At Least It's Not Barney

There's a song that will entrance our daughter like a chicken immobilized in the hypnotically unwavering gaze of Al Gore. (What? You didn't see him hypnotize a chicken on Letterman? Get out.)

It's not completely bizarre. My wife and I knew that she would recognize music she heard in the womb, it's just unusual that she chose this particular song:


crappy version from youtube because I'm too lazy to find a good one

She heard it once. During the season finale of Dr. Who (don't judge), and yet the opening baseline will completely freeze her mid-tantrum. She has been in the middle of some of her loudest, angriest screaming binges, completely ignoring the rocking, patting, shushing, and cuddling, but voodoo child will stop her in her tracks. And half the time it puts her to sleep.

If only I had known earlier that subwoofers would be an essential nursery component...

The Internet Is So Confusing

You can't swing a keyboard without accidentally typing the URL of someone's personal blog, and half of them claim to be advice from experts. The blog is the new business card, and everyone is setting up shop in the hopes that it will show potential customers how knowledgeable they are, sometimes with disastrous results.
No proof of skill is required to start handing out advice freely, but it reminds me of the phrase about stock market tips:

"Those who say, don't know, and those who know, don't say."

Anyway, it's time for me to hop on board this expertise train to pull in some of that sweet, sweet consulting money. The trick is to find a niche that's not already been done to death. So, from this day forward, I am an expert on (and will be answering questions about) the following subjects:

Pencil Sharpening: "Almost as important as having the proper sharpener is using the proper grip with your pencil. Softer lead pencils require a firmer hold, while the following illustration shows the best way to..."

Toenail manufacturing: "Common developments are the Irish hook, the Great Plains runway, and the west side split. These will all have a negative effect on your resale value, which is why it's important to..."

Eggplant wrestling: "Try borrowing some strategies from Sun Tzu. Study your opponent carefully in the days leading up to the match. Does he prefer to use his upper-body strength, or does he specialize in holds that leverage his superior leg work? You can adapt your method by..."

Armadillo repair: "It's normal for daily use to inflict signs of wear and tear on your armadillo, but you can fix some of the more common damage with this basic remedy of..."

Moustache fitting: "As you can see in this chart, your ideal style of moustache can vary greatly depending on your facial structure. It's easier to fit the moustache to your face than it is to use prosthetics to accomodate your moustache, but if you absolutely need to, you can..."

Coathanger maintenance: "While usage will soon run them down, your coathangers can be kept in their prime if you are sure to..."

Spitwad design: "Texture is as important as--if not more so--than size, but the true professional focuses on a consistent..."

Alternative energy sources (e.g., orgone, water-fuel technology, perpetual motion, zero-point/free energy): "What distinguishes this from some of the scams out there is my personal guarantee that..."

Sumerian courtship rituals: "The suitor would then stuff the body of the goat with a mixture of wheat and cloves, while using the head to..."

Beet farming: "Your one-stop source for all beet-farming-related content! If your North Atlantic Spotted Beets keep wandering off, they could be responding to their natural migratory instinct that kicks in each spring. If you make sure that your beet pens are surrounded by fences at least eight feet high (they can--and will--jump over anything lower), you shouldn't have any more problems."

While I would also like to claim expertise in the field of applied stupidity, I have to put in a few more semesters before I earn my master's degree. However, from there I am assured that I'll be fast-tracked for the Advanced Stupidity Application PhD program. I'll provide more information on that as it develops.

Why Daddy Blogs Are Awful

I am fed up with these parenting blogs not offering any material details about their children. Sure, there are photos galore, but can their four-month-old bench press a cinderblock? Does their baby's fastball clock in at 75mph? What about their aptitude for knife throwing?

It's a sad state of affairs when people think that just a few pictures are all you need to really get to know a baby. If they're going to share their children with the world, they need to do it right.

These infants need to be measured and profiled by a baby metricologist--that is, a highly trained expert with a fictitious degree in the pretend science of the metricology of babies, as opposed to a baby who is a practicing metricologist--so that all of the relevant facts are presented. Fortunately, I have obtained the services of the preeminent baby metricologist in North America, and am able to present information that actually MEANS something.

-BEGIN METRICOLOGY REPORT-

Initial observations:
Examination of the subject revealed that structural integrity, tensile strength, and resonant frequency are all within normal parameters.

Does subject possess x-ray vision?
No. The subject becomes agitated when her parents disappear from view.

Does the subject exhibit signs of telepathy?
Yes. The subject can sense when she is no longer the center of attention, and takes immediate corrective action.

Has the subject demonstrated mastery over animals?
While the subject is able to direct the household canine to perform routine cleaning of her hands and feet, she has not been successful at directing animals (domesticated or otherwise) to assume feeding and changing duties currently performed by the parents.

Is the subject a shapeshifter?
Possibly. The subject's current abilities apply mostly to the face, which is able to express both giddy delight and intense discomfort, but the subject has not manifested any radical physical changes elsewhere (e.g., sixth finger, third nipple, tail).

What is the subject's top speed?
The subject's top speed was recorded as significantly less than 25mph.

Does the subject appear to be either an indigo child or a crystal child?
No, the subject appears to be pinkish.

Other noteworthy observations:
The subject is able to eject fluids in open defiance of all known laws of physics.
It should further be noted that the subject's overall cuteness coefficient was measured at 5.8 Geddes Standard Units (GSUs), which is trending towards the higher end of recorded measurements for specimens who have not undergone genetic manipulation, but not so extreme as to damage the very fabric of the universe.

-END METRICOLOGY REPORT

As you can see from this informative and highly scientific assessment, our daughter has a promising future as a mind reader, or possibly a part-time beastmaster or weekend shapeshifter. It's a shame about the x-ray vision, but I'd imagine that it leads to headaches around Christmas.

Ill-Considered Remarks

I firmly believe that there are faces out there that could benefit from a good punching. That being said, I may have been a little hasty in earlier remarks made here about Alton Brown. I misjudged him based on insufficient information, and I regret that now.

Specifically, after reading an interview about Iron Chef America and its (completely unnecessary) spinoff The Next Iron Chef, I realize that most of our opinions are pretty similar, including the one about a certain judge who is in desperate need of a haircut.

Mr. Brown, if you have let the peevish grumblings of an anonymous internet hack disturb you in any way as you lay down to sleep at night on the pile of crisp, large-denomination bills that were so hard-won through your televised efforts for the food network, you should know now that I am sorry, and that I offer a full retraction.

P.S. Suck it, Andrew Knowlton.

Puppy vs. Kitty

Our dog isn't the insatiable gourmand that Pilar used to be, but he's a happy-go-lucky bundle of energy with a boundless enthusiasm for life. He gives kisses, he offers his paw, and he is always looking for pets. He's a big puppy.

Our neighbor has a friendly kitty (an oxymoron that is rare, but not completely fictional). Kitty meows hello, Kitty nuzzles affectionately, Kitty asks for belly rubs. Kitty and Puppy should have been friends.

It really looked like it was going to happen. At first, Puppy was excited about a new friend. Puppy and Kitty touched noses. Tails were wagged, butts were sniffed. Then Puppy asked to play.

Puppy play is rowdy. It is chest bumping, grappling, chasing, and full-contact. Puppy jumped around, Puppy thumped the ground with his paws, Puppy raced off and came charging back, doing huge loops around the yard. Kitty didn't know what to make of it at first.

Then, on his last lap around the yard, Puppy was introduced to the concept of Kitty play. Racing heedless and carefree, tongue hanging out and mouth grinning wide, Puppy was ambushed by a gray rocket that launched from the bushes by the back stairs. It was great fun for Kitty, and no one was hurt, but Puppy wasn't very fond of it. Since then, he races for the safety of our house every time Kitty comes over to say hello.

Progress

I routinely make poor decisions.

Like the time I was uncorking a stubborn bottle of wine, thought to "improve" my grip, and ended up punching myself in the face. Or when I listened to my classmates in eighth grade and ruined the basketball scoreboard. Or the time I thought it would be okay to go on that "marketing job" interview where they told me to show up wearing shoes I could "do a lot of walking in." Or the LARP weekend. And so on.

That's why it makes me happy when I can spot a potential disaster in the works, and make a conscious choice to avoid it.

Yes, our liquor cabinet is understocked, and we are dangerously short on mixers. But as appealing as it seems at first glance, I don't need to actually mix White Russians using baby formula before I realize that it's a Bad Idea.

Can you hear that, world? It's the sound of a little something I like to call progress.

Iron Chef America

It's okay. Certainly, it's head and shoulders above the absolutely painful Iron Chef USA, but it's still a mixed bag of entertainment. On the one hand, the guy that they have as the chairman is absolutely hilarious. He manages to be completely over-the-top with his gestures, his dialogue, and his mannerisms, but at the same time he makes you feel like you and he are sharing a private joke. And the little sound effects that they add to his karate moves that introduce the Iron Chefs? Win.

On the other hand, Alton Brown. Sometimes he's on the mark, but as a general rule, I would pay good money to punch Alton Brown in the face. Specifically, he needed a good firm smack (possibly with a rolled-up newspaper, or maybe a brass knuckle) during battle coffee. I get it--you're hyper because it's coffee--but I didn't want it in the first place. And is it just me, or does Kevin Brauch appear to be seething with barely-concealed resentment when Brown condescends to let him give the same explanation of the judging rules every episode?

For the judges, I can understand that the show's producers would want people who think differently because arguments mean drama, and drama means good television. The problem is that some of the judges are insufferable when they get to express their opinion. Andrew Knowlton comes across as prissy and elitist when he disagrees with his peers, quibbling over academic minutiae, picking apart the statements of the other panelists, and always needing to mutter the last word into his food like a spoiled eight-year-old. In contrast, Jeffrey Steingarten does an excellent job of voicing his opinion, frequently failing to agree with the other judges but still managing to sound like he is trying to offer constructive criticism, not just showing off. One is a tough but fair evaluator who is disappointed when chefs fail to meet his high standards, and the other is a petty control freak who throws a fit whenever the world around him refuses to meet his expectations. You never know what you're going to get.

I'll keep watching it (unless they keep adding new Iron Chefs; YOU ARE NOT WANTED, MICHAEL SYMON). In the meantime, I have compiled this list of items that I would like to see used as the central ingredient of future episodes battles:

Tic Tacs
Oatmeal
Jello
Goldfish (the cracker, but the pet might work as well)
butter
hot dogs
salt
scotch
bread
windex

Oh wait, this might actually be my grocery list.

The Bee Gauntlet

The previous owner of our house was a botanist, and she did a fantastic job planting gardens that always have something in bloom. We did an equally fantastic job of completely neglecting everything outside so that the house looks abandoned, or possibly under attack by some kind of malevolent plant monster.

Our front walk is flanked by lavender plants (bushes? shrubs? Some of the branches have gotten thick enough that I'm thinking about calling them "trees") that have pushed out over the concrete and started getting in the way. I trimmed them back last year, but they have returned in full force. While the plants on either side of the walk don't quite touch each other, there's no way to keep from having them rub up against anyone trying to enter or leave the house.

This isn't a problem. The lazy bees who have nothing better to do besides loiter around my lavender bushes all day like shriners at an open bar are the problem.

That's right, bees. You heard me, Science. All those missing bees that you're looking for? Maybe you should check my front yard, because I can count at least six of them, and sometimes as many as twenty, available at all hours^*.

It's a gauntlet made of bees, and I have to run it any time I want to go to work, get groceries, check the mail, or leave a flaming bag of poo on my neighbor's doorstep. It's at the point where I've got to psych myself up before I can leave the house to do anything.

As always, I recognize the importance of staying positive, and have been trying to tell myself that this is a good thing. After all, if I dont want to run this gauntlet of bees, then it must keep out unwanted guests and/or intruders, too. It was a comforting thought, until the doorbell rang yesterday.

What good is having a bee gauntlet if it won't keep out Jehova's witnesses?


_{*Okay, hold your horses, apiarists both amateur and professional, before you go posting all kinds of scientific mumbo jumbo about how what I've got in my yard are only bumblebees, not honeybees. I'll tell you right now: I don't want to hear it.}

There's a reason for that.

When I gained a measure of autonomy, I decided that I would test a lot of the practices that my parents tried to instill in me to determine if they were valuable habits to develop, or an unnecessary waste of time. Like pyjamas. Is it really necessary to have a completely separate outfit to sleep in? I decided that it was not, which proved to be a real time-saver in college once I didn't have to worry about bringing my Star Wars PJs to a keg party if I thought I'd end up passing out on the couch.

Now that I have a house, I'm looking into some of the more common home upkeep chores to see if they're important enough to do frequently, or if I can get away with letting them slide for a while. Like mowing the lawn. We're not in an appearance-obsessed suburb, and the dog seems to like stalking through shoulder-high grass from time to time, pretending he's a wolf on the prowl for a squirrel or an unattended baby. Who is it going to hurt?

Me. I found out that it's going to hurt me, and the lawn needs to be mowed on a weekly, if not daily basis. While using the weed whacker (okay, it's technically a "string trimmer," and not actually a branded weed whacker) to clear out a dense clump of vegetation, a rustling in the underbrush (underweeds) made me stop. I watched, horrified, as a spider big enough to take on a rat (and probably win) in a no-holds-barred, bare knuckle brawl staggered out from his hiding place and moved on to more welcoming surroundings.

In addition to mowing the lawn, I am now considering paving the lawn.

A matter of perspective

Happiness really is all in your mind. For example, I was stuck behind a logging truck on my way to work last week. I was already late, and now I was stuck going less than the speed limit down a winding, two-lane country road that took half an hour to drive under the best of circumstances. It’s times like that when one is well served by cultivating a near psychotic detachment from reality, so that previously serious problems become trivial, or even helpful.

I realized that the logging truck was actually doing me a favor. After all, I could get in a fatal accident at any speed above 20 MPH, but thanks to his inability to make it up steep hills, there would be no danger of that. And, it gave me time to practice my Queen Elizabeth wave (you know the one, it goes elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, etc.) in case I ever find myself in a parade.

It worked so well that I tried to change my perspective on other issues in my life:

-Our well pump was supposed to break. If we had a reliable source of clean water, I wouldn’t have been forced to meet my next door neighbors, who are really great people (as evidenced by the fact that they ran over 300 feet of hose from their house to ours). It also helped to teach me about the importance of water conservation. It’s NOT a renewable resource, people!

-All these bills help me to “keep it real.” Money would just go to my head. And this way, I can really be sure that I’ve got my priorities in order. Who needs both clean clothes AND a hot meal, right? Because that’s just getting greedy.

-Yeah, our heat pump doesn’t cool our house at all, and may even be broken. But I could stand to sweat off some unwanted pounds; I stopped being able to see my ribs, and it made me feel totally chubby. Also, this solves our problem of not having any hot meals.

-These ants aren’t infesting our house. They’re graciously sacrificing themselves to keep the hordes of spiders around here well fed. As long as there are plenty of ants blundering around and walking into the spider webs hidden in the walls and behind the furniture, the spiders won’t go back to roaming the halls where I can see them.

-And we need a lot of hulking spiders looming in the dark corners of the house. If anything, they have to be BIGGER, because at their current, half-the-size-of-my-fist stature, they can barely hold their own against all the wasps that set up shop outside.

-And those wasps. Thank god the wasps are here because—

You know what? I can’t do this anymore. If I keep this up, I’d have to give myself a wedgie and shove my head in the toilet, because I’d be completely insufferable.

This Will Not Become a Blog of Fear

I’m undecided as to whether “growing up” is something that happens in one pivotal moment (“Congratulations, today, you have become a man/woman (as applicable)”), or something that happens so gradually that you don’t even notice.

Okay, that’s a lie. Only a complete moron or someone in need of a cheap rhetorical device would think that growing up is anything other than the sum of the hundreds of small moments in our lifetimes that shape who we are and what we value.

Unless you define “growing up” as “being recognized as legally able to drink.” That’s pretty important, but also centered around one specific point in time.

However it happened, I have grown up, and my fears have grown up with me. For example:

Attics. Yes, they still make spooky noises, but I’m not as worried about vampires. Was that thump just the house settling, or a family of squirrels moving in? What if it’s something bigger, like raccoons? Or buffalo?

Faucets. The irregular flow isn’t caused by demonic possession. It’s our well. Is it going to run dry for the fourth time? Are we going to need another new pump? Will we be forced to filter and drink our own pee?

Cars. Evil cars won’t run me down while I cross the street. But is the car I’m driving about to fail? Why hasn’t it shifted to the next gear? Is that smell coming from my car, or the one in front of me? Was that noise always there? Can I fix it by turning up the radio?

Closed doors. My boss isn’t conducting satanic rituals behind her closed office door. And I’m reasonably certain she’s not shedding her human disguise so that her gills can air out properly. But what is she discussing in there? Raising insurance co-pays? Freezing salary increases? Firing me because of that time I wore white pants after labor day?

Coughs. It may have taken me over ten years, but I’m not afraid of Captain Tripps anymore. But does that cough mean a trip to the emergency room? Or billing disputes? Why do all the really scary symptoms develop outside of the doctor’s normal office hours?

Ground cover. The undead hands of the vengeful dead aren’t going to erupt from the ground to rip at my flesh, but what is lurking in those leaves? We picked up six ticks in our backyard last season, how many are waiting for us this summer? Isn’t there an effective lawn treatment that will drive them off? Will napalm work?

Sure, I might have scoffed at this list when I was younger, but that’s because I had some growing up to do.

The Great Interview Experiment

So, Citizen of the Month is doing a thing called the Great Interview Experiment. It's about bloggers interviewing bloggers to make the world a better place. Or shameless self-promotion. Or both.

I signed up, and interviewed Bzzzzgrrrl, of the blog City Mouse Country. It went something like this:

What’s your story?
I lived in D.C. for a year after college, moved to New Hampshire (which is where I sometimes grew up) for several years, and left in my late twenties because I was bored. I moved back to D.C. because I think it's a fantastic city and because I still have friends there, but after eight years, I was looking for a job and found myself increasingly drawn back north. I don't mind "bored" as much as I mind "shoved," and maybe that is the difference between my twenties and my thirties.

How did you find the Great Interview Experiment?
Through She Just Walks Around With It. She apparently did this experiment a long time ago, but just got around to posting the results.

How did you choose your screen name? How does it fit in with the theme of your blog? Are you using that spelling of "girl" ironically?
Not ironically, but maybe nostalgically. That screenname dates way, way back, to maybe 1997, when I was director of a day camp called Hornets' Nest, which allowed me to simultaneously be a camp director (which I loved) and feel like a badass (which I craved). That wasn't so long after I'd been sort of tangentially into the whole riotgrrl thing in college. I just sort of kept using it. So, you know, hornets, feminism, summer camp, badassery. All of that probably fits in with the theme of the blog, but only because it fits in with the theme of my life.

Why did you decide to start a blog?
The idea for the blog came up when I moved. My D.C. friends got very wide-eyed, asking me about all the things I'd surely miss and how cold it would surely be. I found myself e-mailing mobs of people about what it was actually like once I got here, and a blog seemed easier.

What would you say is the single greatest challenge about moving to the country?
Not knowing anything. It makes for funny stories, which is good for the blog, but the sheer amount of stuff I don't know is overwhelming. I need a roof rake? Really?
Oh, and also the move itself was a tremendous challenge. Because I hired the worst moving company ever, and the owner, who is oldish, and his daughter, who is pregnant, showed up to move me. I am not sure I am ready to blog about that experience, even yet.

How did you get such a hefty blogroll in just six months of posting?
The big honkin' blogroll is largely blogs I was reading before I was blogging (bloggin'?). And now, of course, Google tells me what to read.

How do you feel about Google, and their sinister Google Everything(tm) project?
Now you're gonna get us both killed.
I am, unfortunately, exactly the kind of person Google dreams of (That is not anthropomorphism. I actually believe that Google has a brain, and it frightens me.). I dislike everything this giantness stands for, and yet, it's so eeeeeeeeeeeasy. And yeah, parts of it suck, but, well, I'd rather do something else than think too hard. Do you hear me, overlords? I WELCOME YOUR TELLING ME WHAT TO THINK. Plus, the maps are excellent, I find.

Do you hate technorati nearly as much as I hate technorati?
I do.
As do all right-thinking folk.

Between your posts and your links to sites like the "blog" of "unnecessary" quotation marks, you appear to be a fan of punctuation and correctly written words. Do you have a literary background?
"Literary" may be pushing it. I am a writer and editor, and I'm a former copy editor. I like my language and communication fairly precise.

Are emoticons in fact ruining America?
I think it is both lazy and useful to have something to indicate, in writing, that you're kidding. I have little use for emoticons with devil horns and sunglasses, but I use smileys probably too much. Actually, now that I think about it, it strikes me that smileys are OK, but probably winks are ridiculously lazy. How little game do you have if you need a symbol to say "I'm flirting with you"?

What do you miss most about moving to the city (besides the May Day dancing)?
Specific people. I was there eight years, I made friends, and I miss them, often. But really, that's about it. Also, this is where I totally reveal my blog for the sham that it is, but country folks know that there are lots and lots of degrees of country-ness, and I am in one of the easier types to move to: the college town. So there are still lectures and sports and arts, just in a town of many fewer people (about 23,000). So that eases the transition some.

Would you describe your neighbors as hicks, hillbillies, hayseeds, or bumpkins?
Mostly, I would describe them as "professors." I might also describe them as "uninterested in meeting me."

Did it turn out that those were mice making noise in your house, or were the Agatha Christie books actually preparing you to deal with a real, honest-to-god serial killer who happened to be lurking around your house?
Oh, the mice are real, which does not mean the serial killer isn't. The problem with Agatha Christie is that all she really prepares you for is solving the murder after it happens. If you're a victim, you're doomed, and nothing can prevent that. All I can hope for is that the serial killer waits until after The Wedding.

[As bzzzzgrrrl is still alive, and The Wedding concluded successfully, we can assume that the killer is either nonexistent, or very considerate.]

Pimp your blog in 25 words or less.
Mostly, I tell stories at my own expense. Also, I'm hilarious. And in general, things are spelled right.

No, I mean really pimp your blog. Pretend you have a gold tooth, and a diamond-headed cane, if it helps. Right now that description could apply just as easily to She Just Walks Around With It as it could to yours. Make me want to pay money to sleep with your blog.
OK, first of all, I would pay money to sleep with Kristy's blog, if it wouldn't create complications with my existing relationships, so if I've given the impression that my little fish-in-different-water story is anything like that, I'm good with it.

But I'll try again, anyway:
• Hot lettuce
• David Gregory
• Cheap drinks
• Pregnant movers
• Hippie Birkenstock Silver Jewelry Guy
• Squirrel-wrangling
• Candidate spouses
• Contra dancing
• Explosive dust evaluation
• and very many bulleted lists.
Better?

Yes.

Yes, it could be called P-Control.

MTV's Parental Control is everything that is wrong--not only with television, but with America as a whole--and I love it. Not just because I'm looking for tips on how to deal with what happens when I let my daughter start dating (twenty-five years from now), but mostly because the combination of reality show staging, empty posturing, and simulated teenage heartbreak is nothing short of magical. I shouldn't love a television show this much, and yet here I am writing about it.

The premise is that there is a set of parents who disapprove of their child's significant other. They explain to the camera why their daughter (or son!) is dating a shiftless layabout in confessional style, intercut with said layabout hamming it up in staged reenactments. Then the parents start interviewing replacements.

The interview sequence is all the earnest desire to please of American Idol tryouts combined with the sketchy meat-market shenanigans of Flavor of/Rock of/Shot at Love. The potential for hilarity here is maximized by the potential "dates" who seem to forget that they are not talking to the person that they are going to be dating, they are talking to that person's parents.

There's a fun mix of people who don't know what they're talking about (like the contestant who said that one of her hobbies was Argentinian Tango, and demonstrated a few steps by bending her knees in a half crouch, keeping her feet planted firmly on the floor, and thrashing her arms and shoulders like a go-go dancer with a freshly broken back) and people who shouldn't be allowed out in public (like the guy who said that if he was a carnival ride, he'd be "the one trick pony!" A pronouncement that was accompanied by pelvic thrusts while his right hand pantomimed hair-pulling and his left hand smacked his imaginary partner on the ass). Usually, one parent selects a new date based on personality, while the other goes for looks.

Here would be a good time to ask ourselves some questions about relationships and the people who want them filmed even while they rip them apart. Pretend that you are in a committed relationship, and your significant other's parents told both of you that they think you're an unworthy loser, and they are actively trying to end this relationship by sending their child out on two blind dates.

1) Wouldn't it be a huge red flag if the person that you thought was committed to you is suddenly willing to date other people because their parents said so?

2) Would you be able to sit next to those parents watching footage of the dates? Would you be able to make wisecracks and talk trash for the cameras trained on the three of you while you watch?

Some of the exchanges here HAVE to be scripted, but at the same time there's genuine fear in the eyes of some of these people; if they're only acting like they're trying to use sarcasm and jokes to cover up the fear that they might be single at the end of the day, they're doing a damn good job of it.

And then there's the final choosing, the whole show's raison d'etre. It's filmed for maximum tension, complete with dramatic music, and the two challengers stand with the contentious current sweetheart to find out who will remain. That's when things get real. Some of these contestants are mouthy. Sure, the people who have just had their long-standing relationship ripped apart on reality television have the right to blow off some steam. I'm talking about the newcomers, the are people who just came from a free date paid for by MTV, who were actively trying to steal someone from an existing relationship, and they suddenly get it into their heads that they've been slighted. The bitter comments of these losers have ranged from "go fuck yourself," "it's just as well you didn't pick me, because I'd never have picked you," and my personal favorite, "that's okay, I would rather have dated your mom."

Parental Control. It's good T.V. (that you'll feel like a bad person for enjoying)

Meeting Eric Bogosian

Eric Bogosian.

The man has to restrain the loose-cannon antics of Mike Logan and Bobby Whatshisface on a weekly basis. He dared to hijack a train while Steven Segal was on board. And I’m in the same building with him. I can get his autograph, if I grab something quick for lunch and rush over to his book signing^* before I have to get back to my exhibition booth.

The nearest place to eat is selling “chicken kebabs,” fist sized knots of chicken gristle that crouch defensively on a bed of rice, aggressively foiling any attempt to cut them with the flimsy plastic utensils provided. My efforts to eat them aren’t pretty, and I’m still struggling with them while on my way to Eric’s booth, because I don’t have much time. I get a place in line, still chewing.

Suddenly, the last person in front of me has moved away, and I am staring at Eric Bogosian with a mouth too full of surprise and chicken gristle to speak. I smile, trying to show that I am both happy to meet him and unable to talk. Afraid that this isn’t getting the message across, I add a little wave. I fight to clear my mouth so that I don’t end up choking physically as badly as I am choking socially. Smiling, chewing, and waving at the same time, I hope that he won't think I'm having a seizure. It’s too late to keep him from thinking that I’m suffering from some kind of brain damage.

He graces me with the smile that he has practiced with his agent. "Hello," he begins, pausing while his eyes scan downwards towards my ID badge, "...Peter."

He sounds exactly as he does on camera. World-weary, detached, and cynical, leavened with a hint of slightly-amused sarcasm. And then I realize that he just read my nametag.

Eric Bogosian just read my nametag!

ERIC BOGOSIAN CAN READ!

AND HE READ MY NAMETAG!

I am beside myself with excitement, and a burst of adrenaline wrenches the chicken down my throat. Now that I can speak, I want to ask if he’s holding a grudge against Casey Ryback for ruining his plans, or if he’s due back at the station to tell the commissioner why there haven’t been any breaks on the case. Instead, I request an autograph.

Hesitantly, I ask, "Can you make it out to my wife, Jennifer?" He complies, and I am even able to get my picture taken with him.

On the trip home, my pictures are ruined by airport x-ray machines, and I am left with 27 hazy photos of blackness, one of which bears a glimpse of a giant inflatable cow. There is no trace of Eric Bogosian on the film.

At least I have my wife's book, which has been inscribed:

To Jnnmql -

Trnml yrrmf
hlsmnfrl.

E_B&wmn

The man's handwriting is as wild and unkempt as his hair.







_{* Talk Radio, published by Theater Communications Group ISBN 978-1-55936-324-2.
I got your back, Eric.}

Pilar

Our dog Pilar had mastered the art of raiding the table at an early age, and realized that she wanted more out of life. She couldn't leave it up to The Man to classify something as food, restricting herself to what society said was edible. So she broadened her horizons, eating things like balloons and rubber gloves. When brother wouldn't play catch with her, she ate his favorite computer game’s disk. And when she felt like having a snack, she'd eat matchbooks, pinning them between her paws and carefully licking the connected heads like an ice cream cone.

Eventually, she ate 5 ant traps in an afternoon. Mom had bought the traps along with a few other things that Pilar usually ignored, like lightbulbs, and thought that our dog could be trusted with them in the car for a few minutes. Pilar thought otherwise. Whether she consumed the traps in a fit of pique after being kept waiting for too long, or just satisfying her boundless epicurean curiosity, we'll never know. By the time mom got back to the car, the damage was done. The vet said that 3 can put a dog in a coma.

Pilar’s mealtime discipline was bad from the start. As the new dog in a house that hosted up to 7 children, Pilar received a lot of table scraps from fussy eaters desperate to clean their plates. My brother and I ate salad by eating the green stuff, and giving the red stuff to the dog. By the time our parents caught on, it was too late. Pilar had learned that not only was people food as edible as dog food, it was usually tastier. She silently vowed to include it in her diet whenever she could.

Pilar recognized that we could no longer help her, so she began to help herself. Our laps were at eye level, and usually draped with napkins. Napkins that ended up dirty. Like Dune’s sandworms detecting the slightest vibrations made by prey, Pilar sensed the subtle odors made by trace amounts of food. Our miniature Shai Hulud would rustle unseen under the table, visible only briefly as a flash of teeth claiming used napkins to be consumed at her leisure. From then on, napkins were kept out of reach, but I'm still clumsy at dinner. I need time to register that in Pilar's absence, anything placed in my lap will stay there. And I still want to warn friends not to put their napkins where the dog can get them.

As food sources became scarce, Pilar resorted to more drastic measures. She started begging for food, much the same way that pickpockets and muggers roam a city begging for wallets. She started innocently enough, staring at her mark in a mute yet adorably optimistic plea. Then she got impatient. Occasionally, she barked her displeasure. As she realized that food would not be offered, she decided that it must be taken. Her expression melted into calculated resolve as she formulated an attack strategy. And then she waited carefully for the split second of inattention in which she could launch her furry little Schlieffen plan. The instant that guards were down, she was up and on the attack. She would twist her neck to open her mouth horizontally, extending her range further, and moving her lower jaw clear to scrape plates clean with her teeth. From above, she looked like a hairy black pac-man streaking across the plates. She'd grab anything within reach, swallowing smaller items whole, and cramming everything else into her mouth, keeping at it until she was dragged away, chewing triumphantly.

After she chewed through her nylon collar, it was replaced by a chain that jingled merrily as she trotted around the house. It bound her body, but not her spirit. The giddy chiming of her new collar was an alarm, warning everyone to finish eating quickly, before she drew closer. Her black wagging tail, cresting gaily above the far edge of the table as she worked her way around the dining room, looked like nothing so much as a shark's fin prowling for its next meal. It added a sense of adventure to mealtimes.

But not many people recognized the warning signs. My friend Josh was visiting when my mother warned him not to let the dog eat his food. He made the mistake of turning his head towards her to ask for clarification. Mom had served from the left, and at that moment, Pilar came zooming in to remove from the right, ending up eyebrow-deep in food before Josh had any idea that something was wrong.

And so she chewed her way through life with gusto, eating food, household items, and the aforementioned 5 ant traps, which only gave her mild constipation. We tried to figure out the reason behind her miraculous survival after eating them, especially given the vet’s grim pronouncement. Maybe Pilar was impervious to damage of any kind? Maybe the traps were defective? Maybe the vet was thinking of a different, more lethal type of ant trap? Maybe the vet was an idiot. We reviewed all the possibilities carefully, and realized that given the evidence, there was only one conclusion at which any rational person could arrive.

It was pretty cool knowing that I had an indestructible superdog.

Cemetery Work

I needed a summer job when I was in high school, so I worked in a cemetery for a few months. It wasn't much different from any other landscaping job. Kind of like maintaining a golf course, only with more tombstones.

Most of the time was spent mowing the grass. If you were lucky, you got to mow the empty field that they had put aside for future development. That meant long stretches of time spent driving a rider mower in lines so straight that you could catch a quick nap before it was time to turn around and head back the other way. Every now and then you got to menace a groundhog, which would easily outrun the underpowered mowers in a kind of waddling hustle that still managed to express its contempt.

Avoiding the groundhog holes was vastly preferable to weaving around floral arrangements and those mini flags that members of the armed services get. You would have to steer the mower as close to them as you could, stopping every few feet to reach out and move one of them onto the grass that you had just cut. Then, at the end of the row you'd turn and mow the grass that you had just cleared of obstacles, stopping again every few feet to pick up the displaced items and put them back into their original positions. It was tedious and awkward, and since the front of the mower was much wider than the back, it was tricky to ride close enough to pick things up without getting so close that they got destroyed by the mower.

It was particularly rough with the little flags. The older ones had gotten yanked out of the ground and shoved back in so often that their stands were permanently bent. Over time, the bends got so severe that the holders angled out over the ground, with the flags almost touching the grass. You had to make wide detours to avoid clipping them, since it would have been a serious insult to the generations of brave men and women who gave their lives for our country if one of those drooping flags was accidentally sucked into one of the mowers. As weak as the mowers were, the flags were mass-produced and cheap, fixed to their posts with the most tenuous of bonds. It didn't take much suction to rip a flag clean off its mounting and send it flying through the whirling blades, to emerge out the other side as so much red, white, and blue confetti. So thank god it never happened, which is why no one needs to check the trash dump behind the machine shop to see if I tried to hide the evidence out there.

The machine shop was in the back of the cemetery, hidden in a bunch of trees behind the mausoleum. It was where we kept the digging equipment. Everyone pictures gravedigging work to be two guys with shovels working by lantern light under a full moon, like the science of body disposal reached its apex back in the fourteen hundreds. But trying to excavate almost 150 cubic feet of dirt unassisted is hard goddamn work. And just like any other business, there's a constant pressure to do things bigger, cheaper, and faster to make them more profitable. That's why the backhoe and the dump truck are the modern gravedigger's accessories, and the only time that people actually use picks and shovels is when they need to widen a hole but don't want to crack open a burial vault by mistake.

Burial vaults went into all the graves in the cemetery. They were thick concrete shells that were fitted over the caskets, supposedly to keep the earth from settling as the contents deteriorated. I was comforted by them. While the cemetery would be ground zero in the event of a zombie attack, I knew that the vaults would keep the undead in their place. And if zombies are able to punch through solid concrete before burrowing through six feet of packed earth, using nothing but their bare hands and a seething hatred for the living, then you don't need to look for a hiding place. Because there isn't one to be found.

But that was no reason to get complacent, and I always kept a weather eye open for the first signs of a zombie uprising. The job was pretty low-stress, but I had absolutely no desire to stay there after dark. And neither did anyone else that I worked with. I don't know where people got the idea that cemetery work is done at night. We just worked normal hours, from 8 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, and didn't hang around at the end of the day. The only person crazy enough to do that was the guy who lived there.

As you can imagine, it's difficult to find a tenant for a house that's in a cemetery, which is why this particular house was leased out rent-free. Anyone could live there, as long as they could do two things. They'd have to mow their "front lawn" (the strip of grass between the house and the fence), and they'd have to ignore the fact that at any moment they could have their souls turned inside out or ripped to shreds by supernatural horrors from beyond the grave. The tenants got a place to stay, and the cemetery had someone on-site after hours if vandals or punk kids broke in and started screwing around.

The only time we ever saw the bodies is when other people came in and started messing with them. Like the time that somebody broke into one of the private crypts and left an arm in the bushes. The rest of the time, the job was just putting big boxes into bigger boxes and then dumping a lot of dirt onto them. When it comes to corpse exposure, cemetery work is probably the least unnerving of all the death services industries.

We never saw the bodies, and we never saw the mourners. Like shoe-cobbling elves, we did our work unseen, getting the blue-and-white pavilion ready for the service before disappearing back to the machine shop. We set up chairs, and did our part to make the grave look less like the yawning chasm of infinity that waits to swallow us all. This was accomplished with sheets of artificial grass, like those you find on mini golf courses, draped down the sides of the pit to disguise the bare soil. The steel sling that lowered the casket was placed on top of them, to keep them from slipping out of place. With the dirt from the excavation carted away in the dump truck, it looked like the grave was a natural formation that had always been there, and hadn't been slashed from the earth just that morning or the day before. Once everything was in place, we kept out of sight until the service was over and everyone was gone. Then we'd clean it all up, and fill in the hole.

The Punched Monkey

I know someone who punched the monkey.

My coworkers are good people, but they're not too complicated. Code Red, Pepsi Blue, GoGurt, Liquid Ice, they'll try anything if it has enough buzz behind it. They’re a marketer's wet dream.

Mary is a coworker of mine who is particularly naive, a big fan of taking people at their word and acting without considering the consequences. One time she ended up homeless for a few weeks because she was promised that a gutted apartment would be totally refurnished in less than a month, and ready for her to live in. She had to move out of her old place at the end of its lease, and was supposed to move into the refurnished apartment the very next day. Strangely, when her move-in date arrived and the apartment still wasn’t ready, the realtor wouldn't return her calls and was never in the office when she stopped by. Imagine that.

Back in November, there was a bit of a gadget binge. MP3 players were the New Hip Thing. (hey, I never said that they were current with the trends, I just said that they followed them, which makes their behavior more touchingly tragic). At the same time that their eyes had been opened to the possibility of portable music without tapes or CDs, the Nano was causing a stir, and it was time to start thinking about Christmas presents. Maybe they wanted one of their own. Maybe they would be the perfect gifts for significant others. Maybe this time, after so many hollow promises and false hopes, an iPod would be the one thing that they had been searching for after all these years to make their empty lives complete.

That's when Mary got it into her head that she needed an iPod. I'll tell you right now that she needed an one like Bruce Campbell needs twenty pairs of sequined pink ballet slippers. This woman had no idea how an iPod worked. I don’t know if she thought that they magically picked up songs from the radio, or if you put songs on the iPod by rubbing it against a CD really hard, but she didn’t realize that you need to connect it to a computer to add a playlist. She barely grasped the idea that songs can be stored as MP3’s, and was stunned to find out that the iPod stored those MP3’s on a tiny hard drive. It's also worth noting that she never wore headphones, a walkman, or a portable CD player into work, but by god her life wouldn't be complete unless she had an iPod of her very own. And then she saw the link.

I don't know what it said. Probably something like "PUNCH THE LOW MORTGATE RATE TO GET HERBAL VIAGRAS FOR LESS! ALSO, IPODS!1!" Whatever it was, it said "free iPod," and that meant that she was going to get one.

My coworkers aren't complete idiots. And most of them knew that any company giving away iPods to everyone on the internet was going to end up bankrupt in five minutes. They knew it was a scam, and they all tried to talk Mary out of it. But Mary thought she was smarter than that. After all, they had to give out some iPods, right? They wouldn’t be allowed to put out false advertising, would they? Sure, they might not be giving out millions of them, but they had to give away at least one, or they’d be telling a lie. And if they did give one out, she was going to be the person who got it. Like some modern-day David, she'd take on this marketing Goliath, and wrest an iPod from them with her cunning wiles. She probably wouldn't even have to take her clothes off to do it.

Once she began her quest, she spent the rest of the afternoon handing over all of her personal information. Other people might have thought that it was risky, but she was going to beat the system. Name, age, address, date of birth, phone number, mother's maiden name, first pet’s name, number of felony convictions, favorite brand of peanut butter, there was nothing she wouldn't tell them in pursuit of her iPod. She applied for a credit card. She completed two marketing surveys. And she subscribed to three magazines. That’s when we told her that she was never going to see that iPod, but she didn't want to hear it.

The next day she came rushing in to work all excited. "Guess what, guys! I just got an e-mail confirming my order, and they're going to ship out my iPod! It should arrive in 4 weeks!" We used that opportunity to tell her again that she was never going to see that iPod.

A week or so after that, she brought in one of those massive packages from a CD club. The ones where they can’t just list the CDs for sale, they have to include tiny little pictures of the albums in case you shopped for music based on the pretty colors. She was supposed to pick her free CDs now, and sign up to buy additional CDs every month. It turned out that joining their club was part of the iPod application process. Hey, she'd need a bigger music collection since she was going to be able to listen to it anywhere, right? A few people had fun helping her pick out CDs, but most of us were asking when she was going to see that iPod.

"I'm serious guys, it's going to be here in 4 weeks," she insisted. As though repeating it often enough would make it true.

Eventually, I heard her spending another afternoon in pursuit of her iPod. This time she was on the phone. I guess that in addition to the magazines, and the CD’s, she had been enrolled in a few of those credit card programs.

They’re the programs where they charge you a monthly fee to watch your credit report, or to send you coupons for disounts, or to ensure that you'd be "protected" if you couldn't make your monthly credit card payments. They come up with new ways to scare you with tales of the Terrible Things that can happen to Unprepared People, and then they promise you that their program will be your one true light and salvation in these dark and turbulent times. Then they pretend that they’re making your life better while they keep charging you a substantial monthly fee. Mary was on the phone trying to cancel the programs before their free trial periods expired.

Have you ever tried to do that? It's like trying to win knife fight against a lawnmower. You can't just cancel, you have to tell them why you want to cancel. Then they tell you why the reason you just gave them was a bad one, and how you don't really want to cancel the excellent service that they're providing you. If you insist on cancelling without giving them a reason, they “have” to make you listen to a prolonged marketing pitch so that you'll find out about "all of the great features you'll be missing." But don’t blame them for it, it’s their civic duty. After all, they can't just let you cancel without considering all the useless crap that they're forcing on you, because letting you pass up such magnificent bargains would be like ripping you off! They think that if they talk long enough, you'll get so bored or confused that you hang up.

"When's the iPod getting here?" we asked Mary.

"Any day now. I'm serious, it's due to arrive sometime this week or next week! And I'll bring it in, and you'll all be jealous," she insisted.

Finally, she admitted that she had received one last e-mail regarding her iPod. It turned out that the credit card application she had filled out at the beginning of the whole ordeal had been rejected. As a result, she was no longer eligible to receive the free iPod, and her "order" had been cancelled. But thank god that all those things she had signed up for in the meantime had required an active credit card to enroll. Since she had put them onto one of her other cards while she waited for the new card's approval, they had a ready source of funding. She may not have gotten an iPod, but if she hadn't punched the monkey, she wouldn't have gotten such an up close and personal view of all the different customer service companies that were now charging her monthly fees.

I'd like to think that her experience made Mary a little more skeptical, a little less willing to expect something for nothing. Even if she is going on a "vacation" this weekend to listen to some company pitch her a timeshare.

But that's what happens when you punch the monkey.