Funny "Whose Line" Out-Takes

I used to enjoy watching "Whose Line Is It Anyway." Is it still on? I don't think so.

Anyway ... if you have ten minutes to kill and are also a fan, here's a video of some pretty hilarious out-takes which couldn't be aired. The reasons are obvious. Fair warning ... the language is not for kids' ears.

Closet NPR Junkie

I'm one of the only sixteen Republicans in Massachusetts. Of those sixteen, I'm one of only two who admit to being an NPR listener. Let's face it, and I don't care how much NPR attempts to argue otherwise, NPR is only slightly less biased than Air America. I digress.

Political views aside, there are three great programs on NPR. One is Science Friday, which I enjoy in snippets if I happen to remember to tune in. Another is Car Talk (which as my family will tell you that I listen while wearing earphones every Saturday). The third is This American Life. I don't set aside time to listen to TAL, but download it as a podcast. It's perfect iPod fodder when mowing the lawn.

If you've got 20 minutes to spare, you might enjoy listening to this week's episode. I couldn't tear myself away. What happens if you're the president of the society of cryogenics during this pseudoscience's infancy? Too many bodies to preserve? Almost no money and sketchy technology? Then you do the best you can, and keep your moral ground.

Or, with the hindsight of time and the scrutiny of investigative reporting, lie your way out of utter shame. The people are already dead, so who cares about the lies you told the families?

You’re as Cold as Ice.

In the late 1960s, a California TV repairman named Bob Nelson joined a group of enthusiasts who believed they could cheat death with a new technology called cryonics. But freezing dead people so scientists can reanimate them in the future is a lot harder than it sounds. Harder still was admitting to the family members of people Bob had frozen that he'd screwed up.

Great stuff.

I'm Having Fun, Damn It

I wake up at 5:00 or so every morning. I can't help it. I'm old. Of course, this also means I'm usually falling asleep watching ESPN by 9:30 at night, much to amusement of my kids. Sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night to find SpongeBob on TV. My kids call this phenomenon "ninja-ing the TV" from me.

Back on point. By 8:30 this morning I was restless. Nobody else in the house would be awake for at least an hour or so, and my motorcycle, Val, was calling to me in her mysterious Siren song from beneath her all-weather cover. No amount of wax can save me when she sings so seductively.

45 degrees? Light drizzle? Leftover winter sand likely to be on the corners? Sunday drivers not paying attention to others? Who cares. Val was singing to me, and I was restless.

I waited until 9:00 for the drizzle to taper off a bit, put on a few layers, and off I went. My mission today was to find the source of the bright white light that I can see from my house during the winter. It's always appeared to be a few miles away, high on a hill, and constant.

It turns out the light is atop a water tower, smack dab in the middle of a wooded neighborhood full of immense houses. Great. It took me 45 minutes to find it.

I was trying to remind myself that I has having fun, damn it. The sky was alternating between drizzle and downright rain. I haven't yet bothered to put my riding gloves in the saddle bags this year. That's what you do in early October, not at the beginning of the riding season. I wish now that I never taken them out of the saddle bags after last season.

It was frickin' freezing. I was wearing the brain bucket helmet (it's legal, officer, it has a DOT sticker which I'm quite sure is 100% genuine), not the full-face Shoei. My ears were numb, and I'm pretty certain there was a healthy flow of snot coming out my nose. Not a pretty mental image for you, yeah.

Only once did I pass another bike on the road. Neither of us waved, probably because neither of us could pry our frozen hands off the grips. But we both flashed frozen toothy smiles ... which spoke volumes. Both of us were determined to ride this weekend, and we were having fun, damn it.

I don't think he really believed me either.

Your Nightmares -- Photographic Evidence They're Real

Joshua Hoffine produces photography that will make you think twice before descending the dark stairs to your basement, or letting your bare foot stick out from beneath the covers in bed. His photography will, whether you like it or not, recall your childhood nightmares.

As the father of three it's been my job to be a big ol' tough dad for over 18 years now. I'm supposed to grin benignly and explain to my kids that there is no such thing as the Boogeyman, there is no monster underneath the bed, and there is nothing in your closet aside from dirty socks and Legos.

Apparently Joshua has proven me wrong. Very, very wrong.

Tonight I'll be wearing adult-sized footie pajamas, sleeping with all the lights on, and will never ever again go downstairs in the middle of the night to investigate a creaky noise.

*shudder*

If you can view his work dispassionately, then you'll realize they are truly great pieces of art.


-- Thanks to Mr. Hoffine for providing permission for share a bit of his work with you here. Please do not hotlink the photographs. --

"Literally" Is the New "Extreme" -- Only Worse

There are seven or eight readers of this blog whom I know to be writers -- some professionals and some enthusiastic hobbyists. I apologize in advance if this post turns out to be akin to hearing a snippet of a catchy jingle. It might stick in your brain like a popcorn husk between your teeth. No matter how much you poke and prod at it with your tongue, it's not going anywhere. A more clever writer would be able to offer a clever analogy for "mental floss," but that writer isn't me.

The word "literally" has become the new "extreme." A few years ago everything from advertisements for exercise equipment to sporting events used the word "extreme." Extreme Abs! Extreme motocross! Extreme colon cleanser! Extreme skateboarding!

It became so prevalent that it not only lost it's luster, it became annoying. Finally the overuse of the word transcended into parody. The hilarious mock sporting competition MXC, or "Most Xtreme Challenge," knew that the show would only be named well by using the hip derivative of "Extreme" in the title. Self deprecation is the best form of deprecation.

The word "literally" is rapidly becoming the most overused word in everything from advertisements to serious journalism. But this is worse than the word "extreme," because at least "extreme" was being used correctly. It seems that recently I hear and read the word "literally" used everywhere, but incorrectly. To add insult to injury, the word is stated loudly and with emphasis. This technique backfires. Why would you emphasize that you're an idiot?

"Randi Goldklank literally exploded at police when they attempted to take her into custody!" The woman physically blew up? Wow. Better not let Al-Qaeda know how you managed to do that.

I'm sick to my stomach with the word "literally." But not literally.

UPDATE: I searched for similar observations on the 'Net, and it appears many others have beaten me to reaching this conclusion. For a high brow look at the misuse of the word "literally," I recommend you read Jesse Sheidlower's article for Slate in 2005.

This Is Getting Spooky, Even for Me

I'm one of those people who regularly support anti-crime initiatives. If it's going to keep me and my family safe from the bad guys, it's usually okay by me, even if it toes the proverbial Constitutional line. This seems to be going a bit far.

Ironically, moments ago I had a conversation with my friend Jayne which touched briefly upon her husband's Libertarian-leaning political views.

The crux of the issue is that the "FBI on Wednesday called for new legislation that would allow federal police to monitor the Internet for 'illegal activity.'"

No problem so far. If the FBI is trolling for terrorists or insurgent communication which may be based in America, I'm down with that. But the article raised some disturbing possibilities.

"...it's unclear whether 'illegal activity' would be limited to responding to denial-of-service attacks and botnets, or would also include detecting other illegal activities, such as online gambling, the distribution of 'obscene' images of adults engaged in sexual acts, or selling drugs without a license."

Yikes. Should I be afraid to view hot pictures of the latest celebrity caught in an uncompromising position (*cough*), or if I want to go play at my favorite poker site?

While I believe the ACLU to be, for the most part, a bunch of hippie tree hugging yodels, I hope they send their minions into battle over this issue.

Paradigm Shifting Energy Production

This indeed sounds too good to be true. If the inventor of this machine is correct, then the ramifications are mind blowing. The small generator is said to be able to provide five times more power than it consumes. Free electricity for your home. Free, inexhaustible power to propel vehicles. Free, clean energy to power water desalinization plants.

If these claims are true, it's likely that our lives, and those of everybody on Earth will be very different within a few years.


UPDATE:

I've been duped into joining one of my most despised groups on our planet . . . the Internet folks whom post crap which should rightly fall into "this is bogus and you should have done your homework before posting it" status. I'm so ashamed. A fresh link does not mean fresh information. Please forgive me, readers. I'm (usually) the first person to send a "reply all" message to friends and family sending me bogus crap easily discredited via Snopes.

This was just so cool that I lost my head and posted it without first researching the claim.

Songs That Make Me Cry

Warning: Very "unmanly" post. Very. This is about songs which make my cry. Well, at least make my eyes well up. Yeah ... not masculine at all. I know.

I listen to music all the time. All the time. You name the genre (except country), and I listen to it. I love it. The more the better. I've been to dozens upon dozens of concerts -- from Billy Idol to Aerosmith, to the Boston Pops to Gov't Mule, to Blue Man Group to B.B. King, to Dave Weckl and Bobby McFerrin. And those are only a few of the artists I've seen more than twice.

This is a blog post which I've been passively constructing for about two years. The only reason I know it's taken this long is because I looked at the "Get Information" date for the text file in which I had originally scribbled a note. It's taken me this long to have finally collected enough songs on my usual "random" iTunes shuffle which hit me hard to finally post about it.

Music is very important to me. That sounds trite. I'm more than a casual fan (hey, I played the oboe for 15 years), but am not snobby enough to say I know more than a lot of people. I try to challenge myself to listen to something else than the nauseatingly repetitive mass market radio playlist selections. So anyway, getting to the point, I started taking note when a particular song hit me hard.

Whenever I'm alone I listen to music, usually very loudly. The volume itself isn't important (except for certain pieces), but music is best heard at the volume in which it's created. Most people listen at "appropriate volume." In other words, if you're listening to blues then you shouldn't just be able to hear the bass guitar, you should be listening to it loudly enough to feel it in your chest. If you're listening to classical, then the trombones and timpani should physically resonate in your skull as if you were at the concert hall. It's a completely different experience. Try it. You'll see. I admit, I probably take it up a few notches on the volume, but it's powerful. Music is a viable, real, breathing art form. It's as real and powerful as literature. I go on binges of reading and will devour book after book after book, but I just can't re-read my favorites too often. Music is another story -- if you'll pardon the pun. The more intimately involved I become with a piece of music, the more I love it.

Since I've recently surrendered my membership in the Man Club [see post below], I might as well get around to finally posting a very un-manly admission. There are songs that can, given the right circumstances, make my eyes water. I'm not going to say that these songs make me outright cry, because there's nothing in this world that's an absolute. Okay ... I take that back for the bagpipes playing "Amazing Grace." But for every other song here, that's the deal.

[Having re-read this blog post and listened to the clips I've posted for you to hear, I'm feeling really stupid about posting this. But, as you can see, I've posted it anyway. These songs are meant to be heard in their entirety. The clips can't even begin to elicit their intended response from you with only a few seconds of audio. These songs are on my "Feeling the Blues" playlist in iTunes ... when I'm feeling down and want to embrace it, these are the songs to play. Y'know? These clips are equivalent to reading a few paragraphs of a great novel. For a number of reasons, including copyright infringement and bandwidth for both our sakes, I can't upload the complete songs. If you like anything you've heard please let me know and I'll point you in the right direction.]

The descriptions precede the audio clips to follow . . . and to hear the clips do not click on the "play" button in the center of the screen. Click on the "play" button at the bottom of the video viewer.

The 3:00 minute mark of Fugue in G Minor by Bach (BWV 578) of the Stokowski transcriptions (I prefer the London Symphony Orchestra version). Those soaring violins and raging trombones! This is a great example of a classical piece which should be played loudly. The original "non-transcribed" piece for organ is beautiful, but Leopold took it to the next level. Fugue in G Minor is my favorite song of all time, bar none.



Right around the 2:20 mark of Chopin's 24 Preludes, Op. 28: No. 17 in A flat major (the timing taken for granted of the particular pianist's tempo). It's the epitome of the mazurka, written for the plight of my Ukrainian ancestors, all those struggles, the deaths and sadness from centuries of persecution and conquest... all expressed in a piano composition. Absolutely beautiful. Aside from Amazing Grace, this one is the song that makes me tear up instantly.



Thirty seconds into Gift of Thistle from the Braveheart soundtrack. Instant bawling. This one is automatic. If you're not moved by that song, you're just not human.



When Van Morrison's guitar kicks in at about 2:05 on Don't Look Back by Johnny Lee Hooker. So sad. So, so, so sad, and incredibly musically emotive. In case you don't know, this song was Johnny's way of saying goodbye, just one last time, to all of us blues fans. And we knew it. Not a dry eye was to be found in the blues world while listening to this song. You have to hear the whole song to really grasp the concept, but just trust me on this one. It's gorgeous, touching, and will forever be a centerpiece in any blues fan's library. Van Morrison is playing his guitar and expressing his love for Johnny through his music. Johnny's tired and resigned vocals only underscore this farewell salute. It's paradoxically difficult and easy. It's perfect blues. That's important what I just said. It's perfect blues. Perfect. Johnny was a god, he paid his dues (a term blues fans understand damn well), had the right to sing 'em, and I wish him well. Thank you, Johnny. Thank you very much. Godspeed.



Ry Cooder whenever he lays down something slippery and with echo, as epitomized in this untitled instrumental. Can you see him in your mind, playing with a smile but a look of sadness in his eyes? A slide guitar in Ry's hands is a truly beautiful thing. It speaks to my soul. It's emotive. He pours his heart into it. He is a quiet master of the guitar world ... but ask any accomplished artist that's ever slipped the broken neck of a beer bottle onto their finger and cranked up their amp to play the blues --- they're channeling Ry.



As soon as Eric Clapton shuts his eyes and leans into power chords while Billy Preston pounds away like hell on his Hammond organ at the six minute mark of River of Tears, then rips into a soaring solo when he takes back the lead. I don't know why, but this makes me tear up in an instant. Steve Gadd, a god amongst drummers, storming with emphasis, hits like a hurricane in my chest. It makes me tear up every single time, and I dunno why. Look this song up in your musical dictionary under "Power Blues." This is the clip that will play. It makes you clench your fists, play air guitar, and awkwardly whale away on the imaginary drumset at the same time. If you play it loudly enough (highly recommended), it sounds quite different. Seriously. Play it at a comfortable volume, then play it again at the loudest volume your stereo can muster. Two very different songs. Really. Try it. It's magical.



Big leap of faith for all things masculine here, but I'm in it this far . . . oddly, the 1:20ish mark of Little Star by Stina Nordenstam -- I think it's her ultra-feminine voice juxtaposed with the alto sax solo which follows right after this clip, and the extremely powerful bass line. I don't know why it hits me so hard, but it does. Say what you want about Stina and the song itself, but it punches me right in my chest. Nevermind that it's said to be about her son dying. Ugh. That probably is a big factor as to why it hits me like it does.



The sparse guitar of Mike McCready and the pining voice of Eddie toward the end of Yellow Ledbetter by Pearl Jam. I heard this on the radio way back when, and had to immediately hunt for it at a record store. Back in the day it was only available on a European import 3-track CD. Still got it. I think that Yellow Ledbetter is Pearl Jam's greatest recording. Ever. It's just pure musical expression. Absolutely pure. Rumor has it that they recorded this song as a jam, in one take. Unrehearsed, impromptu, and heartfelt. Good lord almighty. Give me a guitar. I want to do that. I want to make music off the cuff with a bunch of my friends that sounds that great. Goddman those are some talented guys. Nobody's who's feeling blue can listen to that song and sit upright.



The first milliseconds of the opening chords of Love You 'Till The End by The Pogues, and pretty much the whole song. This clip is toward the middle, but you get the point. I think it's the harmony between the legendary Debsey Wykes and Spider Stacy, with the gentle piano notes punctuating the vast importance of what's being sung. You either get this or you don't. I do, and hope you do too. It's the punk version of saying "I love you." With harmony. And it's Irish. If you're with me at a bar at 2:00 AM and this comes on the jukebox, I'm leaving. I want to spare you the embarrassment of being with the wussy-weepy guy.



For a reason I simply cannot explain, 3:33 onward of I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For by U2 off the Rattle and Hum album. It's just sheer joy. Sheer, unadulterated joy. New Voices of Freedom channeling God Himself. I'm not a big "God guy," but I'll take the spirit of this song and run with it. I applaud and celebrate people that can embrace happiness for anything or any cause. I swear on the life of my kids, I've never made it through this song without tearing up while singing along. I'm a horrible singer, but I belt this one out at the top of my lungs.



And for the love of all things holy, I cannot get through the last minute and 45 seconds of O Giusto Cielo, il dolce suono, from Act 2 of Lucia di Lammermoor without even pretending not to get teary. When Inva hits that high C#, I just burst into tears. I hope Edgardo reunited with Lucia in the afterlife. Probably not. Bitch. He deserved better.



Let's not even talk about the pipes of Amazing Grace from the Braveheart soundtrack. By the inharmonious one minute mark I'm a slight mess, and by the lone pipe at 2:50 ... I'm a complete weeping wreck. But strangely (I have no idea why), I'm often insanely laughing too. I just don't get it. I think about all the people I miss. I miss my dad, I miss my mom, I miss my uncle Mike, I miss my Nana, I miss my grandpa Don, I miss my Papa, and I fear my own soon passing and the pain it will cause my family. Amazing Grace is the Irish boy's penultimate sorrow song. Maybe it's only because having been born and raised in the Boston area, but while this song is playing there has never been a dry eye to be seen.



Speaking of Amazing Grace, let's take this to the next level and end on a high note. This version doesn't make me cry at all, but it's the last song you'll ever hear in my presence if you happen to attend my funeral. My wife and kids will tell you without a moment's hesitation that I have only one wish upon my death. It's a lock solid guarantee. My boys are to play Amazing Grace by the Dropkick Murphys off the "Gang's All Here" CD. It's to be played at an inappropriately loud volume. A really really inappropriately volume. A shockingly loud volume. A volume that makes your eardrums hurt. A volume that makes women cringe and children clutch onto their parents for comfort. If you can't hear the extremely faint singing by the Dropkicks in the background, it's not loud enough. I want the priest to wince in abject horror when the guitars kick in .... and I want my sons to be laughing with glee in the pew, tears of sheer joy -- not sadness -- in their eyes. The more people that are looking around frantically and wondering what the hell is going on, the better. How can ANYBODY be sad from the 0:47 mark onward? Life is short. Live it like you mean it or get out of the way. What better song with which to go out of life than this?

Whatever music you dig, play it louder than you think you should. Then turn it up a bit. Please, for me, and for you.

The [Bullshit] Wife's Bill of Rights

Why do people publish absolute crap that perpetuate the "husband versus wife" bullshit?

This makes me so pissed off that I'm hesitant to respond. Jill Adler's article is the biggest load of mass media shit I've read in a long, long time. It was written by a struggling "freelance writer" for MSN. I speculate about the reason why this piece of crap pisses me off so much ... is that she's either not married and is whoring herself to write what she thinks is "publishable," or she's a fucking idiot.

Fair disclosure, you can read the full article here, but to save you time and sanity, I've copied just about every piece of shit with my responses below. I'm not bothering to write a stand-alone Bill of Rights for Husbands. I know that I only get a few hundred unique visitors per week, so this is only for you .... Skiver guys and gals.

The Wife's Bill of Rights

Jill Adler:

Preamble:
We, the wives of America, love being married to the husbands of America. We know we have our faults, but with our ever-morphing roles these days, there's a lot of pressure on us to be superhuman. We care for our families, manage the home, keep ourselves attractive, and even bring home our shares of the bacon. We know we sometimes lash out, but we really do want to "live happily ever after" with you. Our mutual acknowledgment of these amendments can go a long way toward achieving that.

Don: Yeah. We, the husbands of America love being married to our wives. Um, that's why we got married. We know we have our faults, and welcome to the real world. There's a lot of pressure on us, the husbands, to be superhuman. Taxes rising? Work harder. Gas prices rising? Work harder. College cost increasing? Work harder. A son or daughter going to fight in Iraq or Afghanistan? Work harder to ensure they can come home and get a hand up, not a hand out. We know our responsibilities.

Amendment I
We have the right to dislike your buddies.
We know it's important for you to have your guy friends, but you should know by now that we're not turned on by your stories of the good old days at college, your sexual exploits, or which relief pitcher the Red Sox should trade. Disappear for a while and be boys—it's OK, go chug beer and high-five—but please don't expect us to be happy when your friends come over and put their feet on our coffee tables or leave their beer cans on the floor.

Don: Yep. You're absolutely within your rights to dislike my buddies. It is also indeed very important for a husband to have guy friends at my house. Why? Because you have absolutely no clue why a batter will bunt with one out and a man on third base. You have absolutey no clue why a football team would shift to a 4-3 defense depending upon the strength of the opposition's offense. Because you have absolutely no clue why it's important for your home team's hockey goon to beat the crap out of the second shift's goal scorer when your team is down by 4-1 with two games left in a playoff series. Goodness gracious. You can laugh and think this is all funny, but LISTEN TO US MEN. It's not funny. This is why we go to work. We want to pay the bills, raise our kids to be productive members of our society, God bless them if they join the military, and have lots and lots of kids for us to enjoy in our old age.

Leave our buddies alone. If the most important thing in your life if the wax layer on your coffee table, go find a really good therapist .... STAT. Wow, do you ever need to take a long and hard look at life's priorities.

So, yeah, it's very important to us that we're concerned about "which relief pitcher the Red Sox should trade." Do you honestly expect us to be concerned about which contestant will be kicked off American Idol? No? Hmmm. Shut up.


Amendment II
We have the right to experience PMS in all its glory.
Either give us our space or accept the consequences. We know it's unfair, but some of us just can't rein it in. You knew that before you married us. We may shout, cry, belittle, act irrationally. It lasts a few days each month, so please deal with it. Or even better: Bring home dinner, clear the dishes, and give us a big hug.

Don: Whenever a woman starts bitching more than normal, any wise man will shut the hell up, smile, say "yes dear, what a hard day you must have had," get a beer from the refrigerator, and watch the baseball game. A footrub is only for bonus points. But beware, she'll want more in the future -- just like a government entitlement program. All kidding aside ... a hug is an easy and quick way to appease your wife. Plus it's nice for you too. Then go watch the baseball game. You're out of trouble and you're watching sports.

Amendment III
We have the right to demand you finish a household job.
We're not your mothers, and we loathe having to act like them. If you wash the dishes, do them all and clean the sink, too. Don't just bag the trash, take it outside to the bin. If you start a load of laundry, put it in the dryer and fold it too. We don't like nagging any more than you like hearing it.

Don: Shut up. You've got to be kidding me. We mow the lawn, shovel the driveway, and did I mention make the money which pays for the water which comes from the faucet for the dishes to be washed? Are you frigging kidding me? If I wash the dishes then please be a good wife and give me a big kiss and squeeze my ass and say "thank you for helping." If I bag the trash, acknowledge that I had the forethought to do something productive and helpful. If I start a load of laundry, celebrate the fact that I'm a husband that knows there's dirty laundry and did something to alleviate the workload.

Amendment IV
We have the right to an honest answer to "What's wrong?"
We admit guilt in this area too, but "Nothing" says nothing. If we ask, it's not because we're trying to make casual conversation. It's because we love you and need an honest answer. If there truly is nothing wrong, then ask why we think otherwise. Yes, this could open a can of worms, but remember when we dated and talked about everything?

Don: You have the right to an honest answer to "what's wrong?" You've got to be fucking kidding. You admit guilt in this area too? When will women learn that men are VERY SIMPLE CREATURES. We want to have kids, raise them, put food on our tables, drink beer, watch sports, and have sex. That's it. Honestly, no joking around here. There are countless comedians who have made their livings about this topic, but I'm breaking the "man code." That's the instruction manual. No bullshit. Seriously. No, really, that's it. We're that simple.

Amendment V
We have the right to keep our secrets.
Not marriage-ending ones, just small secrets we choose to hide from others. If we don't want to speak our age or share our true hair color or reveal the cheesy TV shows we watch in private, it's not your place to reveal them to our friends, your business partners, or your ex-girlfriends/wives. We're not asking you to lie for us, but we would appreciate your discretion.

Don: I couldn't care less about your secrets. Next question.

Amendment VI
We have the right to clean air.
You may think it's funny, masculine, or natural to pass gas anywhere and anytime you please, but when the smell drives us to gag, it's uncool. There is something inherently wrong in the relationship if you must walk over to us and fart, or if you intentionally set a bad example for the kids. We fart too, but we do so discreetly for a reason. You may not like our potpourri and scented candles, but they're infinitely better than toxic and flammable methane.

Don: Burping in front of you or the kids if fine. Farting (audibly) is never acceptable. See? We can agree on something!

Amendment VII
We have the right to keep and bear tons of girly bathroom products.
You have your tools; so do we. These items are expensive and to be used sparingly. It brings no joy to see our $15 bath bar shrunk down to the size of a quarter after two passes on your chest and legs.

Don: I couldn't give a crap about your "girly bathroom products." Is this even an issue? If so, I think women are looking to pick a fight under duress of PMS. See above.

Amendment VIII
We have the right to speak to our girlfriends every day.
About whatever we want, whenever we want. Please don't eavesdrop or criticize. We know you're not that interested in gossip or psycho-analytical interpretations of why some people do what they do, so we turn to our like-minded female friends for instant gratification. Yes, we do talk about you—a lot. It helps us work through issues. This keeps us happy, sane and, usually, off your case.

Don: These arguments are getting extremely weak. I don't care a whiff if you talk with your girlfriend for hours upon hours. I hope you enjoy the time. Seriously, I really do. Just please make sure dinner is ready within a reasonable timeframe and that you don't relay all the details of your conversation. I don't care. The baseball game is on TV. See the above notes about what men really want. THIS IS NOT COMEDY. IT IS THE ABSOLUTE TRUTH. No matter how many times women hear that statement, they will giggle and think "not MY guy." Yes. Your guy.

Amendment IX
We have the right to flirt.
Not the kind that makes you jealous, but the healthy practice of connecting with another person on a non-sexual level. Light banter is fun, quick-witted, and encouraging to our self esteem. It might even remind you of why you feel in love with us. And if it gets us a smoking deal on that new furnace or a free stay for the family at a million-dollar ski chalet, so much the better.

Don: Flirting is great. Keeping within the definition flirting, husbands are okay with it. If the guy grabs your ass, we reserve all rights to revert to our maturity we had at the age of 18.

Amendment X
We have the right to foreplay.
A fine bottle of wine, soft music, deep looks into each other's eyes, compliments, holding hands, cuddling—these are all forms of foreplay, and we insist on them. Please don't reach for our crotch or breasts and expect us to melt into a porn kitten. It didn't work when we met, it most certainly doesn't work now. Sure, we women are strong and independent, and appreciate an inspired quickie when the moment strikes, but we also have an inner soft spot the size of Texas that needs squeezing and cherishing. We appreciate you more when you think about how it feels to us rather than how it feels to you.

Don: Foreplay? Foreplay leading to what? Sex? What's that? Oh! I remember! Here's a reminder to every wife in the world . . . see Amendment IV. And because I've already broken a number of rules which will surely get me kicked out of the Man Club, we really enjoy foreplay and cuddling too. If you're in a relationship in which your husband regularly is expected to "reach for our crotch or breasts and expect us to melt into a porn kitten," you need a new husband.

I beg the forgiveness to whomever I may have offended by this post. I also beg of those I have offended to carefully consider the points put forth. I'd appreciate supportive comments, although I imagine they'll be few and far between.

Last note --- everything I've written is serious. Certified 100% comedy free!

Oh, I lied. One last, last note. Thanks to the person to whom thanks is deserved for putting me onto this issue.

Okay, I lied again. I sent a hyperlink to this blog post to Jill. I'm feeling squeamish about calling her an idiot ... but not that much. She has much to learn about marriage or truthful journalism. Sincerely for her sake, I hope she embraces the former.

Powerful

I usually keep my blog light hearted, but this is too important not to share. Sorry in advance, but today, one year after my mom's death, a dear friend sent me this link. Perhaps sometime soon I'll post my thoughts about death and the dying process, but not now. It's human nature to think about one's own mortality.

A very brave man allowed the death of his wife and his struggles as a single parent to be documented. I won't allow a long rambling dissertation of my impressions ruin it for you, so here you go.

It'll take you about 10 minutes to go through it. Time well spent in my opinion. Once you're done, go hug somebody you love.

Sox Thoughts

I despise sounding like a cliché, but I'm a fan of the Red Sox. Not just your average "I catch a few games a year" fan, but a huge fan.

There's much more to say about the whole subject, and I'm keeping this post especially short because I have things to do, but this is just too important not to say something immediately.

I love the Red Sox, I'm a fairly intelligent adult, and I know that I never have nor never will play professional sports, but ... I love the Red Sox. I just watched the Opening Day ceremonies at Fenway Park when the 2007 World Champions were given their rings. Add to all that tear-jerking fandom -- Pesky, Orr, Ainge, Bruschi, Russell, Izzo, Hodge, and so on. It was almost too much to take.

All four major sports trophies were, for the first time in history, at the same place together: football, basketball, hockey, and baseball. Well, we haven't won a basketball championship in 20 years, and it's been since 1972 since the B's had the Stanley Cup, but it was really cool to see it.

One of the most emotional events of the day, aside from Papi assisting Pesky to raise the 2007 pennant, was Billy Buckner throwing out the ceremonial first pitch. This guy has been the second-biggest recipient of Sox fans' venom aside from Bucky f*ing Dent. I was actually at the game in a luxury box when he made his first return to Fenway as a hitting coach with the White Sox on June 6, 1996. That wasn't the only memorable event of the night. John Valentin hit for the cycle (the last Sox player to do so). The stuffed shirts in the luxury box had no idea why I was jumping around like a madman with joy.

I digress.

Billy threw the ceremonial pitch to Dewey Evans. Dewey Evans! The tens of thousands of fans at Fenway applauded so long and so hard that Billy broke down and cried. The man cried. Years of scorn were finally lifted. All has been forgiven. All is right with the universe.

I love the Sox, and I fucking love the game of baseball overall. Tradition, camaraderie, history, protagonists, antagonists, individual achievements, teams overcoming adversity and against all odds ... there is simply no other game on the face of the planet which compares.

Congratulations to the soon-to-be heralded 2008 World Series champions.

I apologize for the overdose of saccharine. Today I'm wearing my mom's Ortiz shirt, as was her custom on Opening Day. Cheers, Mom. You would have been right there applauding along with me.

South Park Takes on Internet Memes

South Park pits Internet memes against one another in this hilarious two-minute animation. Who will win the fight to the death? Chocolate Rain, Star Wars Kid, Sneezing Panda, Dramatic Gopher, Tron Guy, Afro Ninja, or Laughing Baby? Too bad Angry German Computer Kid didn't show up. My money would have been on him.

If you don't get the above references, ask the person in the cubicle next to you. Or any 14-year-old. Or anybody you know who's pushing 40 that has the maturity of a 14-year-old. *cough*

Giant, Unknown Animals Found off Antarctica

Thanks to National Geographic for posting this fascinating article. Check out the rest of the newly photographed deep sea fauna here.