The Masters...on CBS

A few months ago my faculty advisor asked if I enjoyed living with ambivalent purpose and suffering through the consequences of my wayward life decisions. When I answered with an affirmative informalism, he recommended I pursue graduate school. “The party continues,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “loans toll repayment and you don't have to get a job.” I was convinced and ran off write the graduate entrance exams. Fast-forward through an arduous process of alternately playing the vendor (“Look what I have to offer your school”) and the buyer (“But what are you offering that xyz school isn't, specifically can you offer me some money?”), I now have to make a choice between a handful of universities that, I am promised, will not disappoint the derelict.

To help make an informed decision, I have to actually visit the campuses of the schools in question. To that end, I am sitting on a scantily-cushioned waiting chair at Terminal C11/9 of Detroit Metro airport, an important regional hub in Michigan. My final destination is upstate New York. For this airport's size and puissance in the plane-flying world, it has surprisingly spartan food and entertainment offerings.

Before sitting down to pen this post, I finished a trek through the entire C Terminal looking for some caloric relief. Although planes and hungry people were flying all around, the closest I could get to credible sustenance was a twenty-person line at Fuddruckers, a restaurant name that would make a less mature writer want to giggle. I settled for an overpriced diet coke, a major disappointment given that Minneapolis, from whence I flew, had a full service California Pizza Kitchen.

Fortunately for the Faithful Few, my walk through Terminal C did produce something more noteworthy than a rude giggle and a bottle of colored fizzy water. As I exited one of over a dozen moving walkways – “please watch your step...please watch your step” – I noticed a crowd gathered at the Martini Cove. Ever notice how airport restaurants name themselves after popular food or drink items? It's not The Watering Hole, it's Jose Cuervo's Watering Hole. It's not a Food Den, it's Coney Island Food Den. I think I had lunch in Minneapolis at the Philly Cheese Steak Sandwich Shop, a glorified Subway.

The folks in the crowd were not waiting in line for overpriced and ostentatiously titled airport fare or even being remotely social. They were watching The Masters, a professional golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia, which, in the immortal voice of Jim Nantz, is on CBS. Every year the world's best golfers compete to win a claim to a hideous green jacket by trying to out-golf each other. An explanation of the “sport” of golf is both beyond the scope of this blog and utterly boring, but it suffices to say that the game more slowly than a salted slug on frozen molasses.

The disgraced Tiger Woods was getting ready to putt. He took a couple of practice swings, shook his head as if trying to banish the mental image of mistress number eight and hit the ball. It didn't go in. Woods gave his best “I'm disappointed” mime as he fell to his knees clutching his metal stick in angst. Then he got up and finished the hole with an easy stroke for par. Golf clap. The crowd dissipated quickly as soon as Tiger's infamous image left the screen. The parting mass was clear evidence for the view that the “sport” of golf is very much benefited by Tiger's scandals. My anecdotal experience here in Michigan suggests that Masters viewership will be through the roof. The number of people who tune in this week or watch the final this weekend if Tiger is playing might even rival the Super Bowl. Sure, Bill Simmons probably said it before me, but you heard it here first.

I wonder if golf would be more popular it were broadcast by Scott Hamilton, the ice skating legend. Instead of talking about dimpled girls twirling in toilet-paper dresses, he'd be commenting on dimpled golf balls being hit into holes in the grass. Using his signature grunting, Hamilton would describe the golfer's movements with an encouraging “It miiiiight go iiiiiin....Oh it did!” He could partner with the sarcastic commentator from that NBC reality show where contestants run through obstacle courses (please volunteer his name in the comment section, I'm too lazy to hunt it down) saying things like “that must have hurt” or “he'll feel that in the morning.” Now that's TV that I would watch.

Interested in locating airport goers -- any in the terminal -- who were not entranced by Tiger's performance, I spied a woman reading Cosmopolitan Magazine (Playboy for women). Her devoted attention to the text's glossy pages was not deterred by replays of the unfaithful golfer. An elderly gentleman with a legal pad was busy scribbling something important-looking. He did not look up either. Then Tiger reappeared to challenge another hole. The old man set aside his notes and the woman put down her girl porn. Woods had center stage and I looked around the terminal to see everyone sitting in rapt attention. I could have hijacked a plane right off the tarmac and no one would have noticed until Tiger left the frame.

No one, not even Fred Couples (Fred who?), demands the undivided attention garnered by Tiger Woods. The entertainment provided by his return to golf is enough, even, to make a visit to Detroit Metro interesting. Bravo Tiger!

It's All About The Benjamins, Baby

Dear mom,

Since writing is my thing, I've concocted a get rich scheme that will either take off and bring in the dough or crash and send me into bankruptcy. I'll write a romance novel about two teenagers.

The protagonist will be a teen girl. That's a character most people can relate to, right? Besides, since the book is a romance, I need to reach my female readers. The guy in the book is virtually indestructible, so maybe some guys will want to read it as well.

Our heroine is also an incurable liar. Typical love stories portray characters as perfect. I want my characters to be almost repulsively flawed—it will make my readers feel better about themselves. I have to please the reader.

The girl has an unnatural fascination with death. I'm trying to reach emo readers here. She begs her boyfriend to kill her, but he always refuses. She jumps off cliffs, rides motorcycles, and spends an inordinate amount of time around monsters.

In the second book, my hero will leave for a while without a trace. This is another attempt to hook some more emo readers. The girl will wander aimlessly and spends her days being depressed and finding ways to die. She finds him and they get in huge trouble with the mafia.

My hero is drop-dead gorgeous. Model gorgeous. That's what every girl wants, right? Someone very handsome to sweep her off her feet. I don't want to give my readers unrealistic expectations of men, but seriously, I need to be able to sell this baby, so I'm willing to do whatever it takes.

In fact, his only flaw is that he is a dangerous guy who wants to kill her. Even after they're married he has to suppress his violent desires. Sure, this may be over the top, but if I'm going to make a name for myself, I need to be outrageously original. He's 80 years older than her. He sneaks into her room at night like a stalker, just to watch her sleep. Creepy, but I think my readers will understand what I'm trying to do. Every girl wants a guy who can't stand to be away from her, right?

But why think small? I've already planned my sequels! In the last book, my hero and the heroine finally get hitched. By delaying this momentous turn in the plot until the last book, I can milk out a few more bucks from my fans.

After the wedding, the story doesn't end. My heroine gets pregnant and dies shortly after giving birth to a beautiful baby monster. And they live happily ever after.

I'll give the books hippie-sounding names for added appeal... names like "Moonbeam" or "Starshine". Hopefully the books will sell well enough to require sequels, and if I'm lucky, maybe even a movie deal. I'll be set for life.

Your loving daughter,
Stephenie Meyer

"I'll just work it off tonight"

I just left a particular well known sandwich franchise that serves all manner of bread and meat combinations in "submarine" style sandwiches. I am reticent to name the franchise because to do so might constitute libel and render FCN vulnerable to a lawsuit that could result in the loss of all of its meager resources to the ensuing litigation. I will, however, tell you that the restaurant has over 30,000 locations in some 87 countries and was named the #1 Franchise in 2009 by a really fat fast food connoisseur. I'll also tell you that the company has ads featuring "Jared" who dropped a bunch of weight by "eating fresh." Oh, what the heck, you have it figured out by now. It's Subway. So go ahead and sue us Fred DeLuca. I read about your innovative business strategy in my economics class, but Fortune 400 members don't scare me. Well, most of them don't. These two guys (here and here) look a tad scary. But Fred, go ahead and try to take us down!
So there I was - at Subway - about to order the least healthy thing on the menu. Subway puts unhealthy things on the menu so that we guys can go there for lunch, scarf down a thousand or so quick calories and show our moms the partially redacted receipt so they will be proud of our health-conscious decision. Meanwhile our moms don't understand when we try to make health-conscious decisions at In-N-Out.

But whatever. This post is about neither our moms nor Fred DeLuca. It's about two middle aged women who entered the subway after me looking disheveled - as if they just returned from promenade. There is no polite way of saying this. These women were overweight. They were fat. They looked like contestants in the first week of "Biggest Loser." Okay, maybe the third week. They were corpulent, fleshy, obese, overblown, procine, portly and stout. They suffered from gut overflow, they overstocked the adipose tissue, they were ready for winter, they were running a surplus, they were a nightmare in a 2-piece, they were oleaginous and unctuous in the storage area. And I do mean that with all respect, because there is no nice way of saying it. None at all.

We'll call them Rosalie and Carol, for no particular reason.

Rosalie told Carol that she had eaten a burrito and a donut (or is it a doughnut?) for breakfast and that she wasn't that hungry. Carol confied in Rosalie that she had eaten a box of oreo cookies and a whole box of taquitos for breakfast and that she didn't have a big appetite either. I had eaten a burrito, donut, and a box of taquitos that day, but I didn't say anything.

Both entered the store complaining about the walk across the parking lot, a complaint I found dumbfounding given the gorgeous day outside. In fact, I was planning on eating my sandwich outdoors in order to take advantage of the sunlight and catch some unprotected ultraviolet rays. I know, I live dangerously.

When Rosalie and Carol ordered my distracted interest turned into focused attentiveness. They both commanded footlong sandwiches with everything. And they sat down in the store to eat their caloric feast. Carol told Rosalie that she would "just work it off tonight" a promise that rang hollow.

It rang hollow because she didn't like walking across a parking lot on a gorgeous day. It rang hollow because she couldn't possibly work off all the food she'd eaten that day unless the "work" was done by a licensed plastic surgeon. It rang hollow because health is a lifestyle and habit - it isn't a twenty minute decision before dinner. Dang, that was painful to type.

Anyway, in case you think we're picking on those who lack self control just for the heck of it, know that the only thing separating us from Rosalie and Carol is a few years. We'll get there eventually...and when we do, we'll be ready to confess.

The Constitution of the Divided States of America

We, the people of the Divided States of America, in order to form a much more perfect union, establish tolerant systems of justice, ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense of the “little man," and secure the blessings of Libertarianism for ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the Divided States of America.

Proposal: In preparation for the Presidential Election in 2012, The Advocates of the DSA do hereby propose a geographic relocation of persons according to party affiliation. We suggest that all Democrats be pushed to the west coast, all Republicans be moved to the east coast, and all undecided and independent voters be placed in the Midwestern states. Inasmuch as many liberals already reside in Left Coast states, this plan should not require too much rearranging. In addition to campaigning in their own territories, both parties will be able to access the quagmire of undecided and independent voters in the Midwest by pressing in on both sides.

Disclaimer: This should not be confused with gerrymandering practices. The Advocates of the DSA is a non-partisan, social awareness group.

The Plan: Relocation should begin as soon as possible in order to allow a proper length of time before the 2012 election. This plan would allow 3 presidential candidates to be chosen, one from each territory. For example, the left coast would choose a candidate, the right coast would choose a candidate, and so on. Then a battle royale would begin in the summer of 2012. No doubt, each side will release a barrage of cutting, critical commercials dissing the other candidates. There will be a series of scripted debates that will be held in the Battleground Middle-ground states. Consequently, on election day, the candidate with the most votes wins. Who needs the electoral college anyway? The only people who understand the electoral college are the people who went to school there.

Assuming, arguendo, that a tie occurs, a staring contest will be held to determine the winner.

Some people may attempt to distort their political affiliations in order to benefit their party by infiltrating enemy territory. Although some people will succeed in their efforts, an elephant test will be conducted if concerns are raised about a person's party connections. For example, a case of Obama bumper stickers found hidden in a garage would be enough evidence to send a person to the Left Coast.

Divided we stand, United we fall.

Entitlement Diva

The first day of fall semester had seventy-five students crowded into a room with only fifty chairs. Apparently the class was more popular than available and students lined the walls and even stood next to the white board facing the class, as if physical presence would get them a place on the roster. I'd arrived at the room a tad early and managed to secure a resting place for my tush while more students tried to squeeze in through the door like sardines pining after the tin. I was happy with my seat in that it wasn't so close to the front that the professor could see my notes (he might not understand the humor), but it was not so far back that I had swap spitballs with the drug dealers.

I was happy with my seat, until I discovered the place immediately in front of me. Whereas all the other desks in the classroom had hard soviet-issue metallic seats that seemed, like rabbit, to get tougher over time, this chair was nicely upholstered and actually looked plush. It wasn't elegant, but it wasn't my Kremlin model either. I looked around the room and, when the coast appeared clear, I picked up my books and backpack and jumped to the seat ahead.

No sooner had I settled in and allowed my body's weight to rest against the plush seat did I see the Entitlement Diva. She entered the room as if she owned it, elbowing aside a couple of thinner males who were plastered to the wall like a decorative molding. Her target destination was unmistakable: she was headed straight for my seat.

Entitlement Diva's walk managed to be confident, yet totally unattractive. She moved with the plodding determination of a musk ox and dressed stylishly enough, but it was her eyes that made her eerie. The Diva's eyes looked frightened. They glanced furtively around the room as if the other students were a threat. When we made eye contact, she held my gaze for a second before looking at the floor. Then, gaining resolve, she looked at me with a demand on written on her face.

"You are sitting in my chair."

I looked closely at the desk for the first time. It appeared to be a standard construction, college-issue desk. Nowhere was a name or "reserved" sticker stamped to the top and there were no books or personal belongings of the Diva under the seat. Maybe I hadn't heard her right.

"Excuse me?" I used my John Edwards smile.

"Look behind the seat, genius." I appreciated her compliment and turned to look at the back of my plush chair - or her plush chair, the pronouns get dicey. There, in bold block lettering, read: ADA Priority.

I may be a social nincompoop, but I am familiar with the 1990 Americans with Disabilities Act, which required a number of access changes to public buildings, offices and schools around the country. Apparently this desk was designed for the invalid, those who would not be able to operate in the Soviet desks. I understood and was willing to give up my desk, if indeed the recipient of my charity was disabled.

"What is your disability?" My question sounded innocent, but I was pulling a little bit of a fast one on Entitlement Diva. You see, the ADA failed to what a "disability" is, leaving interpretation to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, other regulatory agencies and the courts. There were a couple of conditions that were specifically banned as "disabilities" such as transvestitism, kleptomania and pyromania but, for the most part, there was no clear guidance. While she didn't look like a transvestite, I thought she might be overpronouncing her handicap. In my experience, most of the occupants of the ADA chairs were either very obese or very pregnant. Diva was neither of these. My trap laid, I waited for the Diva's answer.

"I don't have to tell you." I hadn't read that far. Maybe, I thought, she was referencing the HIPAA privacy provisions. Oh, she was tough. If only I were better informed on health legal issues!

I nodded my assent, an expression of defeat, and wondered what manner of vile disability had struck this woman to make her look so normal but to leave her her so wanting. Fortunately, the chair behind me was still available and I returned to my previous metallic home.

The Diva was silent as she settled into her pre-warmed seat and dug through her backpack for a pen. Apparently, she had forgotten to bring a notebook, because she turned to me and said authoritatively: "I need some paper."

I had paper, but those precious few sheets were supposed to be used to record timeless notes, like this one. Maybe she figured I owed her a sheaf or two as "rent" for my use of her seat. I didn't ponder for too long, but tore a couple of pages from the back and extended them her way.

"The edges are frayed," the Entitlement Diva said pointing to where the spiral binding had torn away the paper. I creased the pages over the factory-serrated separation line and tore off a quarter inch of defaced paper. Maybe, I figured, her disability rendered this simple motor task impossible. I felt sympathy for her condition.

"Good," the Diva said by way of thanks, taking the pages from my hand and turning around to face the professor who had just entered the room. After a roster check, which took over a half hour and left me sprawled distractedly in my seat thinking about girls, the professor asked us to open our books to the first lesson. Diva didn't have her book, a fact she announced to the entire class. The professor ignored her news bulletin, but the Diva's neighbor generously offered to share her copy of the text.

Apparently the two feet of space between Entitlement Diva and her neighbor was too far to crane over. Without warning or a glance for possible obstruction, she lifted her chair several inches off the ground and helicoptered to the left, smashing the ADA priority leg into the nail of my big toe. I inhaled sharply and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yelp. I could feel the nail slide off the top of my toe and felt warm moisture collect on my sock. The pain was intense and hard to ignore.

"I'm sorry," the Diva apologized! "You shouldn't have your leg in my space," she added by way of pedagogy. As much as I appreciated her advice, I was in no mood for a lesson in spheres of sovereignty.

"I'm fine," I lied to the gentleman sitting behind me, a lie I knew I would have to repeat for several days.

During a break in lecture, I set up a study group with an old friend and a platinum blond from the back row. As soon as we had agreed on a meeting time, Diva, who had snuck up behind me during the calendar negotiations, announced that she was available during that time block and that she would be part of our study group. As if to will her away, we ignored her. Diva took our silence as assent and marched away. When I thought she was out of earshot, I set about changing the meeting time.

We were all consulting our electronic day planners, trying to find another day that would work when I felt the Diva behind me. I'd been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Diva place her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows. Her accusatory posture stood in contrast to her scared, rapidly darting eyes. She said nothing.

That's when I apologized. The words started slowly and hesitantly at first, but then became a steady stream of self-depreciation. Soon a torrent of humble begging flowed from my mouth as I did everything but cry for mercy. Then I did start crying. Tears filled by eyes and overflowed down my cheeks, making a beeline for the floor. I buckled, falling to my knees and grasping the Diva by the legs. Would she ever find it in herself to forgive me? Please?

With the entire class' attention secured, Diva looked smug. She nodded to me - the first sign of approval she had ever extended my way - and said "that's better." Then she turned around and walked out the door.

It's going to be a long semester. And I'm already dreading tomorrow's study group.

The sweating of a groom

A good friend of mine just got married. When I received an invitation to the wedding a month or so before the "big day," I looked at the elaborately laced note and charming photograph of the couple a few seconds before discarding the invite. I don't recall the exact nature of my thoughts on the issue, but they were pleasant and I know I wished the two lovers amazing success. I didn't give the issue another think until my mother asked about it at dinner.

"Do you know where your wedding invitation is?" Apparently my mother had misplaced hers and wanted to see mine to check the "registry," whatever that is. She didn't mention the names of the participants or even reference the date of the get together (I always thought "get together" would be a better name for a start of marriage celebration. "I was the best man in his get together" or "The bride's family paid a lot of money for the get together dress but the groom really shelled out for that get together ring."). She just knew that I would know who she was talking about.

"Bill and Patty's wedding?" I asked facetiously, making up two names.

"No, silly, the other one. Bill and Patty are getting married?" My mother was disappointed I'd tossed the invite. I learned that those are things you keep, stow in a box with souvenirs and trinkets, lose in a big cross-state move and cry about. So I dug through the garbage and removed the offending invitation.

No sooner had I removed the document from it's semi-retirement in the trashbin when my phone buzzed. It was the groom. He wanted groomsmen. He wanted me, a designation I later learned was a high honor. I asked him if I would have to wear a tuxedo. He said I would. I hesitated. He told me he was desperate. I understood and agreed.

After I hung up, I consulted a dictionary to find out what in David Stern's name I'd just committed to:

Groomsman: n. A male the approximate age of the groom who stands beside the groom and best man while the groom is performing the wedding vows. The male should do as little as possible to distract from the ceremony, but should look clean, well pressed and generally square. Fidgeting and snide comments should be kept to a minimum. Infractions in this area are punished by the bride and her entourage.

I'd been duped. Now my attendance was mandatory. I thought I'd be able to get away with an FB wall message or maybe an e-card. But to go to the actual event? To watch two people embraced in amorous affection in a scene that would surely remind me of my own love life's failures? To get dressed in something other than jeans and a hoodie? Ugh! Why do friends have to get married?

The rehearsal dinner was an exercise in patience. One time through the vows was not enough! No, we had to march back and forth, reenacting the get together. When I tried to walk more quickly to get the affair completed in a more "efficient" manner, I invariably received a stern look from a clipboard-toting authority figure with fashionably short hair and harsh eye liner. Groomsmen, she argued, are to act like gentlemen. I had a different interpretation, but kept it to myself.

I like my tuxedo shirts untucked. That's the way I wear all of my shirts and I don't see why tuxedos should be any different. When they're tucked in, my tops make me look too much like what I am: a poorly adjusted, out of shape nincompoop. The soft folds of my underbelly, invisible beneath the loose cloth of an untucked shirt, are painfully obvious above a constricting belt. Clipboard had a solution. She handed me a black shield which I placed over the junction of my shirt and pants which effectively blocked the view of my gut. I still don't know what the thing is called, but I owe it my dignity.

The attitude of the groom changed as the get together approached. During the rehearsal, his whole attention was occupied by his bride-to-be. He looked at her, talked with her, held her and generally spent every moment trying to be closer to her. When she left, he acted like a little baby who just lost his comfort blanket. Although he didn't throw a tantrum or react in an unseemly manner, he obviously felt her absence.

On the afternoon of the get together, the bride was kept out of the groom's site which really got to the groom. To the male contingent of the wedding party, congregated as we were in some kind of green room, the joyous occasion we were about to take part in demanded a light mood and spirits were high. The groom did not share our delectation. As the minutes wore on, beads of sweat, some tainted red, formed on his brow and began sliding down his cheeks, like tears from the wrong duct. His breathing was ragged and his hands unstable. He asked for a glass of water and ate something. And then he brushed his teeth for the umpteenth time to be "ready for the kiss."

As if to show off the groom's nerves to the world, Clipboard had him confiscated and placed in the front of the attending masses next to a too-calm pastor. Then we repeated the rehearsal, except this time it was the real thing.

When the bride appeared, all of us groomsmen, the best man and the groom let out a sort of involuntary gasp. You know the sound a carload of people make when they round a vista and see the Grand Canyon for the first time or catch their first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean? It was something like that. She was stunningly beautiful. As she walked toward the arbor, I wondered at the groom's amazing good fortune. He'd graduated from dereliction several years ago, but still had a very masculine streak in him. Sure he was more clean cut and generally better mannered, but at heart he was the sort of wild heathen who was more dedicated to fun than relationships. And he was a college student, which pretty much repels all the decent members of the opposite gender. How had he managed to get her to consent to marriage?

I wondered, as she took slow steps with her father over freshly dropped flower petals, if I might be so lucky. I looked over at the groom and noticed that his shaking had ceased. His nerves were calmed by her presence and, if I didn't know better, I might have guessed him a dead ringer for a handsome guy. I think he was relieved she didn't bolt, a possibility the other groomsmen and I had placed wagers on (I didn't lose too much money). There ceremony was as short as it was permanent and the happy couple marched down the aisle as husband and wife for the first time.

What am I forgetting? Ah, yes, the kiss. Clipboard gave us groomsmen a terrible angle on the get together smooch. All we saw was the groom's back as he leaned in. I felt as if I were sitting behind the fat guy at a baseball game. "Hey, man, I'm trying to see!" The audience appreciated act because it broke out into an applause that, while only latently enthusiastic, was not altogether limp. And then the happy couple marched down the aisle as husband and wife for the first time.

There were other things too. They pushed food into each other's mouths, walked around in a square to music while everyone watched and demanded they kiss, and threw articles of clothing toward single guests. It was all very romantic. If there is enough interest, I might dig through my memory and post some of the more scandalous anecdotes. Otherwise, that's the sweating of a groom.

How to Speak Guy

The immutable third law of human conversation is that males do not speak to other males the same way they speak to the fairer gender. To do so would be a denial of your conversation partner's rights as a man and an assault on his very manhood. To emasculate one's speech is tantamount to physical castration, a painfully disturbing and altogether unnecessary visual, at least from my reading of Freud. In order to help you, the Faithful FCN Few, avoid this pitfall of human interaction, we provide this how-to guide. Follow the guidelines herein and you'll be speaking guy in no time.

Use short greetings. No guy in his right mind would put together a greeting longer than two words. "Hey, how are you?" is so long that it threatens the auditory attentiveness of the average male. The question is so long that the feelings of the respondent can actually change from the moment the first syllable is uttered until the voice inflection changes to signal the question mark. The respondent has no way of knowing whether you mean how he is doing at the beginning of the query, at the end or in the extended period in the middle when you asked your darn question. Guys who respond to long greetings will often hesitate before answering and may renege on their first impulse (i.e. "I'm okay, I guess" or "Cool...sorta")If you really care about how a person is feeling, you'll say something like:

"What's up?"
"What's happening?"
"What's popping?"
"What's cracking?"

Shorten short greetings. Even in their abbreviated form, the above greetings may be considered too long for real guys. To use a math concept (dun dun duh!), the word "what" can be factored out of each of the above greetings to create a more economical and appealing "hello." Shorten these phrases to the following:

"S'up?"
"S'happening?"
"S'popping?"
"S'cracking?"

Create your own greeting. The "H" and "Y" sound in the English alphabet are categorized as greeting noises in the Dictionary of Guy. That's Y as in the Spanish "ll," for all you literalist linguists among the faithful few. You place any vowel sound after an "H" or "Y" and create a greeting. Although real guys will use the first vowel that pops to mind (in this context, Y is not a vowel), most utilize the following:

"Hey"
"Hi"
"Yo"
"Yeah"

Speak from below the diaphragm. My singing instructor advised to sing from the diaphragm to get the most pure tones. Guys need more than purity from their tones: they need toughness. In order to man-up their pipes, guys must marshal every ounce of diaphragm strength for their communication purposes. To the untrained ear, the result is a grunt-like sound. But to guys, it is a statement of manhood, sort of like advertising how much you bench press without having to wear a muscle shirt. To practice below the diaphragm speech, push all the air out of your lungs. All of it. There shouldn't even be a dimebag worth of space left. Yes, I just said dime bag. I was referring to Dimebag Darrell, the Damageplan guitarist who...didn't take up much space. What did you think I meant?

It took me so long to extricate myself from that mess that you probably need some more air so go ahead and breathe again. Unless, of course, you're a real man, in which case you probably haven't taken a breath since yesterday after dinner because you are preparing your body for a time when clean air is scarce and it what little consumable oxygen exists needs to be preserved for the women and children. Your altruism is to be praised. Exhale again. Remove all the excess air and then some. Now speak. Speak from the lowest tones possible and say something manly like:

"I never put down the toilet seat."
"Nancy Pelosi is a wuss."

Did you feel it? Did the testosterone pour over you like a water rebounding off a well executed cannon ball? Tonight you will sleep the deep sleep of a man. And tomorrow you will have hair on your chest.

You can go ahead and breath now.

Don't use pronouns. Pronouns are for females and English majors. But I'm being redundant. As proud carriers of a Y chromosome, we graduated from pronoun usage about the same time as the Native Americans. If you don't know what a pronoun is, you are a real man and can skip to the next section. If you do know what a pronoun is, you have been raised by a woman. I was informed by people I trust that a woman was present at my birth. From that moment, for about the next fifteen odd years, I did everything possible to escape women. For the past five years, that gender has become really interesting and rather than avoid contact, I'm finding that I'm actually seeking females out. This trajectory is typical among real guys. The danger, of course, is learning to use pronouns either very early in life or when communicating with females later on.

If you find yourself about to use a pronoun, just stop. Count to ten, light a fire on the kitchen table, do whatever you need to do to not say the word. It is better to be completely socially embarrassed - a state of being for many guys - than to actually utter a pronoun. There are a handful of nefarious exceptions. I've been trying to use that word all day, nefarious. Anyway, they are those wicked contradictions to the general rule that invariably form an impediment keeping the average Joe from becoming a guy. All too often, males go beyond the list of allowable pronouns and get themselves in trouble. What follows is an exhaustive list of acceptable pronouns:

"Man"
"Bro"
"Pilgrim" because that's what The Duke would say.

That's it! No more. You are a guy, not a dictionary. Leave the elaborate English for those who need to compensate for other deficiencies.

Talk slow. Fast talking is a dead giveaway for emasculinity. That's not "masculinity," as in so manly Matthew McConaughey blinks, nor is it "e-masculinity," which is my Facebook profile. Rather it is "emasculinity," as in "emasculated," as in the Reverend Jesse Jackson got a hold of you and decided to teach you a lesson about fatherhood. Spellcheck has a problem with the word "emasculinity," but it also doesn't like the word "spellcheck," so we'll call it even.

John Wayne was a real man. At least he became a real man at one point in his film career. He was actually born with a girl's first name and a half-decent middle name, but his little brother stole his middle name and he generally had a very estrogen intensive childhood. When the cameras started rolling, Marion Michael (or was it Robert) Wayne, jettisoned his feminine side and became a real man. The Duke also had some advice for any guy looking to man-up. He said "talk low, talk slow and don't talk much." Those are words to talk by.

If Wayne decided to read the above paragraph - an unlikely proposition given the number of activities the deceased movie star might settle for instead like roping a heifer and kissing a pretty woman - it would take him at least a minute. He might not even finish it because his voice would trail off into a gruff chuckle that leaves everyone confused but exposed to an awesome display of pure manliness.

There's more, of course. Guys talk from the side of their mouth, never emote and should think twice before issuing any thoughtful compliment beyond "you look nice." But I am reaching the acceptable word limit for my gender and will have to stay silent for the rest of the day just to stay below the quota. I hope you appreciate my sacrifice.

“You have very soft hands”

While prodding through campus, I saw a friend walking with a young woman I’d never met before, but whose acquaintance I immediately wanted to make. With a “hey, wait up,” I tightened the straps on my backpack and accelerated my pace until I was abreast of the duo.

I introduced myself to the young woman and extended my right hand, thumb up.

The practice of squeezing another’s hand as a sign of agreement or respect is really quite singular. It was probably originally intended as a defensive maneuver, but today is a common ritual exchanged between friend and foe alike.

Our hands made contact. We clasped. And just like that the squeeze was over.

“You have very soft hands,” she said as we returned our respective appendages to their comfort zones.

“Thank you,” I replied for lack of a better retort and to cover for a quick rush of adrenaline.

What did she mean by “soft hands?” Was she making reference to my obvious skill at ball sports, most of which require dexterous fingers, an eponymous attribute of “soft hands?” Did she mean that my hands lacked strength and intend her comments as not-so-subtle hint to encourage amity with the weight room? Was she implying that I moisturized frequently, a euphemism for another behavior entirely? Was she forcing me to come to grips (note the pun?) with my soft hands?

While my mind was gyrating, my mouth remained mute, leaving an awkward void in our dialog.

“Is that a good thing?” I asked, filling the silence. I wanted her to say “no” and give me a pumice stone to use on my palms or some acid for the skin around my nails. I wanted a rebuke for failing to maintain manly calluses or a lecture on the value of manual labor. At least then I would have a benchmark for improvement and a way of escape.

Instead she answered with a “sure,” followed by a shrug and a giggle that left me feeling lonelier than a broke supermodel after a failed facelift.

I was dejected, but quickly drew the conclusion that I would have to stop using soap, find a splintery wooden board to rub against or, maybe, just accept my soft hands.

Ode to my notebook

I am an awful student. In class, I make disgusting noises, fidget, doodle, pick at things that shouldn’t be picked at, wink randomly, make inappropriate comments to my classmates and sweat uncontrollably. My mind wanders so much that I can’t keep on one line of reasoning for more than a few seconds and my cognitive ability makes Jessica Simpson look smart. I get bad grades, can never answer a question in class and am so cantankerous that some of my classmates refuse to study with me.

I have other issues too – I can’t get dates, have a nervous twitch in my left eye and sometimes think I’m Elvis – but let’s focus on my educational problems for now.

My notebook knows more than I do. Before every lecture, I obediently remove my spiral bound sheets from their special place in my backpack and flip through to where the last class let off. When the professor starts speaking my pen starts writing and words go from my ears to my fingers without ever crossing the cognitive part of my brain.

Some evenings I will flip through my notes and wonder how so much content was introduced without my noticing. Graphs, equations, people and dates limp off the page looking like a foreign language. Sometimes I vaguely remember the moment of their introduction, but most of the time I look at these random facts the way I look at six month-old yogurt in the back of the fridge: How did that get there?

My doodles, forgotten over the course of the day despite the hours I spend preparing them, look like artful masterpieces in a second examination. In fact, I think some of today’s “masterpieces” may even be doodles in wooden frames.

I wish my notebook could go to class for me. It would sit quietly in some corner and record things. Instead of relying on neurons for memory, it would use the indelible markings of pen and ink as a permanent ledger of the professor’s thoughts.

My notebook wouldn’t get distracted. Although sometimes I think notebooks can be romantically involved, the drama of life rarely penetrates the simple mind of an inanimate object and even the most suave pad of college rule doesn’t have romantic entanglements. Class content alone would dominate my notebook’s mind.

My notebook wouldn’t ask dumb questions or be at all disruptive. It might shuffle a bit now and again to turn a page, but its noises would always be appropriate for a class environment. My notebook would be in everyone’s study group and give notes to all the students who missed class.

If my notebook could take tests, write papers and do homework, I would really be in business. I would have to be careful that none of my impromptu artwork made it onto an exam, but my notebook is pretty smart about these things. Most professors test from lecture material anyway and a clean regurgitation of class content without human emotion would get a top grade every time.

I am trying to figure out a way to make this work; when I do, watch out. My notebook will rule the day.

All Hail Google!

Within a decade, Google will be the biggest corporate power in the world. Forget the oil companies, whose biggest hope for future growth lies under discouraging layers of ice. Forget Wal-Mart, whose profits will soon follow its free-falling image. It won’t be long before the internet search giant tops them all.

And what a beautiful world it will be. You will wake up every morning to the smell of your favorite morning beverage, which Google will either remember from past mornings or serve by command after you watch a series of targeted short advertisement from contending brands. The shower will be set to the perfect warmth, calculated to the last significant digit based on outdoor temperature and predictive likelihood of catching cold (a new feature that will then be in “beta-testing”).

Forget where you left your car keys? Google will graciously let you search for the missing item in its exhaustive tape record of your life. Don’t like private moments showing up in the archive? No problem; Google will eliminate those sections of tape from your search results. The corporate office will, of course, maintain a copy for personal entertainment.

Reading material will be a synthesis of popular sources based on the current events of the day and any personal interests you may have. Google will know what you like.

Choices in diet, transportation, housing, friendship and even romantic companionship will all be decided by habit-evidenced preferences. That’s right, your boyfriend or girlfriend will be chosen by Google, using an algorithm that finds and identifies persons with mutual coincidence of penchants, which tech speak for “liking the same music.”

You could also do a Google search, if you’re feeling particularly lonely (or is it lucky?).

After legislation is passed to clear the way, Google will vote for you in a manner more objective then any human being ever could. Candidate selections will be determined by the news articles you favorite and entries you make on your blog, because everyone will keep a blog. Google Voting will be hassle free and will allow 100% of the electorate to have a say.

“Google” is Russian for “total global domination under the guise of ‘doing no evil,’” a concept the Russians have struggled to learn, but Google has down to a science. We are on the path now but in a few years, life will be efficient, smart and, above all, searchable.

FCN Classic: Noninvasive outpatient solutions to nerve pain due to prolonged wallet sitting

Web based doctors are the biggest medical advance since the invention of antibiotics, or so we are lead to believe by the exploding number of webpages touting experts on every ailment imaginable. Sites like WebMD are designed to answer online surfers' concerns, diagnose diseases and even give advice on what over-the-counter drugs to take, all without a face-to-face with a physician. Others like MetaFilter are just web answer sites that have discovered the huge market of self-helpers who can’t actually help themselves and need to turn to the internet for answers. The final class of internet doctors includes those who associate with a particular hospital (physical location, real doctors and IVs, etc) and give advice through a fancy organizational name like Mayo Clinic.

These online resources assume, often erroneously, that patients are providing all the facts. After all, a patient may easily taint a symptom's description by adding some details that may not be accurate but point to a patient preferred diagnosis. Without any visual or kinesthetic input and very little auditory participation, doctors make medical decisions that some people are gullible enough to follow.

So imagine my cynicism when a friend told me about an internet site that explained the dangers of sitting on a wallet for too long. Seriously, the Mayo Clinic’s website put up the following dire warning:

“To promote comfort and good posture while sitting…[r]emove bulky objects, such as a wallet, from your back pockets when you sit because they disrupt balance in your lower back.”

Meta Filter goes further to say that:

“[I]f you're like most guys and put your wallet in your back pocket and sit on it, that can cause pinching of the nerve causing pain with the removal of the wallet fixing the problem.”

The author of the Meta filter article was obviously a she-doctor or a very feminine guy. You don’t just ask a guy to remove his wallet. Most men are willing to endure “disruptions in balance” and even nerve “pinching” in order to keep their wallets close to their buttocks. I personally use a duct tape wallet with five compartments. When the duct tape leaves the vicinity of my derriere, it does funny things to me. Something about the security of knowing I’m sitting on my ID. For me, it’s duct tape; for some guys it’s leather, cloth or snakeskin.

While women carry purses, men sit on wallets. That’s the way nature made clothes and the crazy girl (who calls herself a physician) from Meta Filter is trying to mess up the natural cycle of things.

But she has a point: If nature is causing owies, let’s fix nature. But for goodness sakes, don’t do it by asking men to remove their wallets.

The medically minded folks here at Funny Class Notes sat down to think of some more reasonable ways to reduce back pain but not deprive men of the ever important wallet. Here’s what we came up with:

Implants. Hey, some women do it and some guys do it too (although that’s not a good topic for a family friendly website). Why not make special implants for pain sensitive men? 3 x 4 silicon plates could be inserted on the right or left side, depending on the user’s preference. The implants would be filled with a non-toxic fluid that would be invisible from medium to long distances. Men with implants would still be able to wear their Speedo at the public pool and not be self conscious at the country club. They would also support their back evenly while sitting on a full wallet.

Implants could be sized differently depending on the size of a user’s pocketbook. Keep all your coins in that pocketpouch? Have enough ID cards to make Frank Abagnale blush? Just get your implant sized a bit larger.

The only side effect of an implant is that it can create an imbalance whenever you don’t have a wallet. Because the safe removal of the silicon requires a surgical operation, it is advised that you wear a wallet at all times.

Implants are definitely a good, if expensive, way to get rid of wallet induced back pain.

Wallet Double. If one wallet causes pain, would two solve it? Guys who are afraid of pinched nerves could purchase a second dummy wallet to go along with their real one. This wallet double would be placed in the back pocket opposite the real pocketbook and apply pressure on the spine to equalize nerve pressure and reduce pain. The second wallet has numerous advantages, including the ability to keep many more credit cards and fool robbers.

A wallet double is an excellent way to reduce pain on a budget. Just don’t forget it in the morning.

Weight Gain. Since a lot of fat is stored in the Gluteus Maximal region, why not capitalize on nature’s padding to reduce back pain? When a nerve conscious man wants to mitigate the bone jarring impact of his wallet, all he needs to do is eat more pancakes in the morning. If his metabolism is slow enough, he will gain weight. If his body is smart enough, the excess fat will be placed in his rear and protect his spine from the wallet thus making a natural implant (see above).

Grin n’ bear it. If you have back pain from a wallet and aren’t rich (making implants an impossibility), are style conscious (obviating a wallet double) or have a girlfriend (making weight gain unadvisable), you may want to consider this last option. Men who are concerned about nerve health need only add a few pounds and let the resulting adipose do the protecting. When a man using the grin n’ bear it strategy feels nerve damage coming on, he tunes into the FCN hit “Ima Victim!” and continues sitting. It works every time.

Without meaning to, this post has turned an otherwise decent webpage into a disseminator of medical advice. For this we apologize profusely and ask that you follow none of it.

Unless, of course, you have wallet-induced back pain.

Dating Disaster

"Everyone has these days." That's what I told myself during a sixteen hour period when everything went wrong before even considering going right. You know what I'm talking about: Nothing works out as it should. Regularly taken gambles and risks are rewarded with the sort of destitution normally reserved for the risk addicted, things that should go up go down and vice versa, polite comments are interpreted as premeditated insults and even friends begin to question your sanity.

You've probably had these kinds of days - you may have even had a day as bad as mine - but it is unlikely that you shared that experience with a beautiful woman.

We'll call her "Alexis" because I don't want to spend a great deal of time agonizing over a name for a woman who probably detests me and wouldn't read my writing for all the orange juice in Florida. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I met Alexis at a nondescript social function through school, the kind of affair that the politically and socially savvy frequent and that neck ties enjoy because they provide a vacation from their wrinkled and lonely closet existence. One look at Alexis revealed she was out of my league. Blond and attractive, she had radiant features and a captivating smile that every guy in the room noticed.

When I first saw her, I was mid sentence with a group of jocks talking about n'importe quoi. I stopped and my jaw must have gone slack since the whole group turned to follow my gaze. As one they answered my unstated question: "She's out of your league, man."

With my friends' statement as encouragement, I grabbed a couple of the cheesy fondue pieces that passed as "refreshments" at the shing-ding and moseyed in her general direction. When we met I was pleasantly surprised that she was able to overlook my many social faux pas and general lack of grace. We had a conversation (she was more than just a pretty face) and, by the end of the evening, a scheduled date. Take that, jealous jocks.

To get to the distant amusement park for which I'd bummed tickets in time to enjoy an entire day of nauseating fun, Alexis and I had to leave at an ungodly early hour. For a derelict like me, any hour before noon is early, but when the alarm rings much before twelve it's easy to ignore the noise as irritation and sleep on. That's exactly what I did. When I rolled out of bed, groggy eyed and rested, I glanced at my clock radio with the curious expression of a six year-old. The green numbers were not what I expected to see when I'd prepared myself for an early departure the night before. Nor, for that matter, did they represent a time at all close to the rendez-vous time Alexis and I had set for our trip.

It's always a tad embarrassing to stand a girl up. There was that time my senior year in High School when I accidentally scheduled two dates at once and took the "where are you?" call from one girl while dining with another. My "thanks for the call, mom" hang up line managed to further infuriate the girl I'd stood up and was unconvincing to the young woman I was with. If you're reading this, Liz, I'm sorry. And you deserve better, too, Becky. Then there was the time I decided to stop for pizza on the way to pick up my date for a dinner and dance. She smelled the pepperoni on my breath when I got to her house thirty minutes late and my flat tire excuse deflated quickly. There was also the time I plumb forgot about a lunch obligation and was halfway through my break and on the other side of town when the young woman called with a reminder.

These "Great Moments in Stand Up History" pale in comparison to my half-dressed, 45 minute late arrival. As soon as I remembered my date, I determined I didn't have time to shower, shave or shine, the three Ss of my morning routine. So I grabbed Lysol from under the bathroom sink and gave my entire body a quick application. The smell was overpowering, so I dug around for the Febreze and gave the strategic locations a few squirts. Still dissatisfied, I turned a bottle of aftershave upside down over my head and toweled my hair dry. In retrospect, a little cologne might have added some musk to my potpourri of scents, but I didn't think to reach for my room mate's bottle of Stetson.

I actually entered my car wearing only underwear but managed to dress while averaging over ninety miles per hour on the freeway. Did I mention I was driving a manual transmission? Or that my super efficient economy car is on the opposite end of the spacious spectrum from Loretta Lynn's Lincoln. I pulled into the parking lot where we were to meet, having been awake only 45 minutes, but smelling, I'm sure, like I'd just gotten out of the soap factory. When Alexis sat down in the passenger seat, she wrinkled her nose and stifled a sneeze. I pointed to my car's frame, which was home to more dirt than the underside of a horse's hoof, and said I'd just had it waxed. Alexis' nonpulsed answer revealed my lie's ineffectiveness and I noticed her glancing furtively at my hair which I admit had a sort of Vegas air.

At that moment, sitting next to a young woman who really did justice to the term "beautiful" in her chic green jacket and white blouse, my day was not going badly. In fact, had it ended right then with some kind of meteoric disaster, I'd have few regrets.

But it didn't end there. Alexis has the political views of a slightly demented Maoist minion and, after a few minutes of listening to her compare Dennis Kucinich to Mike Gravel, two men who have the combined political clout of my deceased dog, I told her as much. Some people watch Crossfire for entertainment, but few want to experience that level of argumentative intensity on a first date. I was no exception. It took the restraint of a Gregorian Monk to keep from pulling to the side of the interstate and leaving her to walk back to her communal abode.

I was just starting to warm up to Alexis when we stopped for breakfast. For some reason Alexis wanted to take a walk, so we hoofed around for twenty minutes before selecting an eatery. With the words of Avril Lavigne ringing in my ears ("I have to pull my money out and that looks bad"), I insisted on paying for the meal. Only the restaurant didn't take credit. And I didn't have any cash on me. I turned glumly to my date. "Alexis?" Like me, Alexis was a plastic aficionado who had about as much of the green stuff as the hairy guy with the shopping cart on Fourth and Vine. In fact, the richest entity between us was my car, which likes to keep some money in the ashtray.

From car to eatery and back was a little over three miles, but I ran it in less than twenty minutes, a pretty good time for an out of shape derelict. I also ran it in jeans and shirt, both of which lost their soapy smell by the end of the ordeal. Alexis enjoyed her meal while my body recovered from the run.

After rinsing out my shirt (Alexis' idea), we got back in the car and continued toward our destination. That's when the unthinkable happened.

I was on a sparsely trafficked freeway, going at about the speed of the other cars, maybe a little faster. I'd stopped sweating and Alexis wasn't talking politics. Things were looking up. Then, in one moment, my biggest claim to driving fame evaporated and, with it, I lost my tax rebate. That's right, I got ticketed. I did everything right. I told the officer I was late for work at In N' Out burger (an establishment that gives uniformed police officers a discount), that my new shoes had a bigger sole than I was used to and that my friend was in labor and that I was driving her to the hospital. When I mentioned my date, the officer took a closer look. His reaction was as unpredictable as it was crushing.

"Alexis?"

"Dad?"

That's right, I got pulled over by my date's cop dad. He wrote me up for the maximum and confiscated his daughter, telling her that she shouldn't be "keeping the company of such..." while gesturing toward me to emphasize his unfinished sentence. He also told me Alexis was out of my league. I drove home alone and went to bed as quickly as possible. I wanted that date to be over.

The next day, I called Alexis twice and left imploring messages. I emailed her, too. A few days later I blocked my number and called, but she hung up as soon as I identified myself. Her meaning could not have been more clear: another dating disaster.

An open letter to Hillary Clinton

Friday of last week introduced the kind of unsettling news that has good people like Tatum O'Neal turning to cocaine. Hillary Clinton's cold turkey withdrawal from the race for the Democratic Nomination for the Presidency of the United States has pundits scratching their heads and us here at FCN asking that deceptively simple three letter word: Why? After much soul searching and a trip to the FCN lab, we were still unable to come up with any believable reason for her early exit. But, like the academics we are, we can trump up a simple "I don't know" to make it sound sophisticated. We put our ideas down in an open letter, a draft of which is reproduced below.

Mrs. William Jefferson Clinton
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

Ooops, how embarrassing. That's the old address. Here's the correct one:

Ms. Billary Clinton
780 Third Ave, Suite 2601
New York, NY 10017

Mrs. Clinton,

My name is C. I am a writer with Funny Class Notes ("FCN"), the slowest growing humor and satire blog on Al Gore's internet. FCN has a dozen very loyal readers who join me in mourning the loss of your candidacy. I write this note on behalf of our readership, N, Chip and the prodigal contributor, F, who gets listed last because he has the staying power of kindergarten adhesive. Please let these words warm your cold heart. Frame this letter, if that will improve its radiance. Just let my thoughts shine into the darker recesses of your life. I'm not talking about the Vince Foster, Paula Jones, Susan McDougal, Waco Texas or Kenneth Star corners; let's go ahead and leave those dark. Rather, let my words shine into the dim recesses of your life. Let them alleviate the gloom and bring a grin to your eyes, which is the one place I've never seen you smile.

You will be sorely missed. The regular contribution of your pant-suited figure to the headlines of reputable newspapers across the fruited plain was an integral part of my daily routine. You were my motivation to get up every morning and run out to the sidewalk to grab the morning Herald. In my excitement to read the Associated Press' take on your latest verbal gaff or sleep-deprived quotation, I would sometimes scamper outdoors without a bathrobe à la Matthew McConaughey in, well, in any of his movies. Some things were more important than basic decency, like getting a refreshing glimpse of your visage.

Don't misunderstand. You are no messianic figure. People don't worship you or faint at your rallies. The Obamination has a corner on that quality. I am not denying that you do have a certain shrewd mien, but your essence seems more at home in Salem than New York. You were never going to win the Teenybopperette vote. You were never going to win the straight guy vote. You were never going to win the black vote. In fact, your entire constituency is made up of those who have seen Sex and the City which, while substantial, is but a dent in the voting population. Give yourself some credit: with no marketable attributes and a collection of negatives so large, you could give one to each illegal immigrant in the United States and still have some left over for the AIDS victims, you managed to be a burr under the Obamination's saddle for several months. For that we applaud you with a lusty golf clap.

Your performance was nothing short of miraculous. Only you wouldn't use the word "miracle," because your sustained period of non-defeat can be explained by naturally occurring circumstances. Circumstances like Jeremiah Wright, Michelle Obama and Michael Pfleger. You never had to throw your grandmother under the racism bus or distance yourself from your spouse after he embarrassed you publicly. And if you did do that second thing, it was so long ago that everyone has forgotten about it by now, I'm sure. Monika who? Gennifer who? And Gina Gershon?

Billary, you are an inspiration. Like the rodeo cowboy who rides the bull and doesn't let go of his wrist strap even after it gets stuck in the pommel and he's been thrown out of the saddle and his arm is dislocated and he breaks both legs against the side rails. Like the skydiver who, out of principle, refuses to pull the ripcord. Like the coal miner who doesn't cease his labor and continues digging faithfully despite the tunnel's collapse. You found encouragement in small victories and never gave up on the goal. Until now, of course, but you deployed at a low altitude.

You didn't cry, lie or make a fool of yourself. At least you didn't do much of any of those things. Or when you did do them, you apologized for them in a way in which we can all be proud. Or at least, FCN can be proud of you. I'm proud of you, Billary.

Don't be discouraged by this setback. With new technology and aesthetic innovations, doctors should be able to keep your smile looking genuine for another twenty to thirty years. Certainly 2012 is still open for you, if not for Chelsea. And your chances this year aren't over yet. You may be able to pull a fast one on the Obamination and get back to the Vice Presidency. And, who knows, the top spot may open up again. Like you, I'm still pulling for some drama or at least a Tonya Harding-Nancy Kerrigan-type "accident."

I don't want to end a letter on such a dark note, but I haven't had a lot of sleep lately so I can't necessarily be held accountable for my words. Regardless, my affectionate sentiment is hopefully not vitiated by references to Robert Kennedy, may he rest in peace.

You have stolen my awe, amazement and imagination. I only hope you will once again challenge the minds and morals of America at some future date. Whatever obstacles are subsequent, I am sure you will meet them with all the poise behooving your name.

Sincerely,

Funny Class Notes

Caffeinated Pyramid

Starbucks coffee shops are always bustling with activity during the morning rush. Upper to middle class Americans and the college students who are consumption smoothing on little or no income and hope to someday be upper class Americans run in and out of the store picking up their wake-up Joe.

Generally you can predict a patron's beverage choice before they order. The older woman in the Christmas sweater gets a cappuccino and the too-thin tech geek grabs a tea with an oriental name. A young woman in modest but zippy attire gets a skinny latte and a burly man with rough hands orders his mug refilled with black or "unleaded" coffee.

The other day I was one of those people. Life was moving along a little too quickly and Starbucks seemed like just the thing to slow it down. I left home a few minutes early and stopped in at the Java stop that never stops.

I found my place in line in front of an overeducated and overworked Latina woman and behind a slightly overweight gentlemen who wore too tight pants and an orange leather jacket that could best be described as foppish. The Latina woman would get an iced doubleshot and a scone; the fop was a wildcard since he never ordered the same drink twice. The day's "suggestion" - a cranberry mocha beverage that was blood read in its menu representation - was a likely bet.

My turn came and I placed my order. If you've ever been to Starbucks with me you probably know what it was since my coffee tastes have changed little in two years of regular consumption. Feel free to guess in the comment section if that toots your flute.

Receipt in hand, I marched over to a second line to await my drink. That's when I noticed The Pyramid.

I've heard mention of different body types. In one of the not-to-recently passed decades, it was in vogue to debate and label people's shapes: she's a pear; she's an apple. We've probably at least heard that before, even if we didn't understand it or approve. The woman in front of me in the to-receive line broke all of those stereotypes. She was not a pear...and she was certainly not an apple. Tall, triangular and a giant three-dimensional arrow, I think she could best be described as a pyramid.

But what would this monster of a woman drink? My eyes searched the menu quickly, looking for any Mrs. size drinks or a taste that would appeal to the plus size. Starbucks prides itself on a svelte and posh appearance and none of the drink titles seemed to appeal to "bigger" appetites.

That's just another of the many differences between Starbucks and Burger King.

When the drink arrived and was announced by the green-aproned employee, a shocked quiet came over the hustle of blenders and quiet chatting of busy people. Even the music seemed more hushed. Her order: A venti (no surprise) Java Chip Frappuccino (okay...) with six shots.

Six shots.

Mille milliards de mille sabords! That would keep me up 'till Christmas, but it was her morning fix? How had she acquired such a resistance? What did she do when she needed to stay awake at night?

The Pyramid shuffled over to the drink table and picked up her order. Then she took a sip. As the liquid demise poured through her being, her imposing figure palpitated and I could actually see her heart beating more quickly beneath her stylish blouse. Her poor heart!

Then it hit me like those Gatorade showers players give their coach after a championship: that would be me in a few years. Sure, I could maintain some semblance of expected human form for a little while, but my poor alimentary and physical habits will eventually catch up to me and I will be the sniveling intellectual waiting in line to treat my addiction. I might even be a pyramid. For a moment I was worried. Then my drink was called and all thoughts of the line were erased by the cool refreshing taste of my favorite beverage.

Wanna catch a movie?

This story begins long before the trailers started rolling their shameless advertisements across the big screen at the local theater complex. It begins before the ten mile run that jarred my bones for a little over ninety minutes and the six hours of studying that fried my brain until I was dumber than the GED-toting model I will end up marrying. It even starts before my shift at General Mills, where I logged my contribution to our stagnating economy under the watchful eye of an unforgiving supervisor.

This story begins at 5:30 in the morning when my Radio Shack issue alarm decided my sleepy time was over and the awake hours should begin. Actually it was me who made that decision, but I'd set my alarm in a moment of weakness the night before, not realizing how early 5:30 really is. I had chores, a homework assignment and some personal hygiene problems to resolve before leaving for work. After my travails at the Cheerio factory and a quick rinse in the "Milk Shower," our loving moniker for the sprayer that helps remove the scent of heavily refined, super white flour before we leave for home, I logged some time at my school's library, reviewing the ravings of the lunatic Fourier (the socialist economist, not the physicist) among others and generally preparing for the irritable activity we call "Final Examinations."

When my eye balls were struggling to stay in their sockets, I replaced my books in my backpack, switched the music on my mp3 player from Brooks and Dunn to Blink 182 and went for a run. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how a derelict celebrates a sixteen hour day.

Only the day wasn't over. I ran into a friend on the way to my car who looked at me with a concerned eye [CAUTION VERY WEIRD] and told me to drink some juice, a comment I interpreted as a date invitation. But I'll share the rest of that conversation in another post. It suffices to say that I was looking a mite tuckered.

I was crossing the last street to where my car was parked when my phone buzzed. It was F.

"Hey C, wanna catch a movie?" The request was as enticing as it was impossible.

"I can't, F. I've been running around like a soccer mom all day and I just need to go home and relax. I think I'll just curl up with some Akerlof tonight." I think F figured "Akerlof" to be an adult beverage, but he didn't cop to it when I pressed him about it later.

"C'mon, C! It'll be fun. Everyone is going. And we're catching some dinner at In N' Out beforehand." It was as if F had pushed my "Easy Button." I went from ambivalent to persuaded faster than you can say "Flying Dutchman."

I arrived at the local In N' Out before F and his entourage, so I grabbed a seat at one of the outdoor tables and enjoyed a few slow minutes. Ten feet away from me two teenybopper females gossiped emphatically, never hesitating at the prospect that their words might be picked up by a guileless eavesdropper. I wasn't trying to listen in (although everyone should know that Jane broke up with Todd and it's all Todd's fault for looking sideways at Rhonda and that Jane is thinking about going out with Amanda's ex) but I got an earful nonetheless. Their conversation was like a verbal combat. One person would speak while the other tried desperately to get a word in edgewise. Then they'd reverse roles. In an odd way, their interaction held a chaotic beauty, like seeing lions eating zebras on the Discovery Channel.

Once F arrived, bringing with him the entire female population of the Central Valley, I waltzed (1-2-3, 1-2-3) into the restaurant and ordered with all the desperation of a starving distance runner. The food was delicious - I think even my cooking would have been good after a ten mile run and an overheard episode of conversational combat - but the real excitement started at the theater.

I thought my day was tough, but it was nothing compared to the hero onscreen. Robert Downey Jr. (the guy who loses most of one of his fingers in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang) played an iron-clad special effects character who has bad day after bad day. My ordeal over the last 19 hours was nothing compared to the world changing problems he had to tackle. And putting Lawrence Fishburn in at the end was a great touch. He'll make a great villain in Iron Man 2.

The movie was over and we filed out into the lobby area just as the first pangs of a headache hit. I had been at it too long and my body was finally starting to rebel. I had to surrender or pay some substantial consequences.

That's when F pulled a fast one. "Wanna catch another movie?" Another film was playing (that happens when the theater has 12 screens) and F was leading his entourage into the next flick. I shouldn't have, but I succumbed, shelling out another ten bucks and feeling sorry for myself that I had to submit to such awful bodily torture. It was inhuman what I was doing to myself; the Geneva Convention should come down harshly on my persecutor.

I remember nothing of the second film besides some bright lights and the screaming of the main character at a particularly tense moment in the film. I don't even remember the film's title, other than to say that it had all the creativity of a cardboard box.

When the film was over, I stumbled out the glass double doors and staggered to my car. I know that beer and gasoline don't mix, but nobody told me not to try sleepies and gasoline. By the time I got home, I understood why "exhausted" begins with an "e," the only letter in the English alphabet that's doubled over. I went to bed in my clothes and didn't stop to remove my contact lenses. The next morning was a story unto itself.

FCN Classic: Potty Humor

Disclaimer: The topic of the following essay is a restroom. This essay was not intended to be read by people with any sense of decency, sanitation, or propriety; that is, it was not written for the fairer sex. It contains descriptions of morbidly revolting (and sometimes friendly) creatures not originally intended for human company. This is the stuff nightmares are made of. My nightmares, anyway.

When we first moved into this house, the restroom was just short of brand new: it wasn't completely finished. The faux marble countertop needed to be caulked into the wall, and the one-piece shower/bathtub needed caulking into the floor. We assured ourselves that we would take care of these tasks as soon as we had time. There were so many other things to worry about at the time that we didn't bother ourselves.

My mother gifted us with a full set of matching restroom items with a sailboat theme, like toothbrush holder, soap dispenser, towels, shower mat, even a nifty picture to hang over the potty depicting a lighthouse on a cliff by the ocean. We had a full arsenal of towels, including a set of green ones with our names on them, and a stockpile of toilet paper and shaving cream. We considered ourselves moved in.

There's something funny about restrooms. You have to clean them. This is something it took us about two years to realize. Understand, for those of you who don't know us personally, that this restroom was used exclusively by a collection of males. Males do not notice filth until it asks them to scoot over. This is exactly what happened.

Two years had gone by, with five males cycling in and out as fast as they could, carrying out restroom tasks like showering, shaving, tooth brushing, and wrestling, day in and day out. The caulking was still unfinished. Multicolored scum started to build up around the potty. Then the shower. Then the walls and mirror. Then the sinks and toothbrushes. One day, while I was examining my ruggedly handsome visage in the mirror (this is after I had carved out a space in the layers of white stuff covering it), I heard a peculiar voice coming from the direction of the shower.

It was a cephalopod. It had come up from the crawl space and wriggled through the a rotted-away crack in the floor to talk to me. I was flattered that it would feel me to be worth the journey. I did not realize at the time how easy this journey was, nor how often it was completed.

"The boys and I have been talking," The cephalopod announced, "And we think the picture over the potty is unsightly." I glanced at the picture, which was of a glob of shaving cream on a cliff by the ocean.

"It is a bit strange," I conceded. "Want me to cover it up?"

"Actually," The cephalopod said, "We want it replaced."

"Well that's nice of you. Did you bring the replacement?" The cephalopod chortled, releasing a viscous yellow fluid that oozed off the potty into the waste basket.

"Don't you see?" It asked. "I'm your replacement." It moved into position just above the flush handle. "And this way, you don't have to flush anymore. I'll do it for you."

"What's a flush?" I asked.

The introduction of the Cephalopod on the Potty marked a new era for the boy's restroom. We call this era the Paleogooey era. It is identified in the layers on the mirror by whitening toothpaste full of small rodents and razor handles.

During this era, we uncovered seven new species formerly unknown to science - all of them rotifers, all of them visible without the use of a microscope. One species in particular had undergone the evolutionary process known as cephalization, which, for those of you unversed in the ways of quack science, is what happened to Cody a few years back. This new species was politically active, and, after a brief power struggle with the boys downstairs, established themselves as the rulers of the restroom, which was okay with us, because, under their leadership, the pond scum unclogged the shower drain. Now that's results.

There are two sinks in our restroom. One of them releases milky water, the other releases clear brown water. We use the milky water for shaving and the brown water for brushing.

We were able to coexist with our flora and fauna friends for the duration of the Paleogooey era. With the emergence of predators, however, we were forced into the Mesogooey era, marked by fossilized rodents and mollusks with faces contorted into expressions of agony.

As with most things in the restroom, predators came in all sizes, shapes, and textures. Some hung from the ceiling and dropped down on passing prey. Some hid in the medicine cabinet and leaped out when the door opened in order to scare people. Some drank the shampoo. Some drank other things. Irritated by these pests, the rotifers declared war on the predators, and marshaled their subjugated life forms into an army.

The battle was fought on the only surface dry enough for organisms that couldn't swim: the countertop. The leaders of both armies stood on bars of soap facing each other and exchanged threats and boasting. Then a dreadful melee occurred, during which more progress was done toward sanitizing the restroom than had ever been achieved in its entire cumulative history.

This astounding record notwithstanding, the rotifers were badly defeated and had to beat a hasty retreat to the liquid soap dispenser, where they negotiated a surrender on very unfair terms. The subjugated organisms gave up their weapons and returned to their homes and families. The normal rotifers were allowed to leave, but had to respect strict lifestyle regulations including taxes on all commerce, curfew, and observance of a no-fly zone. The leading rotifers were sold into slavery to the boys downstairs. The president of the restroom was tortured to death by slow roasting. This was achieved by an ingenious device fabricated just for the purpose by a clever but very rude fungus who used Ryan's contact lenses to magnify the sun's rays (this was back when the window over the shower could still admit light).

The Mesogooey era brought about a number of changes. We had to remove the shower mat because it was a breeding ground for some of the larger, toothier predators. This required special diving and pulling equipment, and a paper barf bag. We also had to put padlocks on the shampoos and conditioners because various grubs were holding conventions in the bottles. We received a petition signed by several thousand shower scum demanding that we remove the sanitizer from under the sink, which we obeyed with great alacrity. There's nothing worse than angry shower scum.

One day we discovered some mushrooms growing behind the potty. These were of a species we styled Fungi Loganhercium, though obviously it is impossible to know exactly who the ancestor was without DNA testing. Though we had been through a lot, we were upset by these mushrooms and decided that something had to be done about them. But I digress.

About this time, we discovered that the white stuff we had been using actually wasn't toothpaste, and the Mesogooey era came to an end. This ushered in the Neogooey era, marked by small mammals and fungi in various embarrassing and scandalous positions. The Neogooey era established a sort of balance. The predators roam free about the restroom, but try to avoid making us so bothered that we actually notice. The rotifers lead an underground resistance, and we can sometimes hear them engaging in strategic sabotage of predator strongholds, or breaking into weapons caches, which left us without basic hygiene equipment for the next day. The creepy crawlers used an all-natural substance to caulk the counter and shower at no charge.

As for the males, we get by with improvisation. Sometimes this means drying off clipped fingernails from the floor to replace stolen hygienic tools. Sometimes this means engaging in eloquent diplomatic and mediatory negotiations while doing one's business. Sometimes this means air drying after a shower, and sometimes it means using the threadbare rags under the sink - the ones with letters smeared across them.

The Cephalopod on the Potty has become a household favorite. He is calm, patient, and wise, to say nothing of being an excellent confidante and advisor, particularly in woman matters. Every morning, as I shower off the night's growth, I tell the Cephalopod on the Potty my troubles, and he invariably comes up with a maxim that sums up just how badly I have been screwed.

If we really wanted it, we could clean our restroom. We could contract with war lords from distant, despotic governments and purchase illegal biological weapons in exchange for national secrets. We could sterilize the restroom and rebuild from the crawl space up. There are two reasons we do not.

First, if we were caught, we would go to jail, and when we got back, we'd be grounded for a month. Second, we have grown to know and love the organisms that make up the restroom community. Sure, it's less than sanitary. Sure, there are unfriendly creatures. Sure, it's the kind of thing bachelors do. But this restroom has something all those clean ones don't: character. Both to the young males of the family and to millions of others, this restroom is home.