I didn't learn much about anatomy, but I sure learned how to terrify girls. (Unfortunately, it wasn't until the ninth-grade that I realized making girls squeal and wave their hands in disgust wasn't as satisfying as in the sixth. I threw away my frog.)

I don't suppose boys these days need to see a pull down chart to know how everything south of the stomach works and I'm sure they know that pretending to animate a dead frog is not the way to a young girls heart. This certainly should result in a more informed and healthier generation of young adults. (Not to mention a generation of grateful frogs.)

Maybe I'll sign up for that colon tour next year.

WHAT WAS I THINKING

Last night I dreamed I was a guest on the Jay Leno show, which was rather unusual because, unlike what you may think, I rarely dream about being a talk show guest. In fact, I don't recall ever dreaming about talk shows at all unless you count my nightmare that Maury Povich had one. So, last night was a first; a guest on The Tonight Show. I came on and sat down while Jay stared at me for a moment with that smug grin of his before popping the million-dollar question. "Just what the heck were you thinking?" I woke up in a cold sweat.

I have no idea what I was thinking. What possibly possessed me to mail order 350 bulbs? Each and every one of which should be planted "as soon as possible after arrival". It seemed like such a good idea in August when the catalogs began to arrive. Page after page of alluring alliums, comely crocii, dazzling daffodils, tasty tulips. Who could resist the lure…the special "advance sale" prices…the 10 extra "free bulbs"? Obviously, not I.

My first lesson in position marketing came at the age of eight when my father pointed out that Morrison's cafeteria always put the dessert selections first in the food line. They sold a lot of desserts. Obviously, the mail-order-bulb-people have done their homework. They know that if Joe-The-Week-End-Gardener received his catalog in May or June or July, there would be very little interest. He's too busy thinking about his golf game or his boat or where he's going to take the kids for summer vacation. No cream pie sales there. But late August….different story. His new putter was no better than his old one, he's thinking of selling the boat and is happily toasting the end of school vacation. Joe is now in the mood for bulbs.

Actually, I still like the idea of bulbs. I can see each and every one in my minds eye colorfully swaying in the gentle spring air (bringing a false sense of hope that my perennial garden might also flourish). But now that the little cardboard boxes with the air holes have arrived, I'm faced with the actuality of bulbs. They have to be planted "as soon as possible…." (which allows one a little wiggle room if you think about it). And to be planted, a hole must be dug; in general a hole approximately six inches deep.

Now six inches might not seem like much to the bulb guys in Holland. What do they know about New England ground? You think they know about roots, stones, rocks… BOULDERS? You go down six inches in Holland and you're digging in the ocean. How hard can that be?

I, on the other hand, know exactly what I'm going to find on my way to that six- inch depth and it's not going to be water. My quick estimate is that digging six-inch holes as soon as possible for 360 bulbs…can't forget the 10 freebies…should take me every weekend between now and, say Christmas. And that's assuming I encounter no stones larger than a Mini Cooper and my oak tree no longer relies on roots to suck up water.

On the other hand, didn't I read somewhere that bulbs can be stored quite nicely in cool basements for some time? Until, for example, it's time to try out my new putter?

P.T. BARNUM LIVES

I always suspected that I had an artistic flair, but I only recently realized what a child prodigy I was. The Boston Center for the Arts is gushing about a newly installed piece by Martin Creed entitled "Work No. 227: The Lights Going On and Off." That's it. You walk into a gallery room and watch the lights go on and off with a timer at five second intervals. This man is 38! I was turning lights on and off at the age of two. Without a timer! Mozart should have been so gifted.

But, Mr. Creed, unlike your author, has many, many works of art to his credit. To wit: he has also created, and exhibited: "Work No. 127: The Lights Going On and Off", "Work No.312: The Lights Going On and Off", and of course "Work No. 227: The Lights Going On and Off". And let's not forget the groundbreaking "Work No. 132: A Door Opening and Closing and a Light Going On and Off" which required both a timer and an automatic door opener.

He was perhaps best able to reveal his true virtuosity, however, with "Work No. 270: The Lights Off" exhibited in 2001 at the Australian Center for Contemporary Art. Curator Juliana Engberg insightfully went to the heart of his work when she breathlessly announced, "I'm standing in the middle of the room and the lights are off." Did you just snicker? Well, when was the last time you got 20,000 pounds for turning off the lights?

I should acknowledge that Flimster Creed's Work No. 227, won the prestigious Tate Museum's Turner Prize in 2001 against fierce competition. Competition like: "a dusty storeroom, filled with an array of items including plastic cactus… and old tabloid newspapers", the film "Tony Smoking Backwards" and a video of gay cowboys in a swimming pool. The prize, worth 20,000 pounds, was presented by singer Madonna (chosen, I suppose for her knowledge of tabloid newspapers and gay cowboys).

Lest you think that the Creedster's work is limited to turning lights on and off let me enlighten you. (A pun I intend to submit to the Tate Museum entitled: "Work No. 28 A Pun") He is responsible for "Work No. 202 Half the Air in a Given Space". In this seminal work in 1998 the "artist" half filled an empty room with black balloons. Given the success of that piece he created "Work No. 200 Half the Air in a Given Space" by filling half a room with white balloons, soon followed by Works No. 360 and 268, etc. using black balloons, silver balloons and finally pink balloons. When asked by a curator if he saw any changes in this series, he answered, with a straight face "well, pink is different from black." You see, Mr. Creed's true genius is recognizing that most modern art curators are idiots.

My favorite piece of his art is "Work No. 88 A Sheet of A4 Paper Crumpled Into A Ball." I will attempt to describe this piece. It is a sheet of A4 paper crumbled into a ball. You can buy it on the Internet for only 100 pounds (approximately 400 thousand US dollars). Each ball is described as "an original unlimited edition. In other words, you keep sending the pounds and he'll keep crumpling that paper. Each ball is "individually numbered, beautifully boxed, and packaged in shredded paper."

Personally, I find this a real steal because I figure next year the Boston Center for Arts will surely feature: "Work No. 487: Packaged Shredded Paper."

NOTES FROM SEAT 24A

I am writing this at 25,000 feet on the way to Atlanta, Georgia. I am trying to concentrate on my laptop while being kicked by the passenger directly behind me who must be wearing size 15 shoes. It may sound redundant to have to mention the kicker is directly behind me. Who else could it be you may be asking. Well, with my luck on airplanes, I wouldn't be surprised if someone 8 rows behind me figured out some way to kick the back of my seat. Somewhere in the master airline computer there is a notation next to my name that says make sure that this guy sits within the range of a kicker. If no kicker is available make sure he sits next to someone dying of consumption. Or at the least a colicky baby or a nose picker or someone whose elbow belongs in the Guinness Book of Records. I've sat next to them all. I once sat next to a woman who had brought her own apple, which she proceeded to gnaw, with great gusto I should add, down to the core before stuffing it deep into the seat pocket in front of her. I'm sure she figured no one was watching. Well, I was watching and I haven't reached for a magazine in those pockets since. God knows what else someone has stuffed down there. Do you think that the airline looks down there before the next planeload? I don't think so. I can only hope that the last time I read one of those in-flight magazines it was apple juice that was making the pages stick together.

My favorite flight, however, was one to L.A. when seated next to a two-year old who had just learned how to blow milk through his nose and was determined to show his new found skill to anyone within range. I was within range. I was within range for five and a half hours. I wrote a letter to American Airlines suggesting that they cease selling milk on their flights. I never received a reply.

You think that airline executives fly on their commercial planes like you and I? I think not. If they do, they're probably up in the cockpit where the party is. You know hanging out with the guys that all sound like they were raised on some Texas ranch and grew up watching nothing but John Wayne movies. Hearing them on the intercom you're convinced that the guy in the drivers seat is some former broncobuster from Brownsville; probably an ex F15 pilot with a weathered face, gray eyes and hands of rawhide. Then you go to get off the plane and there's a fraternity kid from New Jersey in blue serge uniform with wings asking if you had a nice flight. I swear I once saw a trace of milk under his nose. "Yeah," I tell him, "I had a nice flight. I pretended someone over twenty-one was flying my plane." Then I tell him to wipe his nose.

So, here are three simple rules that I offer airline executives. One, eliminate all seat pockets. Apple cores should be seen not felt. Two, never sell milk to anyone under the age of five. And three, never let a passenger over the age of 50 see your pilot.

HITCHHIKING TO SPRINGFIELD

When I need to fly somewhere, Southwest Airlines is my airline of choice for a number of reasons. First, you don't have to make specific seat reservations; it's first come first served. Other airlines make you pick which seat you want. I hate that. I can never remember which one is better in case of a crash. Should I sit in the very back or the very front…should I have a window seat…or sit over the wings… or maybe next to the bathroom? With Southwest I just take what's left over. That leaves me much more time to worry about the landing gear and the weather pattern and the suspicious looking guy in row 29.

I've also found that Southwest pilots have the best scriptwriters and only became pilots because their gig on "Last Comic Standing" didn't work out. I'm firmly convinced that Eastern Airlines went out of business because their pilots had no sense of timing. I mean if a pilot can't deliver a simple punch line, why should I trust him to find Logan in a fog?

But, if Southwest isn't flying to where I need to go, my next favorite airline is JetBlue. Their pilots aren't quite as funny, but they show better movies. Maybe I should say was my next favorite, because I'm having second thoughts about JetBlue lately. It stems from a recent ad in a local paper that screamed Woo-Hoo! It's the JetBlue Fall sale! Woo-hoo, is a frequent utterance heard on the long running Simpsons TV show cum movie which JetBlue is obviously cross promoting. What really caught my eye, however, was the printed statement that JetBlue as the "official airline of Springfield". Now I don't know much about the Simpson's TV show or movie, but I do know, that Springfield, Vermont was declared the official home of the Simpsons. I have no problem with one company riding piggyback on the publicity of another company…promotional tie-ins I believed it's called…like when you get a Darth Vader doll with your Big Mac. But it seems to me that if you're going to call yourself the "official airline" of a city, shouldn't you at least fly to that city?

Now, I'll admit the ad doesn't specifically say Springfield, Vermont…just Springfield. The official airline of Springfield! Period. I can hear the JetBlue lawyers now. "Doh we didn't say Springfield, VERMONT!" Yeah, well guess what counselors? There are 34 cities in the U.S. named Springfield and, doh..JETBLUE DOESN"T FLY TO ANY OF THEM!! NOT ONE! NOT EVEN CLOSE!

You want to fly from Boston to Springfield, Vermont on JetBlue? The official airline? Here is what the JetBlue reservation clerk told me. I could fly from Logan to New York, and then connect from New York to Burlington, Vermont. She wasn't quite sure how I'd manage the last 122 miles to Springfield, but helpfully inquired if Portland, Maine was closer. The round trip, by the way, is $484.60 not counting the car rental.

So call me cynical, but I'm looking a little more closely now at the JetBlue ads. The featured headline fare this week is, "$79 to Florida." No city…just Florida. Would it be too picky to ask exactly where in Florida? And then there's the fine print. Like…"all fares are subject to change without notice." Like maybe when I'm boarding? "Oh, I'm sorry we've changed the fare to Florida. It's now $424.80. Unless, of course, you want a specific city."

Well, what the heck, it's still cheaper than flying to Springfield.

HERE COME THE JUDGE

Much fun has been made lately of the judge in Washington, D.C. who is suing his local dry cleaner for 54 million dollars over a lost pair of pants; presumably his favorite pair. This is actually less than his original 67 million dollar suit he filed. But, before we judge the Judge, perhaps we should do a little soul-searching. After all, who among us hasn't had a favorite pair of pants, you know, the ones that always seemed to fit regardless of how much weight you gained; or perhaps those lucky socks you always wear for important golf matches; or that dress that makes you feel ten years younger. If you're really honest with yourself, you probably have a least one item of apparel in your closet that always makes you feel like a million bucks. So, is it that unimaginable to think that Judge Roy Pearson had a pair of pants that just happened to make him feel like 54 million bucks?

But, here's my question: why did the Judge drop the price from his original demand of 67 million bucks? I mean, how does a pair of lost pants lose 13 million dollars in value in just one month? Is there a commodity market for lost pants that I don't know about; a bunch of crazed traders in Chicago buying and selling future contracts on lost pants? Why not, they trade almost everything else in the City of Big Shoulders…corn, wheat, soybeans, even hog bellies. So, ask yourself honestly, if you had to take actual delivery of a commodity, would you rather wind up with a pair of lost pants or a hog belly? Yeah, me too, but apparently hog bellies appeal to mid-westerners, since bellies were up last week and pants were down. Perhaps the traders found out that the Judge is acting as his own attorney.

Attorney Judge Pearson: "Don't you think, Judge Pearson, that 54 million dollars for a pair of pants is a little on the high side?"
Client Judge Pearson: "No, Judge Pearson I don't. Remember that's for the pair of pants, so it's only 27 million per pant…a real bargain"
Attorney Judge Pearson (excitedly turns to the jury): "Good point, Judge Pearson!"
Client Judge Pearson: "Thank you, Judge Pearson."
Attorney Judge Pearson: "And tell us, Judge Pearson, exactly why 27 million dollars is such a bargain."
Client Judge Pearson: "Because, Judge Pearson, my broker said that there was a glut of hog bellies on the market and a short squeeze was on for lost pants."
Attorney Judge Pearson (triumphantly): "Aha, a lost pants short squeeze!"

Actually, this is not the first time that the Judge has claimed his cleaner lost a pair of pants. According to the Washington Post, in May of 2005 he argued that the pair of pants they returned to him weren't his. The pants in question at that time were described as "grey, with cuffs and blue and red stripes". According to the Post, his argument was that, "with one exception, I've never owned pants with cuffs." (He couldn't say the same, apparently, about pants with blue and red stripes.) He settled that earlier case, by the way, for $150 and has obviously suffered a serious case of sellers regret ever since.

If you feel this is a complete abuse of our legal system, with no chance of success, I suggest you do what I did. Write a letter of protest to your congressman. Then buy five September contracts for lost pants.

GOOD AND EVIL IN THE GARDEN OF DISCONTENT

This time of year my Southern roots come to the fore as I spend most of my evenings ankle-deep in topsoil, fertilizer, dried manure and plain old dirt. There are several reasons why I spend so much time gardening, but it boils down to one thing; most of what I planted in a previous season never turns out the way it looked in the White Farm catalog. In truth, most of what I plant doesn't turn out at all. But, like the season itself, hope doth spring eternal.

This past Sunday I decided to (again) work up a perennial garden in the front yard…the "Garden of my Discontent." The one I dream about in the dead of winter. The one for which I circle whole pages in Breck's and White Farm glossies. The one where, in twenty years, nothing has lived more than a single season except for…The Phlox. I'm not talking about the cute little phlox that creeps along the ground, but rather the tall, upright, prodigiously reproductive kind. It gives a false sense of accomplishment as if the gardener actually had something to do with its' presence. A sure sign of a greenhorn rather than a green thumb is someone who actually calls attention to it, as in, "that's some great looking phlox, huh?"

Two things you should know if you're thinking of planting phlox. It is the only plant on earth that has no singular form for its' name and the word phlox is derived from the same Greek word as phlegm (which, for good reason, has no plural).

So, with visions of a perennial Garden of Eden dancing in my head, I fell to thinning out the thicket of phlox while purging the winter debris, assorted weeds and past failures. The depressing act of disposing of last year's dead aspirations was balanced by the joys of eradicating the weeds that took up residence.

If there is anything more satisfying than having a plant actually survive my custody, it is uprooting a fully mature weed. I'm talking a healthy, robust, arrogant weed. The kind of weed that says, "I'm here… I'm staying…deal with it!" and then takes advantage of a Daisy at his first opportunity. I descend swiftly and mercilessly upon his kind. Commercial weed killers are for wimps, bleeding hearts and Democrats. I like it down in the trenches…eye to leaf, hand to root, one on one.

However, it has occurred to me that if I'm ever a suspect in a particularly heinous crime, I might not fare too well.

DA: "And exactly what did you overhear Mr. Britten shout?"
Neighbor: "He just kept yelling, 'die, die, die' and then he'd hold his kill over his head and laugh. A loud, evil laugh. You could tell he enjoyed it!"
DA: "Aha, and did you ever see Mr. Britten pull the wings off a fly?"

I doubt if my argument that the victims were only Traxacums or an occasional Agrostemma would sway the jurors. They'd probably be city dwellers. Apartment people suspicious of any Suburbanite digging around in his garden. "Isn't that where they usually hide the body?" They'd probably want to know if I kept a trunk in the attic. Or a freezer in the basement.

Despite the courtroom risk, I continue to dig, plant, transplant, and weed with a vengeance. So, should you drive down my street this summer, I invite you to stop and admire my garden. It's weed-free and features a stunning stand of phlox. They're the blooming plants just behind the dead azalea, the dying Iris and the withered Trillium.

Cave Canem

Our house is a very, very, very nice house only instead of two cats in the window we have two dogs. Two dogs that allow us to use our very, very, very nice house as long as we don't get in their way, sit on their sofa, eat off their table or sleep in their bed; all items that used to belong to the humans of our very, very, very nice house. Now, of course, they belong to Daisy and Cosmo.

Daisy is a neurotic Cocker Spaniel that for some reason insists on walking sideways like a crab and suspects anyone coming within 100 yards of our house of being an Al Qeada operative, it then being her job to immediately alert the entire neighborhood. Actually, she doesn't restrict her barking just to suspected terrorists. She also barks at passing cars, joggers, strollers, bikers, mailmen, squirrels, birds, clouds, and, if it's a really quiet day, the kitchen sink.

Then there is Cosmo, the eighty-pound Lab, who doesn't walk sideways. In fact, he doesn't walk at all-- he runs. And when he's not running, he's jumping or lunging or spinning. I'm not saying he's on steroids, but if he played for the Giants, he would have broken Hank Aaron's home run record years ago. Assuming that he hadn't chewed his bat to the size of a large toothpick by the time he reached the plate. The good news is that he rarely barks. The bad news is he's too busy eating the furniture.

I have repeatedly tried to communicate some basic rules to them over the past several years; basic rules like, we don't eat the furniture in the living room or we don't bite the UPS man more than once a month (this to Daisy) or we don't hump the guests on their first visit (this to Cosmo), but my lectures always fall on deaf ears. Depending on their mood - and whether or not they've been fed - I'm met with either a look of total indifference or the we'd-love-to-obey-you-but-we-don't-understand-what-you're-saying look. They're such liars.

They know perfectly well what I'm saying. My wife thinks that they have a combined vocabulary of only some thirty-five words or phrases, give or take a few. She doesn't realize that our dogs will only acknowledge words and expressions they want to hear. Like "good dog."

Let's say, for example, Cosmo fetched the newspaper, which of course only happens in cartoons, but I can't think of a real example of something good he's actually done. If upon delivering the fictitious paper, I were to say "good dog", he would light up, wag his tail and lick my face. But, if he did something bad, like chewing on the coffee table, I could shake my finger and say "bad dog" and he will light up, wag his tail and lick my face. He's not about to admit he knows what that means. He'd risk having to give up mahogany for breakfast.

So forgive me if I don't share my wife's amazement that Daisy understands "doggy treat" or that Cosmo understands "car ride." Just once I want them to admit they understand, "no" or "don't", or "never", or "stop".

I have this recurring fantasy, that when Cosmo is about to leave this world, I ask him for the truth…."didn't he understand all my lectures on good behavior over the years?" He slowly raises his head, then winks at me and says, "not really". Then he lights up, wags his tail and licks my face.

Read All About It

It will come as no surprise to the well-read that overall newspaper circulation has been steadily dropping for a number of years now. From a peak in 1990, circulation of newspapers across the country has declined an average of 1% per year. (The publication in your hand, I'm happy to report, is anything but average and, in fact, is so robust I expect a raise any day now.)

The problem with the newspaper industry is that they don't understand their audience. Like me. I read newspapers. Most people my age read newspapers. But most twenty-something people don't read newspapers. Most twenty-something people watch TV, they surf the net, text message each other, post messages on their blogs, keep up to date on MySpace, but they don't read newspapers.

So newspapers need to know their target readers and write for them. When I turn to the business section I want U.S. News and World Report, I don't want Wired Magazine. Here, for example, is an article, from the Sunday business section of one of those big city newspapers (whose name begins with G). I was looking for the stock market report, but instead read…"Skyhook is pairing WiFi Positioning System with GPS from SiRF technology." Pretending I remotely understand what this meant, and recognizing the paper thought this more important than IBM's earnings, I read on and discovered that…. "The WiFi Positioning System will locate your devices ….. indoors and between skyscrapers."

Personally I have never had trouble locating my devices indoors or between skyscrapers, but then again, when I was growing up, a man who couldn't locate his devices was not someone you wanted to hang out with. But, apparently times have changed and Skyhook's announcement is very good news to millions of young people who can't keep track of their devices. I can practically hear the text messages humming now. "Hey, Stoney, remember how you're always losing your devices indoors and between skyscrapers? Guess what?" Only, of course, that's not how they would write it. It would be reduced to text-ese, like, "bro no ur getn lost dice ndor and tween skycrprs? ?What?"

So, here's what I think newspapers need to do. They need two editions..one for everyone under 30 and one for those of us over 50. As editor I would lay down strict rules for my reporters on the differences.

For the under 30 issue…..
Rule number 1: stick with short words. I think maybe five letters is about as long a word as I'd allow. Maybe six if it's a very important story. More than that the writer is just showing off.

Rule number 2: no story can run more than two paragraphs. I'm not going to tax the attention span of my reader for the sake of some long-winded reporter working on his Pulitzer entry.

Rule number 3: run more in-depth stories on Britney, Paris and Justin….how do they really feel about mixing stripes with madras, the Zone diet and a latte free life?

And for the over 30 reader….
Rule number 1: stick with short words. Some of our readers are now reading out loud and are easily winded.

Rule number 2: no story can run more than two paragraphs. Don't make the reader remember the beginning of the story, he's still trying to remember where he left his glasses.

Rule number 3: run more in-depth stories on Britney, Paris and Justin…. how do they really feel about rising interest rates, sub-prime lending practices, House bill 259?

You can see the differences between the ages are so obvious, I can only hope newspapers will wake up soon and smell the ink.

BTW did I mention Skyhook will soon be available on iRiverW10?

LIFE AS AN-IN-BETWEENER

If you happen to be one of those oft mentioned aging “baby boomers” that we read about, you may be feeling as if you’re about to be set adrift in a sea of anonymity. And you’re right. For years you were the center of attention, the most talked about, analyzed, sought after demographic in the country. Well, while you were basking in the limelight a younger, even more sought about group, Generation X has grabbed the headlines and has left you behind. But, here you will find a sympathetic ear, because I got here first and I too am feeling very much left out.

Not, mind you, because I’m one of the few people not running for President or that I can’t lay claim to being the father of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby. (In truth, I never even met Ms. Smith, but apparently that is not a prerequisite in her case.) Nor is it because I’ve never watched Survivor Somewhere Weird, American Idol, or have any idea who Ryan Seacrest is and what those inside jokes are all about.

No, it’s much deeper than any of that. Because, like you, I’m no longer a member of the 18 to 49-year-old club. The demographic group that makes advertisers drool, television executives genuflect and truly believes Conan O’Brien is funny. In fact, I’m not even a member of the 25-54 year old group any more. The age group to whom Madison Avenue throws an occasional bone. A Patek Phillip ad here or perhaps an occasional Mayback automotive spread there. (In America, it’s permissible to be over 55 if you have money. Lots of money.)

Now I can live with the fact that the last time a member of the opposite sex looked twice at me was when I fell asleep under the sun lamp to emerge like a “product of Maine” advertisement; but when you’re spurned by the entire community of peddlers of paraphernalia, vendors of vendibles, and sellers of stuff…well, that hurts. Ralph Ellison was not the Invisible Man. I’m the Invisible Man. According to Madison- Avenue-think, I no longer buy clothes, cars, under-arm deodorant, shaving cream, snacks, beer, soft drinks, hard drinks, energy drinks or bottled water (that part’s true.) Nor do I watch football order pizza, listen to music, watch movies, go on sunny vacations or own a dog.

It might not be so bad, if I didn’t care. If I could turn my back on Madison Avenue and just say, “and so’s your old lady.” But I can’t. I know I’m not really lost to them; I’m just an IN-BETWEENER. Too late to start saving for retirement, but too early to retire. But they know I’m coming. They’re laying for me.

So far I’m immune to their siren call. I still have most of my own teeth, still perform reasonably well au natural and am allowed to drive without glasses. I don’t need to get up eight times in the middle of the night nor do I need a Stairmaster to get to the second floor. I don’t have restless leg syndrome, an over-active bladder, acute hearing loss, diabetes or arthritis. But, apparently I will if television commercials are any indication. Yes, Madison Avenue may have thrown me over for a younger lover, but I know it’s only a temporary separation.

So for all of you who may have hit that 65 and over age group already, I actually envy you. It must be nice to be wanted again.

RESOLUTION EVOLUTION

Traditionally the first of the year is a time for folks to declare their “New Year’s Resolutions.” I consciously use the plural because rarely do we make a single resolution such as, “I resolve to be a better person.” Almost always there is at least one coupling resolve like, “and lose ten pounds.” Inevitably the general generic resolve, “I will be a better person” is followed with a resolver-specific declaration like, “and cut down on my chocolate consummation.” In fact, I will bet you the price of this newspaper that at least one of you out there resolved this year that you will make the world a better place AND you will remember to brush twice a day.

Unfortunately I was feeling particularly un-inspired (writer speak for hung-over) this year and decided to review past vows to see if any could be recycled. (Like any proper self-centered writer, I have meticulously maintained a life long diary of my daily musings, which if ever published following my demise, will prove my daughter correct in her oft stated assertion that her father is certifiably insane.)

In 1952 I read that I resolved to kiss Patty McCormick before the year was over. I believe I was six years old at the time. I have little memory of Patty McCormick, but I do believe I missed on that one and it was another eight years before I kissed anyone. Except for my dog, Ranger. I was eventually please to find that kissing girls was much more fun which was kind of like a bonus since it was also much less messy. Usually.

In 1959 I resolved to kill Eddie Higgins. I don’t remember exactly why, but I’m sure it was for a very good reason since I don’t find any other reference in my diary to resolving to kill anyone else. With the exception of my sister, but that doesn’t count since I didn’t resolve to do it…I threatened to do it. Usually on Thursdays, but sometimes just randomly. (I’m please to report my sister is still alive and Eddie Higgins is doing 10 to 15 for mail fraud.)

The seventies turned into a very materialistic period and in 1973 I resolved to be a millionaire by the time I was 30. I missed. By a bunch.

In 1975 I resolved to find from whence came the phrase, “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.” (Did I mention there was also a lot of drug use in the seventies?) I remember thinking at the time that I didn’t even want to know one way to skin a cat, much less another way to do it!

In 1980, I resolved to lower by golf handicap by at least 8 strokes before the season was over. I missed. By a bunch.

In 1990 I decided to try a new tack. I resolved to gain ten pounds and grow gray hair.

In 1991, flushed with success I resolved to abstain from smoking for the entire year. My wife considered this cheating as I hadn’t smoked since 1981, but I argued that it was really the thought behind the resolution that mattered. Besides, I didn’t want to endanger my winning streak.

The next several years were rather mundane and it occurred to me that our resolutions become watered down with age. They lose a little bit of their edge. They become generic. Last year, for example, I actually resolved to be an all around better person; gentler, kinder, with a positive outlook and a healthy life style. And guess what? I missed. By a bunch.

So if anybody out there knows Patty McCormick, give her a kiss for me, OK?

MY CHRISTMAS LIST

It’s that time of year again. That time of year when my wife insists that I make a Christmas list. This has become increasingly difficult over the years, as I have slowly accumulated every thing I need with the possible exception of new underwear from time to time. Unfortunately, I’ve been told that underwear doesn’t really count as a “gift”. It should be, I’m told, something more than a necessity, something I wouldn’t ordinarily go out and buy for myself. Unfortunately, I’ve also been told that it had to be something smaller than a Porsche 911.

I thought my problem was solved this year when reading about new toilets (don’t ask) I stumbled on the phrase, “remote control toilet” from the Toto Plumbing Company. Could it be, I thought? All those cold winter mornings of fantasizing that if I lay still enough somehow the pain would go away. Maybe, just once, I could spend another five minutes in that half sleep before succumbing to the call of nature. In short, I needed to find out how “remote” was “remote”? Not as far as I would have wished as it turned out. On the other hand, the Toto Neorest 600 does come with some features that, while requiring a physical visit to it’s immediate proximity, did sound appealing. At least, as stated by Toto’s public relations manager on Toto’s website. “The Neorest is destined to be the “must have” element for the bath with brains. This revolutionary toilet and Washlet unit streamlines personal hygiene rituals while creating a sense of serenity and luxuriousness in a comforting, relaxing and stress-relieving atmosphere.”

Being all in favor of a bath with brains, I continue on the Toto web site where I find that the Neorest has a “beautiful, modern low silhouette by the elimination of the tank and the integration of the toilet and the Washlet warm-water cleansing unit.” It also has a “heated seat, a hot air dryer, an automatic catalytic air deodorizer.” A hot air dryer? Under the specifications page is a detailed diagram of the Neorest 600 and sure enough there is a” power cord (3 ft.)” attached to the “power supply.” Now, I don’t know much about plumbing or electricity, but I seem to remember that the two don’t mix real well. With severe reservations about using an electrified toilet, I skip on to the part I really was interested in; the remote control unit. They saved the best for last. I quote from their press release. “The Neorest’s lid automatically opens whenever an individual approaches and closes and flushes when you leave. It even knows what has gone on in between.” It what?? IT KNOWS WHAT HAS GONE ON IN BETWEEN? That’s supposed to be stress relieving? Having an electrified toilet that knows what has gone on in between?

And finally we get to the price. A mere $5,200. You know what? For $5,200 that toilet better do a lot more than raise it’s lid every time I get near it. It better come to me when I need it, forget anything that has gone on “in between”, and let me sleep for an extra five minutes every morning. That’s what I would find luxurious in a comforting, relaxing and stress-relieving atmosphere. And even then I’d still rather have new underwear.

WHO'S THE FAIREST OF THEM ALL?

Today, we reach once again into the I-couldn't-make-this-up-if-I-wanted-to file. A scientific team from Emory University's Yerkes National Primate Research Center has been busy the past six months on a major project. They have been studying how they could shorten the name of their center. No, I just made that up. Actually, they have been busy observing how elephants react to mirrors.

Apparently, the Yerkes National Primate, etc., etc. has run out of ways to harass chimps, monkeys, and other primates, so naturally they decided it was time to muddle in the affairs of elephants. (It's probably my imagination, but ever since a loincloth clad Charlton Heston was netted by a pack of black-leathered apes, there has been a dramatic fall-off in folks wanting to muck around with primates.)

The intrepid researchers from the Yerkes National (Soon-To-Be-Former) Primate Center under the direction of team leader, Josh Plotnik, have placed a large mirror in the pen of three elephants in the Bronx zoo and have been studying their reactions. Apparently, the pachydermal trio, Happy, Maxine and Patty by name, recognize themselves and enjoy playing hide and seek with their respective images. After studying their behavior in front of the mirror for the past several weeks, Mr. Plotnik concluded the elephants are asking themselves, "Why is the animal in the mirror doing what I'm doing?"

Oh, come on. Couldn't one of them be asking, "My, God, would you look at those wrinkles?" Or, maybe, "Is that a gray hair I'm seeing?" Or, "Why do I appear closer than I am?"

OK, so maybe I don't know what the elephants are asking, but I know what I'm asking. I'm asking where does one buy a mirror big enough to accommodate three preening elephants? Home Depot? Did Mr. Plotnik just walk into a Home Depot and ask for the mirror department. If not, too bad because it could make a great movie scene. I'd recommend William H. Macy for the role of Plotnik and Joe Pesci as the floor clerk.

•Plotnik/Macy: "Hi, by golly, I'm, um, looking for mirrors?"
•Pesci: "Sure, ain't we all? This for a bathroom?"
•Plotnik/Macy: "Yeah kinda….well, no. No, not really a bathroom."
•Pesci: "A bedroom?"
•Plotnik/Macy: "Jeez, I don't know. Let's just say it's bigger than a bread box."
•Pesci: "Whada you? A wise guy, huh? You wanna pen in your throat, huh?"
•Plotnik/Macy: "Oh, golly, gee no."
•Pesci: "OK. So, how big a mirror you looking for?"
•Plotnik/Macy: "Oh, gee, golly, I don't ah, well, I guess about, you know…" (Plotnik/Macy stands on his tip-toes stretching his arm above his head. He then stretches his arms out wide and looks from one to the other.) "….maybe twelve feet by, oh, I don't know, maybe eight feet?"
•Pesci: "You want a twelve by eight mirror? What'cha gonna do with a blinking twelve by eight mirror?
•Plotnik/Macy: "Oh, golly, it's not for me, gosh no, it's for the elephants…you know, Happy and Patty and…Oh, geez, what are you doing with that pen?"

According to press reports, Mr. Plotnik and his team plan to expand their elephant studies to other zoos across the country. Unless, of course Hollywood decides to release Planet of the Elephants in which case Mr. Plotnik's team has already expressed a future interest in whales.

BY ANY OTHER NAME

Lately, I find myself more and more having to remind myself that I actually graduated from college, have two opposable thumbs and walk up-right. Like when I run up against modern technology. Like cell phones.

Verizon wireless has recently released a brand new cell phone specifically designed to withstand the challenges of out-door life. Challenges like rain and wind and un-chilled Chardonnay. In prehistoric times, when school children were allowed to play tag and plasma was simply a body fluid, the phone would probably be called, “The Out-door Phone” or if the marketing people were really hep, maybe “The Adventurer”. But, obviously that won’t fly in today’s market. Instead, and as always in this column, I did not make this up, the phone is called, ready…. the G’zOne Type-V.

Now, I’m so behind the curve, that if I saw an ad for G’zOne Type-V, I would have assumed that it was promoting the latest rap singer. “Yo people, let’s give it up for G’zOne Type-V!” But, there must be a whole generation of consumers out there that immediately upon seeing the name for the very first time think, “Hey, cool. Finally an out-door phone!” They probably even immediately know how to pronounce it. Not only can I not pronounce “G’zOne”, I can’t even figure out how many syllables it should have. Should it run together like, “Gsone” or am I supposed to drag it out like, “Gee, funny symbol, zee, oh, nee?” I check my thumbs.

Immediately following a press release from Verizon was one from RealNetworks (which I’m guessing is not really a real network) and hardware maker SanDisk. They have released a new audio player called…ready…the Sansa e200R Rhapsody MP3! OK, fine, I can pronounce this, but I want to know when this little letter, capital letter stuff started. Why couldn’t it be the “E200R?” or the “e200r?” Is there another panel study out there that said if you can’t make your product sound like a rapper make sure you mix the size of the letters? Or maybe I don’t know how to pronounce it. Maybe I’m supposed to whisper the “e” then roar the “R” in Best Buy. “Excuse me, I’d like to buy the Sansa e 200 RRRR please.”

It’s no wonder that immigrants can’t speak English. Can you imagine some poor conscientious immigrant who has studied English for two years in anticipation of coming to America? And he goes to Verizon to buy a tel-a-phone? Or to Radio Shack to buy a ray-dee-o?

I blame George Lucas for this semantic nonsense. (Although some high-tech linguistic scholars think Lincoln started things, pointing out Americans were still moving their lips to read and he throws them four score and seven?) Up until Star Wars, your loyal side-kick was Chester or Gabby or Dano, but suddenly we had C-3PO or R2-D2. And we bought into it and the English language in America has been sacrificed at the altar of commerce ever since. (Did I really write that??)

Here’s help. If, like me, you find yourself adrift with today’s techno babble, here are two tips that have worked for me. First, whenever I go to buy anything that even hints of an electronic make-up, I pay the first fourteen-year-old that proves proficient with a rotary telephone and have him interpret for me. Second, I always insert a pair of lifters in my shoes. I find they keep my knuckles from scraping the ground when I walk.

A HAIR RAZING EXPERIENCE

If, like me, you are a movie buff, you probably have built a mental library of memorable scenes over the years. The most vivid for me are those that quite frankly scared the beejeesus out of me. Janet Leigh’s shower scene in Psycho, the dead fisherman in Jaws, Jessica Simpson in The Dukes of Hazzard.

However, the scariest scene I remember was Lawrence Olivier playing dentist to Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man. The sound of the drill as Olivier described in detail how he was going to drill through the enamel into the “pulp” of Dustin’s teeth before actually touching drill to teeth. Is there anything scarier than that? Actually there is. It’s called a “nose and ear trimmer”.

If you’re not familiar with this medieval device, let me explain. It is a small hand held tool containing tiny little razor blades that you insert into your nose or ear in order to trim hair. My doctor doesn’t even like me sticking Q-tips into my ears, yet the inventor of this appliance expects that you are so disgusted with your nose or ear hair that you are actually willing to stuff battery powered whirling razor blades into those sensitive orifices.

I remember seeing ads for nose trimmers in my younger years, usually in the back of men’s magazines like OutDoor Man or Mechanix Made Simple. (It was only advertised to males because in the ‘50’s it was assumed by men that women had genetically done away with hair on certain parts of their body, ears and noses being but two such regions.) I always put nose trimmers in the same product category as springs that fit over your shoes so you could leap tall buildings in a single bound or X-Ray glasses that enabled you to see through girl’s dresses. Ads you don’t see anymore because the shoe springs offered too big a liability problem and, as a whole generation of boys discovered, the glasses didn’t work.

However, I recently found that the Nose and Ear Trimmer (hereafter referred to as NET) is not only alive and well, but has recently gone mainstream. From the back pages of magazine noir Modern Detective to the middle of the white bread pages of the Brookstone catalog comes an up-dated “new” version. It is now advertised as a “Wet/Dry Nose and Ear Trimmer” (Hereafter referred to as WDNET).

According to Brookstone, this new version “has a smooth, powerful motor and “ouch-free” design” apparently implying that the “old” version could produce an ouch or two. (Which obviously didn’t bother the kind of real men who read OutDoor Man.)

Brookstone goes on to claim that the “new” version, “ensures fast, painless (I thought the earlier “ouch-free” claim would have covered that) cutting of stray nose and ear hairs without tugging.” No tugging is good, so I continue to read. “…the cap attaches to the end of the trimmer, adding length and making it easier to handle.” You need to add length? They lost me again. I mean just how far up do I need to go to trim nose hair? Are people really going to notice “stray hairs” that require an extension? And how do I know when to stop?

But, they save the best for last. Not only is the WDNET ouch-free, tug-free and can be extended to your lower Cerebellum if you choose, but.…”it’s fully immersible in water!” Thank goodness. No more lying in the family pool unable to trim my nose hair because the old NET wasn’t fully immersible.

But wait. I don’t have a family pool and I have a very short nose. I’m going to pass on the trimmer and wait for Brookstone to up-date the X-Ray glasses.

PERKY LEGS

The big media news this past week was all about perky Katie Couric who left the “Today Show” on NBC after 15 years to become the first solo female network anchor in history. Unfortunately, I was not invited to the various press conferences, publicity jaunts and fancy luncheons CBS rolled out all summer for some of my better known colleagues. But knowing that old age and treachery will outdo youth and skill every time, I managed to obtain an exclusive (a very favored word around CBS these days) interview with the perky 49 year old. Here is my exclusive interview with the perky, but serious, Katie Couric.

Me (smiling): So, Katie, after 15 years at NBC you left…
Katie (perkily): Ankled.
Me (confused): Excuse me?
Katie (perkily explaining): In the biz we call it ankling, John. I ankled NBC.
Me (sincerely): Thank you, I’ll remember that.
Katie (perkily crossing her legs): I’m sure you will, John.
Me (earnestly): But, why the move? Was it the 15 million?
Katie (perkily rebuking): I didn’t do this for the money, you know. I mean I wouldn’t have done it for, you know, say 10 million dollars.
Me (earnestly): Just why did you do it.
Katie (perkily earnest): Well, John, and this is an exclusive, I just listened to my heart and gut, which served me pretty well in the past. And besides, news shows have what we in the biz call legs.
Me (boring in): Speaking of legs….
Katie (perkily coy): Was I?
Me (nodding toward subject): Tell me about your legs.
Katie (perkily weary): I wish people wouldn’t keep focusing on my legs.
Me (protesting): But, isn’t it true when you hosted the Jay Leno show they cut away the front of his desk so your legs would show.
Katie (perkily re-crossing her legs): Well, that was an exclusive.
Me (changing subject): You seem to go back and forth between news and entertainment in your career.
Katie (perkily laughing): Well, you’ve got to keep one leg in each you know.
Me (moving on) Let’s talk about some of those ventures. You were the voice of news reporter “Katie Current” in the movie “Shark Tale”. Why did you do that particular film?
Katie (perkily confidential) Well, John, I’ve always been fascinated by fish. They have no legs you know.
Me (slyly) Do you like to eat fish?
Katie (perkily thoughtful) I’d prefer Leg of Lamb.
Me (quickly) And your favorite gangster?
Katie (perkily off guard) Legs Diamond.
Me: (rapid fire) Favorite baby animal
Katie (perkily confused) Calf?
Me (closing in for the kill) What rhymes with high?
Katie (perkily catching on) My gut tells me you’re getting silly.
Me (retreating) OK, let’s talk about the ratings. Your first show drew 13.6 million viewers, the biggest audience for CBS news in over eight years.
Katie (perkily humble) Yes, we’re very happy about that.
Me (wondering) But, by Friday, the audience had dropped to 7.4 million viewers. How do you get 6 million viewers back?
Katie (perkily earnest) Well, for one thing, John, we’re sure not showing any more pictures of Tom Cruise and what’s-her-name’s baby.
Me (smelling an exclusive) Anything else?
Katie (perkily more earnest) Well, I’m going to stay behind the desk delivering, you know, serious stuff. My gut tells me it’s what America really wants to hear.
Me (expectantly) Anything else?
Katie (perkily smiling) Well, we will be cutting out the front of my desk.

THE WEAK LINK

Thank goodness for research scientists. If, like me, you find very little humor in what passes for newspaper comics these days, I suggest that you subscribe to Nature magazine for a chuckle or two. Of course that’s stacking the deck, because let’s be honest here. A dissertation on the sex life of garden slugs is a sidesplitting riot compared to a Get Fuzzy strip.

Take the recent report by excited researchers at the University of California. They have been grappling for years with an answer to why we humans are the only known species to contemplate our existence. Indulging ourselves in philosophical musings like: Why am I here? What is my place in the Universe? Why do people keep e-mailing me chain letters? (Note to people: if you haven’t won the lottery, heard from that special someone or experienced inner peace lately, I’m the guy that broke the chain.)

Anyway, these guys at the University think they found the answer to the problem: they’ve discovered a new gene. Now if you’re a regular reader of Nature, you will understand that even scientists, dedicated as they may be, get bored contemplating their own existence. So they periodically decide to discover a new gene. These guys are always finding genes. They don’t have any idea what the genes do, but they love to find new ones. It becomes a cause for another public announcement, a real roof raiser by lab standards. First, they give the new gene a geeky sounding name, like the HAR1 gene, and then they click test tubes of California champagne, give each other wedgies and immediately apply for more grant money.

David Haussler, a Howard Hughes Medical Institute investigator admits that they’re not sure what this new gene does, but observed, “What we have is an extremely suggestive pattern of expression.” I’m not sure why this is more important than a “mildly expressive pattern of suggestion”, but then I don’t have a doctorate and a pocket pal. And I’ll admit a little skepticism of the opinion of anyone working in an Institute funded by a man who thought a box of Kleenex and ten-inch fingernails was the secret to immortality.

Prejudice aside, I have a real problem with the main premise of the report: that humans are the only species that ponders its existence. These people have obviously never owned a dog. If they had, they would realize that this is what dogs do best. They lie around most of the day pondering their existence. I mean what else do they have to ponder? Did we pay too much for Alaska? Seriously, if you have a dog and haven’t figured this out, grab him by the snout tonight and look him square in the eyes. You think he’s wondering what Tom Cruise’s baby looks like? NO. That dog is only thinking one thing: when am I going to get fed? If that’s not existence pondering at it’s purist then I don’t know what is.

In fact, when you get right down to it, man hasn’t really pondered his existence in years. Not since he discovered Access Hollywood and e-mail. Maybe “going to the dogs” will become the next “made in Japan” turn-around. Then again, maybe my dog isn’t pondering his existence, as I’d like to think. But so far he’s shown absolutely no interest in Paris Hilton and has yet to e-mail me a chain letter. Good boy.

OF COURSE I'M LISTENING. KIND OF.

Today's column is about sex.
I'm sorry, did I say sex. That was just a cheap trick to get your attention. What I really meant was sexes. As in men and women and the difference between them. There has been much discussion over the past year about whether there is really any difference between men and women. I can state unequivocally that there is. Not the obvious differences… women not being able to read road maps and men not stopping to ask directions…but the deep significant differences that can divide us.

Due to its significance, the subject will be broken into topics and presented periodically in future columns. For example, we'll be covering the difference in hygiene habits like why women buy bathroom soap that's brown and square with little embedded herbie things when men clearly prefer plain white soap with air bubbles and smooth edges. Or why men can shower in under four minutes, and only use one towel, while women can take four minutes to turn on the shower and need a separate towel for each major body part.

But, today we're going to study the differences between the way that men and women communicate with each other. Or don't.

If a man is sitting in a room alone and a woman enters, he might generally start a conversation off by saying, "hi" or "how are you". If the roles are reversed, however, the woman may greet the man with "…and they're probably better off, don't you think". This is particularly true if the man is just entering the house. Opening the back door can instantly trigger a conversation. Like the light in the fridge. Man, home from work, tired, thirsty, opens door and from the upstairs back bedroom hears, "What do you think about the Anderson's daughter's boyfriend?"

Maybe this is why women are often under the mistaken belief that men don't listen to them. Just the other night, for example, my own wife said that I didn't listen to her. Or maybe she said we were going to have salmon for dinner. Something like that. Now because I didn't instantly respond, she assumed I wasn't listening. Nothing could be further from the truth. Men are always listening. We just like to take full measure of the conversation before responding. In the above scenario, for example, I was fully aware that it was me my wife had spoken to. Both kids are at college and the dogs were outside. I simply took my time, debating whether "of course, I do" or "that sounds delicious, sweetie" might be the more appropriate reply. I chose "uh huh."

Now men understand that "uh huh" is a perfectly good response. Right up there with "right" or "sure" or the thoughtfully delivered "hmmm". But women seem to expect more. If woman A should ever say to woman B that woman B never listened to woman A, woman A could probably expect a profuse note of apology accompanied by a cute little cheese knife and a packet of napkins. And if woman A said to woman B she was thinking of having salmon for dinner, woman B would immediately want to know where she bought it, how she was going to cook it and what she was going to serve with it.

Women need to understand that men are always listening. But, men might say "uh huh" because they don't care where you bought the salmon or how you're going to cook it or what you're serving with it. They'll say "uh huh" because most men don't like salmon. I don't like salmon. I've told my wife I don't like salmon. She doesn't listen.

DOING BUSINESS IN JOISEY

The state of New Jersey topped the newscasts recently when it was announced that the Governor decided to shut it down. Well, not the whole state. "Just", he said," the "nonessential" part". I thought this a very clever public relations ploy on the governor's part, because it implied that there were some "essential" parts to New Jersey. When Gertrude Stein declared that "there is no there there" she was referring to California, but only because she had never been to New Jersey. Personally, I have always pictured the state as one long turnpike. A place one is forced to pass through in order to get to some other place. Some place not New Jersey. Where do you think Bruce Springsteen was talking about when he screamed he was born to run?

But, interest piqued, I took a closer look at the Garden State and it's current affairs of state. I mean, it's not every day that a governor closes a state (although I'm sure several have been sorely tempted over the years. I mean you don't think Bill Weld didn't toy with the idea every deer-hunting season?). New Jersey's latest crisis arose when the governor announced plans to hike the tax rate to 7% to help pay off a 4.6 billion-dollar deficit. The state legislature, knowing where their voter's bread is buttered, balked at the plan. The result was a stalemate in the budget approval process. And no budget, no government. At least no "nonessential" government.

The governor quickly shuttered all casinos and the state Lottery system as being, yes, "nonessential". Understand that casinos in New Jersey are estimated to provide one and a half million dollars PER DAY to the state coffers and the lottery system another two and a half million dollars PER DAY. I don't, by any stretch of the imagination, claim to have the ability to run a state. Even New Jersey. But if I had a 4.6 billion dollar debt and was desperate for increased revenues, and had two businesses throwing off four million bucks a day, I'd seriously reevaluate my definition of nonessential.

Differences of semantic interpretation aside, one has to wonder how New Jersey got in this predicament in the first place. The root cause unfortunately is all too familiar and one that could, and does, happen to many states. New Jersey simply spent more money than they had. So like many states, New Jersey had to borrow some money a while back. Now some states borrow from the public. They issue tax-free municipal bonds. Other states might borrow money they need from commercial institutions. Yet other states might borrow from investment banks.

Unfortunately, New Jersey borrowed from Vinnie.
How, you might ask, is a single individual like Vinnie able to loan out 4.6 billion dollars? The answer is he didn't. He loaned the state $4,500 a few years ago. But in the vernacular of the region, Vinnie don't operate like no regular bank. It seems with Vinnie's floating interest rate combined with something my source colorfully referred to as the "vigorish", the money owed to him now stands at the aforementioned 4.5 billion dollars.

As you might imagine the state has made serious attempts at working with Vinnie for a long-term solution to the debt problem. But Vinnie is in no hurry to reach any agreement. He is currently busy issuing bank credit cards to college students, but it's rumored that he's willing to settle the whole debt in exchange for Jersey City, Secaucus and the entire Jersey Shore. Either that or four front-row tickets to a Barbra Streisand concert.

WHY IS IT MARSHMALLOW?

You can add the name Jarrett T. Barrios, Massachusetts Senator, to the list of active politically correct watchdogs over our health and well-being. The honorable (I have no reason to think otherwise) Sen. Barrios, has proposed an amendment to a bill limiting junk food in school cafeterias, which would specifically ban the serving of Fluffernutter sandwiches. The bill already proposed to replace soda drinks and other "junk" food with fruit juices and other more "healthy" items. Why Sen. Barrios has zeroed in on Fluffernutter is anyone's guess. Personally, I was never a fan on Fluffernutter or any other form of marshmallow. No matter how hard I tried in Cub Scouts, my marshmallow always burned. (I should also confess an aversion to food not spelled the way it sounds. Like carrots. Or spinach. I feel like I'm being tricked into eating something I don't want. On the other hand I'm not wild about okra or brussels sprouts and they couldn't be more phonetically clear. I'm ambivalent about tomatoes and potatoes.)

Of course it may be that Sen. Barrios made perfect toasted marshmallows as a cub scout, but had a traumatic experience with peanut butter. Or Wonder bread. Both considered by Fluffernutter fans to be essential ingredients. Oh, you may see references to Fluffernutter with bananas or graham crackers or crushed walnuts. Perhaps, it's these deviations from the pure product that has given Fluffernutter a black eye in the Senator's view. If so, I can assure him that in my entire scouting experience I never once saw a fellow scout put bananas in his Fluffernutter. Of course, I can't speak for the Campfire Girls.

Curious if the Duxbury school cafeterias were serving what may soon be a banished product I logged on to the school web site and was pleased to discover that not a single one of our four schools was serving Fluffernutter. At least not in June. What they were served, however, I found interesting.

Chandler children, for example, are offered nachos, pizza sticks and chicken nuggets. On the 13th the main meal was mozzarella sticks. (The High School cafeteria serves something called Mozzarella Mania??) I should point out that every meal is accompanied by some form of fruit and milk. I was particularly struck by the offering one day of "grapes on a stick". I never knew they came that way. Also, curiously, all month they were served "milk", but on the 20th they were served "milk (in a carton)!" It obviously left me wondering how the milk was served the other days; straight from the cow?

On the other hand, there is a generous offering of "snack items" available for purchase in the schools. Items included are Cheetos, Doritos, pretzels, Goldfish crackers, and Teddy Grahams. Not to mention something called Cool Daze R/F Cotton Candy Cup, which is either a pink confection or an ad for a rap star.

But with information in hand and always anxious to put Duxbury's best foot forward, I called Sen. Barrios office to let them know that there is not a hint of Fluffernutter in the lunchrooms of Duxbury. I then suggested he might best help our school children with an amendment teaching the next generation how to spell what they eat. Like marshmellow. And karrit. And spinich. He promised he would look into it provided I get him the recipe for "grapes on a stick".

WHAT'S THE SCORE

Is it possible to play a baseball or soccer game without keeping score? Some educators and child psychologists think so. Not only is it possible they argue, but it is essential for the healthy development of the child. Stop giving prizes for winning they say. It should be no better than losing.

I have long suspected that I was born much too soon. Had my parents not been in such a rush, I might actually know how to download neat software, use an iPod, text message MySpace friends, become a gamer, skateboarder, snowboarder, hang out, hook up, BFN, IMO and LOL.

And now the biggest blow of all. I read that if I was my parent’s grand-child instead of some twenty-first century illiterate, I could actually excel at team sports. You want to talk scoreless games? I was THE MAN. In two years of JV basketball, I was 0 for 40. At five feet six inches, my jump shot couldn’t clear Michael J. Fox. I once actually hit the rim with my shot and our center had to kneel to high five me.

As a third string half-back at Winter Park High, I ran for a cumulative net loss of 32 yards in three years. I was once tackled by an opposing team’s female cheerleader.
They want scoreless? Non-winners? I could be all-State

But is that good? I mean what about the playing fields of Eton and all. Isn’t that where the battles are won? Well, actually no as it turns out. When Wellington attended Eton, they didn’t even have playing fields, much less team sports. And to this day, if you go to the Eton alumnus web site you won’t find a single military leader of note since the fields were established. (They did have two gold medal oarsmen in 1988, however, in Sir Matthew Pinsent and Ed Coode, who undoubtedly will be very helpful should the French ever attack England in a flotilla of rowing shells.)

Competitive team sports aren’t the only target of the NSC (no-score crowd). At a recent Video Game Developers conference, Danish game theorist, Jesper Juul championed “open games” where the players “select their own difficulty..if they want something hard, they can go for the hard problem…if they want something easy they can go for the easy problem.”

The web-site Gamespot reports that Mr. Juul then went on to illustrate his point by showing, and I directly quote, “some screen shots of SIM2 where he asked his user-created SIM to eat seven times in a row. The effect ended with a kitchen fire that led his SIM to develop pyrophobia.”

It truly scares me to think that this might have made perfect sense to the assembled game developers.

But, I must admit Jesper and the NSC play an alluring siren song. Without scores or records or winners, I could be making millions as a New England Patriot. I could have graduated Magna Cum Laude, taking courses of my choosing, like Procrastination 200 or Air guitar 101. I could beat Tiger Woods on any given day. I could have married the woman of my dreams.

Wait a minute. I did marry the woman of my dreams. And I learned how to write legible cursive, communicate in complete sentences that contain both a noun and a verb, and to play a pretty decent game of golf. And while I didn’t win often in my youth, I learned to accept failure without excuse. (Although, the cheerleader did have a huge weight advantage on me.)

So, win, lose or draw I think we still have a need to keep score. It’s why we’re such a great country. It’s why we are who we are. It’s why golf pencils come with erasers.

A CAUTIONARY TAIL

Today’s lesson focuses on one immutable fact: dogs are different than you and I. Unless of course you happen to be the kind of person who likes to chew on table legs, lick yourself inappropriately and bark at kitchen walls for no apparent reason. Any of the aforementioned activities automatically exempts you from today’s class, but with a suggestion that you re-read your birth certificate carefully.

For the rest of us, who have never knowingly licked ourselves inappropriately or have been known to bark at walls unless under times of extreme duress like receiving a threatening letter from the IRS or misplacing a favorite cuff link, we can go about our daily routine secure in the knowledge that there are no canines in our ancestry. This should not be taken to mean that we are superior to dogs; just different.

I have arrived at this inescapable truth over the past several months beginning when control of our home was assumed (rhymes with consumed) by an unsought gift from our daughter…a deceptively innocent looking Labrador Retriever. In truth, referring to Cosmo as a Labrador Retriever is to play loosely with the known facts. I’m sure the animal shelter, meant well when it failed to mention the Godzilla DNA that found its way into Cosmo’s gene pool.

I should point out, that this is not our first dog experience. In fact, Cosmo joined our long time Cocker Spaniel, Daisy. The problem, I realized, was that Cocker Spaniels, despite my opening statement, are not much different than you or I. They have convinced themselves through generations of selective breeding, mostly on the North Shore with summers on the Islands, that they, in fact, are more human than canine. A belief now so in-bred in them that most of us intuitively accept this. At least those of us who don’t lick ourselves inappropriately. And in fairness to Daisy, it must be said, aside from an occasional slip such as an inappropriate use of her salad fork or saying “who” when she means “whom”, she has assimilated into our human family quite nicely.

Cosmo, however, immediately reminded me that the Cocker’s blurring of the evolutionary line was only breed specific. He quickly gave me a lesson in dog behavior which I submit to any and all who might also have been lulled in the past by the “Cocker Spaniel syndrome”. For illustrative purposes I will role-play universal “Man” with Cosmo as the definitive “Dog”. Differences follow.

Man believes that LL Bean boots are primarily meant for wearing in inclement weather. Dog believes LL Bean boots are primarily meant for dinner regardless of the weather.

Man believes that a meal should be eaten one bite at a time. Dog believes a meal should be eaten in one bite.

Man believes one should sleep in a bed. Dog believes one should sleep on a couch. One that used to be covered in beautiful chintz. Expensive, beautiful chintz.
Man believes that when one travels by car, one should arrive in the same seat in which one started. Dog believes you’re in his seat.

Man believes that an open car window is used to provide fresh air. Dog believes an open car window is used to kick start his saliva glands.

Man believes the Boston Globe is to be read. Dog believes the Globe is to be shredded until completely unreadable. (OK, there’s a little Man in him after all.)

There are many more differences I had recorded in my journal, but unfortunately Cosmo ate it this morning. Obviously, one Topsider wasn’t filling enough. And if none of this reaches you, it may explain why he just coughed up a computer chip.

BEATING MY DEADLINE

Today’s column is about hope and faith and understanding; values that some of us lose from time to time.

It’s seven AM and I’ve been sitting at my keyboard for two hours. Last evening my editor reminded me that I hadn’t written a column in two weeks and I’m overdue. I meant to write it last night but Chronicle was on Channel Five. I don’t remember what it was about, but I never miss it. You never know when you’ll need a good restaurant in Oxbow, Maine or a good cheese Danish in Peace Dale, Rhode Island. Next of course, comes Antiques Roadshow and, well, who wouldn’t want to know how much a shaving mug collection was worth.

By the time I learned how Belgian royalty got their diamonds to sparkle in candlelight it was nine o’clock. A little late to start I thought, but maybe another glass of wine might jump start my muse. By ten my muse had gone to sleep and I wasn’t feeling too spiffy myself. Hadn’t really been enough wine left in the bottle to save.

So it’s now seven in the morning and I have no idea what to write. I’ve skimmed all the usual suspects for ideas. It’s the fiftieth anniversary of Play-Doh. That could be interesting. Hasbro claims that over 2 billion cans of Play-Doh have been produced so far. Nah. How about the town of Littleton, which has started to paint ads on the sides of their police cruisers. It has definite possibilities. Or the story about the guys putting worm genes in pigs to get healthier bacon? No, I’m tired of doing weird science stories. Here’s one…. a Chinese woman breaks up a pair of scissors and swallows it. I kind of like that. It raises some very profound issues. Like why do we refer to a pair of scissors? Is that like two scissor?

And just as I’m at my wits end and wishing I had saved the last of the wine I hear an interview in the background with the author of the brand new book, The Jesus Papers.
The thesis of the book is that Jesus didn’t die on the cross. In fact, the whole crucifixion thing was all a hoax cooked up by Pontius Pilate and Jesus. And, not only did Jesus not die on the cross, the author claims, but he wasn’t even divine…he admitted he was not the Son of God. His real name was Jake Goldberg and he was a plumber, not a carpenter. I just made that last part up, but what the hey, so did author Michael Baigent. The same Michael Baigent that wrote Holy Blood, Holy Grail which preceded and “influenced” Dan Brown’s The da Vinci Code”. Both books, as every human being, advanced beagles and above average hedgehogs know, theorize that Jesus had a child with Mary Magdalene and his line continues to this day.

The Jesus Papers takes this, obviously a step further. As outlandish or sacrilegious as his thesis might seem to you, Mr. Baigent has offered irrefutable documentation to back up his claim. Dan Brown’s book has sold over forty million copies, has been made into a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks and has made Mr. Brown a multi-millionaire. It just don’t get more irrefutable than that!

So, the next time you think there is no hope, no faith, no understanding, understand two things. One, your muse can appear at any moment and two, there is always somebody out there that has faith he can con you and hope you have $24.99.

But, please...don’t call to thank me. I’m quite busy on my own book: Gandhi: The Violent Years!.

THANKS ANYWAY

In 1937, the late golfing great Sam Snead won the first Bing Crosby tournament held in Rancho Santa Fe. Legend has it that when Snead was presented with the winner’s check of $500, he looked first at the check then at Bing before saying, “If it’s all the same to you Mr. Crosby, I’d rather have cash.”

I was reminded of this tale this week when I read that concert organizer and rock singer, Bob Geldof, was given the “Freedom of the City” award from his hometown of Dublin. According to the wire reports, the main perk awarded the recipient is the right to graze his sheep in the city’s central park. Geldof, again from wire reports, was absolutely thrilled by this honor. I’m told his condo neighbors were equally thrilled. Neighbor Sean O’Malley for example. “I’da boot had it you understand,” O’Malley was quoted as saying, “all we heard from Geldof these past few months is ‘where am I going to keep all the bloody sheep?’ It got a bit tearsome if you knew what I mean.”

While sheep grazing is obviously the most coveted of the award perks, there are actually two other rights accorded the “Freedom” awardees. One: for ever-more he has the right to vote in parliamentary elections and two; he has the right to bring goods into Dublin through the city gates without paying custom duties. Presumably, this would apply to any sheep he may have been keeping down on the farm. At this point, Bob Geldof was probably thinking that it just doesn’t get better than this.

But, there’s more. According to the “Freedom of the City” web site, both the city and the recipient benefit in other ways from the scheme. (Their word not mine.) I quote. “ Question: How does the scheme benefit the City? Answer: The benefits are in terms of prestige and favourable publicity. Question: How does the recipient benefit? Answer: Again, by the prestige and favourable publicity generated by the award.”

And yet more. While the “monetary costs are modest” there is a “civic reception (around 1500 pounds)” when the winner is presented with “a commemorative scroll (around 450 pounds).”

Right about now I can hear Sam Snead saying, “If you don’t mind Mr. Mayor, I’d rather have the cash.” (Or to keep his hillbilly image intact, Sam might add, “how the heck do ya lift a 450 pound scroll, anyway?”)

Now I think all award ceremonies should take a cue from Sam. Why not offer the winners a choice? Why not recognize that not everyone wants prestige or favourable publicity. The Academy Awards, for example. Maybe not everyone wants a little art deco statute for their mantle. I think it would have been much more interesting if Philip Seymour Hoffman had a choice. What if he could say, “If you don’t mind I’d rather have 5 points of the gross. Like Clooney.” Or Sly Stone on getting his special Grammy award: “Thanks anyway, but I’d rather have my brain back.”

But should Mr. Geldof decide to forgo the cash and keep his prestige and favourable publicity, he will be in good company. Past winners have included JFK, Bill Clinton, Mother Teresa, Nelson Mandela, Edge and Bono. I’m sure it’s a great comfort to all of them to know that if their prestige and favourable publicity ever runs dry, they’ll always have a place for their sheep. But I know what I’d say to the Dublin fathers if ever offered a 450 pound scroll and grazing rights for my sheep. “Thanks anyway, but if you don’t mind I’d rather have a Guinness.”

WHAT IT WAS WAS FOOTBALL

The biggest television event of the year took place this past Sunday as a global audience estimated in the billions stayed glued to their screens and waited with baited breath for the final outcome of the evening. What, the world wanted to know, would be the funniest commercial of this year's Super Bowl? Unfortunately, there was no clear-cut winner this year. One of the reasons may have been that the football game itself was more distracting than usual as the outcome was actually in doubt for much of the game. While it was entertaining to see how many times professionals representing the supposed two best teams in the game (we Patriot fans know better) can give up the ball, it didn't compare to a great commercial.

We were, however, introduced to an entertaining new wrinkle this year by the announcing staff. They frequently interrupted the field action to inform us whenever a player's pants were removed in order to have his "groin taped". Has there always been this much groin taping during a game? Did we really need to know about it? I had this horrible thought at one point that we were going to be subjected to a "groin camera". Maybe next year.

Another distracting factor this year was the halftime appearance, albeit very brief appearance, by none other than the Rolling Stones. Now, I grew up with the Stones. I loved the Stones. I still love the Stones and don't question their claim to be World's Greatest Rock and Roll band. But am I the only person who would rather hear Mick than watch him? Or his navel. Fortunately, his partner in crime, Keith Richards, has no navel to flaunt, as he's obviously not human. A man much funnier than I, once described Keith as looking like an iguana that had learned to walk upright and play guitar. My apologies to the iguanas of the world.

But, back to the main feature of the evening. What did we have this year? My personal favorite was the Fed-Ex cave man. My least favorite was the Godaddy.com spot. It may have been cute, if not completely tasteless, last year but was definitely not worth a second go around. Then there were the ubiquitous Budweiser ads. They were OK, but they've set the bar so high in years past, they're bound to suffer by comparison. The hidden refrigerator spot was funny, but I liked the pony pulling the beer wagon the best. I'm getting sentimental in my old age.

But the mystery commercial of the night was a thirty-second exuberate ode to beer sponsored by the web site; www.herestobeer.com. Hoping for a better experience than GoDaddy.com, I tried it. The site is sponsored by "The Beer Institute" and is a self- congratulatory valentine to themselves on successfully combating underage drinking. They are pleased to report that drinking among the 12 to 17 year age group has steadily declined over the past ten years. According to the Institute, "only 17.7% of teenagers reported they had a drink in the past 30 days, while 82.3% DO NOT drink." (Their caps) This survey included over 67,000 teens "who were INTERVIEWED IN THEIR HOMES". (My caps) Well, of course teens would tell the truth about their drinking habits when interviewed IN THEIR HOMES. But the Institute's survey gets better. They further report that ONLY 45% OF COLLEGE FRESHMEN had a drink in the past 30 days!

Finally, we have a winner. It may have been a hidden gem, but I raise my glass to The Beer Institute for the funniest commercial of the night.

THE CHICKEN AND THE EGG

Today, as promised in the last column, we are going to continue to explore the issues raised in debate between the "intelligent design" advocates, nee creationists, and the evolutionists. The most recent voice we've heard from supporting the former is from one Michael Behe, professor of biochemistry at Lehigh University. Professor Behe is testifying in defense of the Dover, Pa. school system's right to teach intelligent design in high school. He contends that 'ID" is not religion based, but rather completely scientific because it, "relies completely on physical, observable, empirical facts about nature plus logical inference." That last part seems to be an escape clause, but nevertheless he goes on to assert that proof of his thesis is the fact that since science can't explain the interaction of bacterial flagellum in the human body something else must be at work.

Well, if not being able to explain something is proof of a higher power, I'm a bloody expert. So in case the defense team is willing to pay for expert testimony from someone who doesn't understand a whole bunch of stuff, I've got a laundry list that I'd be happy to share in court.

First, counselor, I'd begin, let me say that I completely agree with professor Behe not being able to explain that bacterial flagellum in the stomach thing. Especially on mornings after. But, there's so much other stuff I don't understand, why stop there. For example:

How is it that 100% of American youth can figure out how to work an iPod, but over 50% of them think Ulysses S. Grant fought in the Revolutionary War?
Whose brilliant idea was it, anyway, to build a city six feet below sea level?
How can Hillary Clinton write a 562 page memoir when she once testified she couldn't remember anything?
Why aren't there any female brunettes on television newscasts?
If we can put men on the moon, why can't we manufacture a rear view mirror where objects aren't closer than they appear?
Speaking of the moon, why are we going there again? Did we leave something behind last time?
Who is Jessica Simpson and why is she famous?
When did TV journalists decide that "went missing" was actual grammar?
What message are drivers sending to the rest of us when they hang that little green Christmas tree from their inside mirror? No way you want to get in my car?
To turn on the sound on my television set, why do I have to hit a button on the remote labeled "mute"? Is it so much trouble to add another button?
How big is a jumbo shrimp?
Is there anybody left in America who hasn't seen the Bow Flex commercials? Haven't we all decided by now whether we're going to buy one or not?
What claustrophobic civil engineer decided that two people in the same car constitutes "High Occupancy"?
Why can't Harvard graduates understand that no one cares?
These are just a few of the things that I don't understand counselor. I could go on for days if you think it would help your client's case for Intelligent Design, but I think you get my point.
Personally, I'm still undecided about the whole beginning thing, so nothing personal, but I need to hear more from both sides. Until then, I'm voting for the chicken.

A Halloween Nightmare

The end of day light savings time and the advent of Halloween trigger certain thoughts: time to pull the boat, oil the golf clubs, put summer indulgences behind me. This latter inevitably triggers the annual Halloween nightmare. The dream is always the same. It starts the morning after the time change.
My house becomes animated. Items over which I had complete control the night before now take on a terrifying life of their own. It starts with my otherwise benign $39 digital Timex watch. "Don't know how to re-set me, do you?", it sneers. It's right, of course. It has four protruding knobs and the only one I can work makes the dial light up. I've never actually needed to light up the dial you understand, but I still do it anyway. Maybe I'm waiting for a secret message to tell me how to re-set it. Something like, "push the next knob and click your heels twice" would be nice.

Next I go to the closet to dress and, IT'S ALIVE. My clothes start on me. I hear the short sleeves and cotton pants. "It snowed yesterday dummy. Don't you think it's time to take us to the attic or did you plan to shovel in shorts this year?" Like my watch, they're right, of course. So, I gather up the summer clothes for the annual closet/attic switch and gird myself for a tongue-lashing. I don't mind the shirts so much. They're usually more forgiving than the pants. Oh, sure I get an occasional, "after 40 years you still can't keep the ball in the fairway?" from a snotty golf shirt or two, and maybe a "remember, when you could button my collar?" from an aged dress shirt, but it's the pants that are the worse. They've been there all summer counting every bowl of clam chowder and basket of fries. They don't hold back. On the way up to the attic the really nasty ones give me a, "Whatcha think, chunky, our seams were made of steel?". While the best I get is a large collective sign of relief from the sansabelt crowd.

But, it's the winter pants, the ones that haven't seen me all summer, that really hurt. It starts with the wool blends. "Where's your brother?" they might ask, "you know, the one that could go up or down the stairs without stopping for breath?" Then it's the corduroy's turn. "Yo, I'm the one's supposed to be called "wide whales" there, Shamu. You sure you put enough butter on that lobster this summer?" The shirts and sweaters are more or less resigned to their fate, particularly the ones that haven't fit for years. Twenty-year- old Bean flannel, "Why does he keep taking us up and down every year?" Formal dress shirt, circa 1982, responds, "It's like comfort food. Fond memories of younger days."

Speaking of food…. in the dream there is usually a summer dish or two still left over in the icebox. Food now banished from the winter fasting season. Their voices haunt me as I try to eat my breakfast (an hour early of course) of whole wheat toast, no butter. "John, please…..." I hear from a left over taco roll. And, "what about our great Sunday mornings together?", plaintively calls a Jimmy Dean sausage. They sense what's coming….a long winter of severe freezer burn until sometime in late March when my wife finally puts them out of their misery.

Luckily this coincides with the same time my corduroys and I are on good terms again and I start thinking, so what's wrong with a little bacon and mayo on that cheeseburger? I mean, according to my Timex, it's almost summer, right?

A STOCKING FOR FIDO

We are rapidly approaching Holiday (formerly known as Christmas) and, of course, that means a frantic rush to shop for family and loved ones. Relax. Today, we'll help you shop for that hardest-to-please member of your family, your pet, courtesy of Foster and Smith's dog and cat catalog.

We start with dog crates of which they are especially proud. They claim their crates are not just tough, they're "GORILLA TOUGH." Now, I think if you believe your dog is gorilla tough, you might want to be shopping for a different pet. For the more docile dog, for example, they offer the "Happy Trails Stroller", a four-wheeler fully equipped with "cup holders" and a storage bin for "essentials". It's got cup holders, for heavens sake, how many more essentials does a dog need?

There are several other indispensable dog aids in the catalog. One such item is the "Pet Step Folding Ramp", a heavy-duty, folding polypropylene ramp for the dog unable to jump into your SUV on the first try. It comes complete with a carrying case for $129.99. I must be missing something, but wouldn't it be easier to just lift the animal into the car? Couldn't I hand load an entire dogsled team while you were still unfolding the ramp? Another aid, which left me scratching my head, was the "Stair Steps", a rug covered step stool that "helps your pets get onto their favorite sofa." Having spent half my waking life trying to keep my dog off the sofa, I really have to question the market for this.

Then there's the "Train Well"- billed as the "no-bark collar". It promises a "warning tingle at first bark and low-level correction at second bark." Well, that seems OK until you read further and discover it comes with "6 corrective levels". Do we really want to know what happens on the sixth bark?

For your cat, the good Doctors offer "Cat Grass"; everything you need to grow grass including the seed, dirt and a small ceramic container that "smiles back at you." Probably smiling because you just spent $6.99 for some dirt and grass seed. My favorite cat item was "Soft Claws Nail Caps". This is "a kit that contains 40 nail caps, six applicator tips, two tubes of adhesive and compete instructions." Hopefully those instructions explain how to self medicate yourself when the cat gets done with you.

Finally, they have the always-popular gourmet gift selections. Among the tasties are the "Pig Ear Strips", the "Premium Pig Ears" (natural or smoked) the "Low Fat Pig Ears" (no curls or hard ends) and the "Pig Snooters". Then we have the Lambs Ears, the Large Cow Ears ("more than just hide, they contain cartilage and connective tissue") or conversely "Muscle Chews", guaranteed to have no hide. If your dog prefers his snacks come only from free-range cows, and what Duxbury dog wouldn't, you can choose from "Moo Chins", "Moo Ear Puffs" and "Moo Tugs" ("Moo Tugs" make you glad your dog can't talk.)

Another important product line covers the pesky problem of cat/dog odor. Among the various sprays, pills and liquids, the Doctors explain that all of the pet beds include "odor logic" technology. This advanced technology consists of tiny cups that trap odors. When filled up, the cups "make odor detectable", they go on to explain, "that is your cue to wash the bed cover." Thank god for "odor logic", eh? Your house could have stunk for weeks and you'd have never known.

With these products Dr. Foster promises that it's so easy to handle offensive smells that "you'd never know you have a pet." Here's the problem Doc. After spending $782 on gifts in your catalog. I want to know I've got a pet. Otherwise, I'm going to have a hard time explaining those "Pig Snooters" in my cupboard.

NEXT IN LINE PLEASE

There is a certain law of nature that applies to a select number of people of which I am one. The law goes something like this. If I am in a store or a bank or terminal and I have a choice of which line to stand in to buy my groceries, cash my check or buy my ticket, I will invariably stand in the slowest line.

In need of some necessities this week, I wound up at the soul-deadening colossus known as Wal-Mart. (Unfortunately, The Studio doesn't carry tire pressure gauges, Westwind's doesn't handle sunflower seed and Dole and Dowd's doesn't sell Liquid Plumber.) Using advanced GPS, I find my purchases in exactly 4.3 minutes.

Now comes the hard part. Picking a line. I quickly peruse my choices. Nine open registers, nine chances for success. Wrong. Of course, I won't know I'm in the slowest line in Massachusetts until halfway to the register at which point I finally notice the sign in the line next to me. The line that says "Ten Items or Less". Let's see, I have two bottles of Liquid Plumber, three tire gauges, one bag of sunflower seed and a four-pack of size A batteries (a last minute decision.) Seven items. I could be in that other line….the faster line….. The line where people are flying past the cashier like their carts had EZ passes….. EXCEPT…..

Except if I switch lines now another law comes into play; the one that says that if I'm traveling on route 3, and my lane is going nowhere, but the lane to my left is setting NASCAR records, the moment I switch, that lane will immediately be shut down. For no reason, of course, except I'm now in it.

So I'm resigned to my line. The line which is surrounded by endless rows of candy bars, Tic-Tacs, butane lighters, assorted tchotchkes and gee gaws. Sorry Wal-Mart, but I've stood in too many lines to fall for "impulse" items, so I concentrate on the person at the register instead. Big mistake. It's a woman with, arrrggggg, CLOTHES! You know the problem with clothes? Clothes don't run over the scanner like a bag of Cheese Doodles. Oh, no. First, you've got to take the hanger out of the dress. Then you have to turn and put the hanger in the hanger bin. Then you have to find the tag. Then you have to fold the dress. Then you have to take the next piece of clothing and repeat the whole process. And, of course, this particular shopper has been picked to clothe her entire neighborhood.

At last the final sweater has been un-hangered, re-bined, priced, folded and bagged. Only now does she start to search her purse. It has obviously not occurred to her until this very moment that she might have to pay for her purchases. After pawing through a bag the size of Shaquille O'Neal's gym bag she produces, double arrrgggg, a CHECKBOOK! I start to grind what's left of my other molar. You can't swipe a checkbook. You have to write it out. Slowly. You have to ask the registrar the exact amount. Three times. You have to ask the date. "Just write December, forcrissakes," I want to scream by now. Then she is asked for her driver's license. Back to the bag. Another molar bites the dust.

Finally she's gone and it's my turn and I now have one consoling thought. I never would have qualified for the ten-item-line after all. A re-count reveals I now have three tire gauges, two bottles of Liquid Plumber, a bag of sunflower seed, a 4-pack of batteries, two tubes of TicTacs, a butane lighter, three Milky Way's, a glow-in-the-dark key chain and a copy of National Enquirer.

Do yourself a favor. Unless Liquid Plumber and tire gauges are high on your Christmas list, try The Studio, Westwind's, Artica or any of our wonderful, line-free local merchants this week! You'll thank me later.