I go through fazes with fast food. Sometimes I eat it way too often. Sometimes I don't eat it for months on end. I see each restaurant on a continuum, ranging from the healthiest options on one end to the worst options on the other. McDonald's, for me, is the absolute worst. Not only is it horrible for you, but I hate both the taste and the smell. I distinctly remember the last time I ate at McDonald's. It was in the summer of 1995 and I was in Salem, Oregon. I had a large order of fries and a Diet Coke.

Subway, on the other hand, is my gateway drug. I can go to Subway with the intention of getting a six-inch veggie sandwich, only to walk out with a footlong meatball sub with olives, onions, and extra cheese, which is pretty much the same thing as eating half a pizza.

What I'm driving at is that I go to Subway a lot. And every single time I go there, I come out with a story. I've shared some of them here before. Here are a few more.

Worst Sandwich Ever
The worst sandwich I've ever seen someone order at Subway was a six-inch cold-cut combo on white bread with iceberg lettuce and mayonnaise, with the cold cuts heated up in the microwave.

A very old woman ordered this, and I believe that the microwave part happened because she thought she should have it heated up so as to get her money's worth, yet felt like having the whole sandwich toasted was just too much trouble for the sandwich artists. The life-lesson here is that when you combine Midwestern stinginess with Minnesota nice, you end up eating a nuked bologna sandwich with lettuce.

Die! Die! Die!
There's always someone annoying in front of me at Subway. This is one of life's constants. Once I had five people ahead of me and waited for about 15 minutes. When the woman directly in front of me stepped up for her turn, she said, "Hm. Now let's see ... what do I want ... ?"

Then there was the 30ish woman who spent her whole turn preemptively screeching at her amazingly well-behaved children and silent husband because, well, that's what you're supposed to do in her world I guess. "OK, you can go get a bag of chips ... JUST ONE BAG OF CHIPS, SKYLER! ONE BAG! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! TOM, GET OVER THERE AND MAKE SURE SHE JUST TAKES ONE BAG! JESUS, TOM, ARE YOU DEAF?"

Most recently, the woman in front of me ordered three or four footlong subs (these people always do) and went into great detail about which veggies she wanted on each of them, then realized she had it all wrong and made the worker take off the veggies and start over. The worst part was that she said the word "jalapeños" about 15 times, but pronounced it "hallapeenos." I wanted to smother her to death with an Italian BMT (which incidentally does not stand for "bacon, meat, and tomatoes").

Utter Confusion
One of Subways strengths in my mind is also the thing that strikes terror into the hearts of many of its patrons: the variety of choices. I've seen so many people stop stone solid in fear when given the power to choose their own toppings.

"Well, what's supposed to go on it?" they always ask. The person behind the counter then explains that they can have whatever they want. This is when the real paralysis sets in. "Uh ... um ... lettuce and tomatoes I guess," they say, falling back onto standard Whopper-toppings, a relative comfort zone. Maybe next time they'll go for something crazy like pickles. Maybe.

Side note: I never get lettuce on my subs, which is apparently rare, because no matter which Subway I go to, and no matter who's working, they always ask about the veggies with their gloved hand already buried in the lettuce. But I don't want any, dude! I'm a Subway expert!

Maybe every business is like this. I don't know, whatever. I'm sure good things do happen at Subway. Hell, I met my girlfriend at Subway. But I just think that it's one of those places that attracts the weird.

It's damn good fast food, though. Damn good.

Last year I didn't even take my phone books inside. It seemed wrong to just pick them up off the porch and toss them directly into the blue bin, but this when new garbage starts piling up on top of old garbage, you finally have to start admitting that it is all utterly useless rubbish.

I wish the people who make phone books would finally admit that it's no longer 1985.

I stole this can cozy during the Grandma's Marathon celebration circa 1997. It reads "Turbodog." I have no idea what that means.

A couple of nights ago while I was doing my midnight shopping at Cub Foods, I saw a woman in her mid-50s, slightly grungy looking, wearing a Barack Obama button and browsing the rack of foam can-cozies. And they say Obama has no supporters in the white lower class. Here was a Jane Sixpack who obviously doesn't cling to guns or religion.

I didn't stick around to see which can cozy she chose, which sassy slogan she found most suitable for her lifestyle and attitude. She didn't seem like the rambunctious party type, so I doubt she chose "I have a drinking problem: two hands, one mouth." She seemed too nice for something like, "U toucha my beer, I breaka u face." If I had to guess, I'd say she went for "Born to fish, forced to work."

All of this got me to thinking about can cozies and can-cozy culture. Personally, I'm not very picky about the temperature of my beverages, and at home I rarely even put my beer in the fridge. But I'm weird that way. I can see how using a can cozy could be practical, especially if you're out in the backyard on a warm day, playing horseshoes with the extended family. In addition to keeping your drink cold, it could help you keep track of which can is yours.

It's the slogans that really baffle me, though. They're always the same slogans, whether they're on cozies, T-shirts, or baseball caps, and they're very popular among the WalMart set. I know people just like to hear the same jokes over and over (which also explains the popularity of Eddie Murphy's last twelve movies) but I like to imagine that people are choosing these slogans for more practical reasons. Somewhere out there right now, someone is saying, "I was going to ask Bill to help me move, but his can cozy indicated that he's retired and that I shouldn't ask him to do a damn thing."

I remember being in a hardware store once with my dad when I was a kid. He held up a length of foam pipe insulation, scratched his chin, and smiled. "I think this is the exact diameter of a can," he said. He plopped down some ridiculously small amount for it -- something like 39¢ -- and took it home. Sure enough, he was right. So he sliced that thing up on the band saw, and suddenly we had about eight new can cozies.

I was on a Pepsi kick that summer (it was "The Choice of a New Generation™" at the time) so I used the homemade cozies to keep my soda cold while I shot hoops in the backyard and fantasized about all the money I could make by cutting up foam pipe insulation into can-sized slices, painting them with my own wacky slogans, and selling them at a ridiculous markup.

I don't think my fantasies extending into the realm of actual slogans. But even off the top of my head, I still think I could do better than the 15 or 20 established slogans that you see everywhere. How about, "My other beer is fuller"? Or, "This machine destroys boredom"?

Better yet, how about an image of the tab on top of the can with the slogan, "Turn it to the side"?

Hm. If you need me, I'll be at the hardware store.

Four months ago, without notice or ceremony, I disabled the commenting system on this blog. I didn't have a problem with the people who routinely commented on this blog specifically (far from it, actually -- my commenters were consistently intelligent and funny). My problem was, and remains, the idea of commenting at large. Every day, I hate it just a little bit more. And every day, I hate the human race even more than that.

Some posts truly are conversations. And don't get me wrong -- I enjoy spirited debate as much as or possibly more than the next person. Hell, I even run a site that's practically devoted to conversation. But for the most part, comments are just a useless and increasingly annoying part of the web that bloggers, corporations, and site administrators seem to find absolutely necessary in this Web 2.0 era.

I think the type of comments I loathe the most are the ones found on newspaper websites. Overall, they read like a transcript of AM talk radio, only without a host. These people come across -- almost without exception -- boorish, asinine, and flat-out stupid. They make me cringe with shame, and whenever I read them, I become more and more frightened for the world we live in because these people can vote! And if you should ever be wrongfully accused of a crime, these people will make up the jury of your peers! Right this second, most of them are at home passing their values on to their children!

My suspicion is that newspapers allow these comments on their websites because they know that it drives up their hit-count. I know I read them every day, even though I agree with absolutely none of them and they absolutely disgust me. Also, whenever someone cuts me off in traffic, I pull up next to them at the next stoplight so I can get a good look at the asshole. It's a similar behavior, and I admit that I'm part of the problem.

Another loathsome type of commenter is the uninformed helper. Try this: Next time something goes wrong with your computer, or your car, your German shepherd, or your meatloaf, go online and Google the problem. Chances are, you'll find a slew of blogs and message boards where someone has posted about having the exact same problem you're having. They've made the mistake of reaching out to the commenting community on the internet.

Usually, the first commenter will suggest something imbecilic, such as "Are you sure your computer is plugged in?" or "Maybe you put the meatloaf in the fridge instead of the oven. I DID THAT ONCE!" As if that isn't bad enough, the second comment will often post, "I don't know." I. Don't. Know. People actually take the time to read a help request they know nothing about, then log in, and post that they don't know. Well, thanks, kind sir. Because I was indeed talking directly to you.

I'd like to give a special mention to a certain person who, while he isn't by any means the worst commenter who ever could be, sticks in my mind like a gritty, sandy irritant. I think it was about two years ago, when I posted a photo on my Flick account. In between the time it took to put in the title and tags after I uploaded the photo, someone I did not know or have any connection to posted a complete critique of my apartment in the background of the photo. What he liked, what he didn't like, what I should change, etc. Like I said, I didn't know him, and he didn't know me. I just happened to have the most recent photo on Flickr, and he clicked on it. Way to make friends and influence people, buddy.

Lastly, there's lowest common denominator: the scourge of the internet, the "me-too" commenter. While these people have been around since the net began, they've taken on a new level of sophistication since blogs boomed in popularity a few years ago. Now the me-too commenter is a blog whore who skims blog posts for a general idea, which they turn into a bland, inane comment, all so that they can get their own name out there as much as possible. You can frequently spot them, because often it's obvious that they haven't read the post or the other comments very closely if at all. It's just shameful and annoying, and I want it to end. I fear, however, that it's only beginning.

In concept, comments would be a good idea if they actually did promote community and debate. And that's possible. They can, in some rare cases. But for the most part, they're a tool to drive up hits. Their relative anonymity and lack of responsibility tend to bring out the worst in people.

Not everything needs to be a conversation.

Last week, my cousin asked me if I was going to attend my nephew's wedding on Saturday. "No," I said. "I have to work all weekend." Another woman who was standing nearby was incredulous.

"You're working instead of going to a wedding?" she said.

"His own nephew's wedding!" my cousin said.

The truth is, I didn't even know about my nephew's wedding that Saturday. Oh, sure, I got an invitation in the mail a month or so beforehand, which I put on an table somewhere intending to RSVP. But of course I never did. I forgot all about it, and when the day came, I hadn't taken it off or bought a present, or anything even close to that.

I felt bad. Then I remembered that I'd never attended any of my nephews' or nieces' weddings. I'm not sure whether that made me feel better or worse. But it made me understand myself a little bit better.

I can't believe that there are people so together that when they receive a wedding invitation, they actually RSVP, then go out and purchase a present, get dressed up, and attend the wedding. With a guest! Chances are, they don't even get drunk at the reception and knock over the ice sculpture either. These people are like aliens to me.

It's not that I don't care. I do care. When someone gets married, I wish them the best of luck, and would happily do so in person if only I could remember it was happening. The thing is, I'm 35 years old now, and my mind has been operating in this way for a long, long time. If you're getting married, I would like to receive an invitation, but I can't promise to attend or even to RSVP. I may attend. You never know.

Here are some other issues I'd like to get out in the open, as long as I'm on the topic.

» Unless you're on Facebook, I don't know when your birthday is.
It pains me to say this, but I have no idea when any of my siblings were born. I know the approximate season, and maybe the month, but that's as close as I can come. I know my dad's birthday, but only because it's September 11. (I honestly even forgot that every year from 2002-2005, somehow.)

» If your utility company doesn't have an online bill pay option, or better yet an auto-pay, don't expect me to pay you until you shut something off.
Seriously, though, this isn't my fault. It's two thousand goddamn eight. Do you actually expect me to write a check, put it in an envelope, go to the Post Office to buy a stamp, and mail your money to you? How cute. Yes, I realize that I work at the Post Office, and don't think the irony is lost on me. And don't think I don't have to stand in line for an hour like everyone else. Off the clock.

I don't want to be this way, necessarily. But more and more, I'm realizing that this is how I am. Please don't hate me, and also, I beg you, please don't reciprocate.

Christa recently wrote about the Get-Him System, a pamphlet she ordered from an ad in Teen magazine when she was in junior high. The Get-Him System detailed "how to get the boy you want and keep him," which turned out to be a list of completely obvious advice such as "be yourself" and "laugh at his jokes."

Sure, it sounds completely obvious at first, but when I think about it, it might not be. If today's teenage girls are using the current lineup of shows on MTV as their guide, for example, they might believe that the way to get guys is to behave as a totally antisocial bitch who constantly nags everyone within earshot at top volume while demanding cosmetic surgery and bemoaning their entire 101 pounds of fatness and ugliness. The college girls who live on my block certainly seem to subscribe to the MTV standard, so it's not difficult to believe that some of these kids could benefit from some painfully transparent ideas.

"Be yourself" is good enough for teenagers (or better yet, as Kurt Vonnegut once advised, "wear nice clothes and smile a lot"). But this got me thinking about single people my own age. What advice can I give to them, based on my own experience as well as that of my friends and acquaintances?

I now present to you, absolutely free of charge and without waiting 12-16 weeks for delivery:

The Get-Him (or Her) System 2.0: Dating Advice for People in Their 30s

» Don't be married.
I am absolutely serious here. When people in their 30s date, there's nothing hotter than finding out that a potential mate is not currently married to anyone else. If your online dating profile contains phrases such as "married and cheating" or "taken and flirting," or if one of your turn-ons is "discretion," the best thing you can do is get a divorce, separate all your belongings, enroll in therapy for awhile, spend some time enjoying your new independent life, and then attempt to attract the girl or guy of your dreams. Just sayin'.

» Don't be creepy.
There are several types of people in the dating pool as grown adults. Some have been married and divorced. Some are shy. Some are picky. Some have been focusing on other things, such as a career.

And then there are many -- most, one might say -- who are creeps.

If you are not a creep, this is great news for you. While on one hand it does mean that you will have to wade through batches and batches of creeps to find the one that you want, it also means that you are intensely desirable. Aren't sure whether or not you are a creep? Here are some clues.

-- The number of cats in your home reaches into the double digits.
-- When you are feeling romantic, your thoughts turn to diapers, animals, excrement, or any combination thereof.
-- The health department has ever been called to your place of living.
-- Your bed has more than five dolls or stuffed animals on it.
-- You have any valid restraining orders against you.

There are multitudinous other signs that you are creepy. These are only some of the most common. If you are a creep, or a borderline creep, don't fret. There's someone for everyone. However, the less creepy you are, the better your chances are at attracting someone. So don't just act normal. Be normal.

» Have a job and an apartment
By now, you may feel that I'm setting the dating bar very low. I'm not. In fact, I'm just being realistic. Eligible, single, employed people in their 30s who don't live with their parents are indeed hard to come by. Nothing sets a potential partner's mind at ease more than discovering that their date actually dressed his or herself in their own place, drove to the restaurant, and is able to at least pay for their own meal with actual earnings.

If have a job that pays a living wage and you own your own home, you might want to consider charging people to date you.

» Wear clothes purchased in the current century
Listen. I realize you're excited when you look at the Gap ads and discover that some of the cuts and styles that are popular now are similar to things that you still own and wear. However, this doesn't mean that we can't tell that you first wore your high-waisted jeans to Mrs. Hendrickson's fifth-period Algebra II class in 1989. Throw them in the Dumpster and have some effing pride.

Likewise you might want to ditch that banana clip and/or that Member's Only jacket. Seriously.

» Shave that molester mustache
And invest in some glasses that didn't come from Walgreens. Once again: Seriously.

» More than anything else, remember: Finding someone to love in your 30s is a lot like starring in one of George Romero's Living Dead movies. The first thing you need to do is convince everyone you're not a zombie and to find the other non-zombies. From there, it's extremely easy to figure out who you love and who you hate.

It took about 20 minutes after leaving Ely's Peak before I noticed the first tick. Luckily, it wasn't on me, but on Christa, and even more luckily, it wasn't on her skin, but on her sweatshirt. We had just pulled into the driveway and were getting out of my car when I saw the little demon. I picked it off and dispatched it, but it was then that I knew (flashing back to all the bushwhacking we'd done while leaving one trail and searching for another) that the tickiness had only just begun.

Like good, clean citizens who would rather not contract Lyme disease or walk around with something resembling a white jelly bean attached to their foreheads, we inspected ourselves as soon as we got in the door. Nope. Nothing. Not a tick on board. Still, I was skeptical.

Crawling through the ticky woods of Northern Minnesota in springtime is not always a delight. I remember one time several years ago, when a friend of mine found something like 23 ticks after we returned from an afternoon hike. I got luck again that time -- I only had six. That was probably the most I've ever had, even though I've done quite a bit of hiking, backpacking and camping in my time. The only thing I can possibly attribute it to is that I eat a lot of garlic.

Anyway, you want the horror story and that's what I'm here to write so here it is. After inspecting for ticks, I took a shower and we went out to dinner. Then we came home and watched a movie and went to bed. About two hours later I woke up, scratched my belly, and bam -- there was a tick.

I don't know if you've ever removed a tick .64 seconds after you woke up from a dead sleep, but let me tell you, it usually doesn't involve tweezers and a careful inspection of where the head meets the abdomen, like all the pamphlets tell you. I grabbed that little fucker and yanked it like I was free-falling 50,000 feet in the air and pulling the ripcord. I leaped up, stumbled into the kitchen and burned his eight-legged ass. Then I crawled back into bed and slept the sleep of the just.

But in the days since all of this happened, here's what I've come to find out. When you grab a tick and yank it out of your body, inevitably some of his body, namely his head, stays where he buried it. Also, when you grab a tick by the abdomen really hard, he, like any rational being, spits the contents of his abdomen into whatever it is he's chewing on. All of this leads to a big, itchy, red skin-volcano that oozes goo until the goddamn bug head is expelled down onto the villagers below. And when you wake up in the middle of the night and find that, you have to leap out of bed once again and look up Lyme disease on WebMD until you're satisfied by their claims that you won't get it if you remove the damn thing within 36 hours. Plus you knew it was a woodtick anyway, not a deer tick, but that doesn't matter when you're looking at Mt. Vesuvius on your own abdomen at 4:39am.

I should have just delicately removed it, flicked it onto the old lady, and went back to sleep. That would have saved me a lot of trouble and worry.

In the middle of the night, roll over in your sleep, in such a way that the corner of your pillow catches the (full) water glass on your nightstand and dumps the entire thing directly onto your face.

I highly recommend it.

...I think if I was gonna be a gay porn star, my screen name would be B.J. Baracas.

"Why do people live in outlandish climates in the temperate zones, as they are miscalled? Because people are naturally idiots, naturally sluggards, naturally cowards. Until I was about ten years old, I never realized that there were "warm" countries, places where you didn't have to sweat for a living, nor shiver and pretend that it was tonic and exhilarating. Wherever there is cold there are people who work themselves to the bone and when they produce young they preach to the young the gospel of work -- which is nothing at bottom, but the doctrine of inertia. My people were entirely Nordic, which is to say idiots."

-- Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn

Awhile back, I had the idea to start this as a meme. Then I realized that I hate memes. I decided to start it anyway. Then I realized that I don't have comments, and that I really don't want to tag anyone because I prefer to read the stuff that people come up with on their own. Then I realized it didn't have to be a meme, that I could just write it on its own. So I guess it's a meme for one. A meme for ... me. Me.

Maybe you'll find it useful.

For watching TV online, I use Hulu
Hulu is pretty much a perfect model for online TV watchin'. It's free. It's legal. It requires very little effort to sign up. It works on a Mac (without Internet Explorer even!). Best of all, it actually works. Even though it's still kind of an infant, the selection is quite good. Most of the current programs are present, along with a slew of old stuff. While I'd like to see more than 3-5 episodes of The Simpsons and The Family Guy, there's still plenty of great content, including movies. Don't believe me? Here's The Jerk, in its entirety.

For mp3 downloads, I used eMusic
eMusic works like this: For $9.95 per month, you can download 30 songs. There's no DRM, meaning that you can use the mp3s on any player, and make as many CD copies as you want. Also, they never "expire" so you can also keep them forever. The one catch: If you don't use up your 30 downloads by the end of the month, you wasted them, because they don't roll over into the next month. The other catch: The selection leans heavily toward indie stuff, so you're not going to find any Justin Timberlake or Warrant for downloading.

For (quasi-legal) mp3 downloads, I use Hype Machine
This is an aggregator of sorts for music blogs. Whenever someone posts an mp3 to their blog, Hype Machine links to it. You can search for whatever bands or songs you're looking for, and if someone has uploaded it to their blog (whether legally or illegally) you can go there and grab it. I like to use this to find full-track samples of bands I'm not familiar with. If I find I like the sample song, I might go buy the rest of the album.

For general advice, I use Lifehacker
Think "Hints from Heloise" only for nerds. Lifehacker features great tips and tricks for tech stuff (about 80% of the site) as well as the real world (about 20%). You'll find information about various Firefox plugins next to instructions for jailbreaking your iPhone next to advice for organizing your sweaters. I really like it.

If anyone does decide to do this, let me know. I always like finding out about useful junk.

So I'm on my lunch break at work and I'm peeling an orange while reading the newspaper. I'm not looking at the orange at all, just peeling entirely by feel while I'm engrossed in whatever it is I'm reading.

When I finish peeling the orange, I separate it into two halves and then I finally look down at the orange and my hands and stifle a scream.

Ohhhh wait ... I remember ... this is a blood orange.

Here's another great idea of mine which will never come to fruition.

Every day I read the Duluth News Tribune's online version of the local newspaper. I also enjoy the blog News Tribune Attic, which features DNT photos and stories from years past.

My idea for a new DNT blog would be called "News Tribune Lineup." Each post would feature a crime story from a different month and year (e.g. July, 2004; February, 1988) along with five or six mug shots from that time. After reading the story, the reader would get to "Pick the Perp" and choose which mug shot belongs to the story.

See? It's fun, it's interactive, and it gets people interested in their community's history. I don't see why it wouldn't fly.

The best part would be the mug shots of civic leaders, local heroes, and DNT staff mixed in with the photos of criminals. Sorry, that isn't a photo of an arsonist from Two Harbors...that's former Duluth mayor Ben Boo. That isn't the Superior, WIs. man who put his mother down the garbage disposal...that's cub reporter Will Ashenmacher.

So I've been listening to a lot of new music lately. For the past few weeks, I've been kicking around the idea of starting an album review blog, simply as a means to keep track of everything I've been listening to. Then I realized -- hey! -- I already have a blog, on which I've reviewed plenty of things in the past, and there's no reason why I can't just start reviewing albums on that in addition to all the other BS I write throughout the week.

I guess the reason I'm making this post is to pass out some caveats. I'm not an expert in the album-review field. I'll probably write about things you've already read about and listened to yourself. You probably won't even want to read my reviews. That's OK. Mainly I'm writing them for myself, and subjecting them to you people because that's the way I like it.

Frequently I meet people in their 30s and 40s who still exclusively listen to the same music they liked when they were 16. I don't get that. I mean, sure, I still like Guns 'N' Roses, but there's only so many times I can listen to "Sweet Child O' Mine" in a day. I've moved on since then, and I like new things. But I understand...people are kind of lazy. It takes time and effort to seek out new stuff, and most people aren't willing to undertake it.

So I suppose if these reviews are to have an audience, I'd like it to be those people. The ones who don't know much about contemporary music at all, and aren't going to nitpick my taste to death. Maybe I'll inspire you to try out an album or two. Whatever. I'm just going to have fun with this attempt to listen to music more thoughtfully.

I'll try to write a review every week or so. Starting ... now.

I do. Seriously. I can think of no other group of people -- with the exception of blonde women in their early 20s who drive white Grand Ams -- who I prejudge more.

I don't mean to say that I hate Irish people individually. I don't. In fact, I can't say that I've ever met an Irish person that I disliked. Hell, even my girlfriend is a red-haired, green-eyed Irishwoman, although other than the first time we ever hung out, when she puked on my feet and then kept on drinking for another four hours, she doesn't really act Irish and she can even pass for white most of the time. No, what I'm saying is that I hate the Irish collectively. You know, as a class, or better yet as an idea. That's much better, isn't it? My hatred has a two-pronged reasoning.

First of all, despite the fact that I am neither Irish nor Catholic, I went to an Irish Catholic college. This was back in the early '90s when the music charts were crowded with Irish bands: U2, the Cranberries, the Waterboys, Sinead O'Connor. All of these were piped seemingly constantly into the student union and into every dorm room. To make matters worse, my school had a study-abroad program in Ireland, which meant that in every class I attended, I had to listen to patchouli-reeking sophomores say things like, "Well, from my experiences in Ireland I can tell you that ..." and "Something I learned from my extensive travels in Ireland was that ..." and "The Irish have a much stronger sense of ..."

In short, it was horrible.

Second, I don't understand the appeal of the American version of Irish pubs. At all. I don't understand what makes them "Irish," other than maybe serving Guinness on tap, and even that is a tall order in this part of the world. In fact, I guarrantee you that if you were to order a Guinness at every Irish bar around here, you'd be about 50% likely to get one, and 50% likely to be met with a blank stare. Right now someone is lamenting my lack of comments, because they want to tell me how provincial that is, and how in the large and cosmopolitan city in which they live, they have "authentic" Irish pubs. Listen: authentic is not synonymous with "good". Please try to wrap your yuppie brain around that, OK? For example, authentic Mexican food looks like diarrhea on a plate. Likewise, the authentic food of my ancestors is primarily made out of fish heads. I for one am not interested in "authentic" in and of itself.

That said, it's nothing the Irish have done or said that has made me theoretically hate them, but rather the image of them as seen through the American lens. When I think of Ireland, I don't think of beautiful, rolling hills and ancient Celtic ruins. I think of the frat boy in a green plastic derby staggering in my headlights on an icy March night, his sweatshirt stained with a swath of foamy teal vomit. I think of rock bands cashing in on "important" issues, hoping some of that importance will rub off on them. I think of some dreadlocked, clove-cigarette-smoking douchebag carrying a dirty and dog-eared, yet unread, copy of Finnegan's Wake around with him wherever he goes.

And that's really what I'm getting at here: In America at least, there seems to be this idea that if you take any mundane idea and add "Irish" to it, it becomes a great idea.

Hell, if I were Irish, I'd hate it all even more so.

The rest of the world is wearing it again.
Duluth is wearing it still.

(to P.A.L.)

Something has been weighing on my conscience lately. I'm not one to confess things online, but, well, this is something that I just can't bring myself to confess to you in person. I suppose that I could e-mail you a confession or even confess to you on the phone, but actually, I want witnesses for this. This is an untruth that I have been bearing for far too long.

I want you to think back to the winter of 1996. We went to some concert at the Amazing Grace together. I don't recall who was playing. Maybe it was an open-mic night or maybe some folk act. It doesn't matter. What matters is that we were sitting at a table near the wall when unbeknownst to you, I let the most horrendous fart ever known to humankind.

I say "unbeknownst" because you didn't know that it was me who did it. Now I'm thinking that it wasn't a folk act, because no acoustic guitar could have ever drowned out that sound. What I remember clearly is this: the valve of my colon opening as far as it would go, and then just staying that way for what seemed like a full minute as rancid air rushed from my body and curled through the cafe. At first, no one ... not even you ... had any idea what was going on. But I was in shock. Please remember that. I was surprised and mortified by just the feeling of it. And now when I look back, I think that was why I pretended that it wasn't me who let it.

I remember your face wrinkling as my intestinal gas reached your nostrils. You looked at me as if to say, "Eww." And then suddenly, when the full force of it hit you, your face exploded in horror. I pulled my shirt over my nose and mouth and buried my face in my hands. You tried to use your jacket as a filter. As I looked around, pretending to try and figure out who did it (as if I didn't know!) I noticed that everyone in the vicinity was doing the same.

Wisely, we got up and moved away from the epicenter, and headed to the other side of the room. It wasn't much better over there. We stood and watched the show for awhile until we got bored and decided to leave. Once outside, we didn't speak about it. I suppose I never knew whether or not you suspected me, but I truly believed that you thought it was someone else. I let you keep believing that, as I said, because I was awestruck by the power and intensity of my own stench, the likes of which I have never smelled since.

You know me very well. Well enough to know that I am not the kind of person who either brags about, or refuses to own up to, a colossal fart. And yet here I am, with my thumb firmly pressed against my forehead, half ashamed, half proud, undeniably asserting: "It was me, baby."

P.S. I had eggplant parmesan for dinner that night. That's probably what did it.

A few days ago, I was browsing some very old issues of the New York Times online, when I came across an article from Feb. 25, 1908 about the possible creation of a new police squad whose sole duty would be to shield high-society women from vagabonds. "Ever since Mrs. Herman Oelrichs and other women were insultingly spoken to by beggars while driving in Fifth Avenue the policemen have been keeping a special watch," the article states. "The unusual state of affairs on the avenue was brought forcibly to police attention when, several days ago, Mrs. Oelrichs was grossly insulted."

My first thought on the matter had to do with how much the world has changed since then, but that quickly disappeared when I started to fantasize about how awesome it would be to teleport back in time to 1908 New York, dress as a street urchin, and speak rudely to high-society ladies.

"Top of the mornin' to ya, Mrs. Astor! Say, you wouldn't by chance have a buffalo nickel or two for me wedged up your tight little starfish now would ya? P'rhaps I should climb up there in that carriage and have a look-see. Let me think, now, where did I put me crowbar?"

You know, whenever I go out to dinner and I see a table of about 3-5 young businessmen, and they're all drinking wine or cocktails, but each of them is eyeing the others sideways to make sure that they drink at the same pace as everyone else, and when it comes time for them to take their orders, they all order slight variations on if not exactly the same red-meat-based meal, and then they spend the rest of their time cracking jokes that aren't jokes while trying not to be the weak one of the bunch, secure in the fact that they own the right car and live in the right neighborhood and have the right haircut ...

Whenever I see a table of guys like that I do two things:

1) I thank Jesus that I escaped that fate by a very wide margin.
2) I wonder which one of them is going to go back to his hotel room and put in a butt-plug.

I have no way of knowing of course, but I think I probably guess correctly about 75% of the time.

Ponytailed guy: "I'm gonna go over to that jukebox and play something nasty. Something dirty and sexy. Something that'll make you want to go home and get played."

Disinterested girl: "What do mean, like, the Scorpions?"

After seeing my next-door neighbor talking on her cell phone on the porch today, I discovered something amazing. It turns out that if you are an extremely loud person, you don't have to hold your phone up to your ear at all! You can just hold it in your lap and yell at it! And if the person on the other end is just as loud as you are, you won't have any problem hearing them. In fact, your blogger neighbor will also be able to hear their every word, even as he walks halfway down the block to his car.

No more phone-ear or tired arms for me!

When you're sitting in the dark watching a horror movie and suddenly a pair of great horned owls start their mating ritual right outside your window ... that will scare the snot out of you.

Also: owls are really loud and absolutely huge. I guess I didn't really know that.

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Whenever I think I might end up going to the movies, I like to do a little bit of investigating before I go. This usually means looking up showtimes on my local newspaper's website. The thing is, I don't go to the theater very often, so when I see the titles, I don't recognize any of them.

What makes this even more interesting is that the Duluth News-Tribune's online movie descriptions don't include the names of the director or the stars. And let me tell you this: Every movie sounds good when you don't know who's in it or who directed it. You have to be very careful about this, otherwise you might find yourself plopping down $10 to unwittingly see something starring Vin Diesel.

When you take out the names of the actors like this, it's easy to see how such crappy movies get made. For example, even the Pauly Shore movie Jury Duty sounds like it might be funny if it's described without reference to its idiotic centerpiece: "An umemployed loser realizes that the free room and board he receives while serving on a sequestered jury is a great step up from his normal life, so he does everything in his power to stretch the trial out as long as he can." Sure, it's not Citizen Kane, but I can see how that story could be funny ... if it didn't star Pauly Shore.

I've mentioned before about how often celebrities can ruin the movies they act in or the music they play, simply by being themselves. The Terminator is a fantastic movie, but how much better would it be if it didn't star Arnold Schwartzenegger? He adds nothing to the movie, except his own presence, which the movie is great in spite of.

Recently, I saw Cloverfield, which I thought was a lot of fun. (I didn't experience any of the much-hyped "hype" that is mentioned in every review I've read since. I barely knew what the movie was about before I saw it.) I thought the unknown actors were every bit as good -- if not better -- than the celebs that would have played their parts if it had been a big-budget movie. I can just see Tom Cruise running around the streets of Manhatten with a camcorder. Ugh.

I say let's call for a new celebrity-free era in moviemaking. When I go to the theater, I go to see a movie. I don't go to see Tom Hanks.

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It takes a certain amount of effort for me to do nothing. It only happens on certain days, when I wake up and decide immediately that not only do I refuse to go anywhere or to do anything productive that day, but I'm not even going to allow myself to feel any guilt or regret about it. I get out of bed and walk over to the window where I blink a few times and say, "Meh. That world is for other people. Today I'll be sticking to the couch."

There are certain conveniences that make doing nothing more enjoyable. Digital cable is one. I recently discovered the on-demand channel, which I didn't realize I had, and even after I first found out about it, I didn't realize it was free. A laptop with wi-fi connects you to the world. The kind of coffee pot that you can bring into the living room helps. A large blanket is essential.

One of the best things about sloth is that, when done properly, it puts you in complete control of your life. Sure, the phone's ringing, but it's way over there. I can't, or rather, won't, be bothered with that right now. The last time I had a slothful day I ordered a pizza because I didn't feel like walking to the kitchen, and when the delivery guy just knocked on the door instead of walking in and putting the pizza on my lap, I actually felt a little bit annoyed. I had the money right there. I would have given him an extra dollar. They're going to have to start anticipating my needs if they want to keep getting my business. Delivery means delivery, people.

That said, unless you're wealthy enough to have someone constantly bringing you your every whim, you have to lower your expectations if you want to enjoy some genuine sloth. For the most part, you're limited to the resources you have on hand. Most worthwhile things require some kind of effort, and quite a few of them require you to put on a pair of pants. But that's OK, because sloth isn't about what you do; it's about what you don't do. It isn't about what you think, it's about what you don't think.

Sloth isn't an achievement. It's the absense of achievement. It's a thing of pure beauty.

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I'll admit that I'm a coffee snob. But I might not be the kind of snob that comes to your mind when you hear the words "coffee snob." Sure, I dislike Folger's, Arco, Maxwell House and the like, preferring the fresh-ground gourmet coffees whenever I can get them. But I've been known to suck back the freeze-dried swill on occasion, and if I'm in a diner I'm not going to forgo the coffee just because it's an old-person blend that comes packed in a can.

No, it's another, lamer, stickier kind of coffee that I hate. I hate specialty coffee drinks. And I hate them with every rapidly twitching cell in my nervous system.

Last time I was at a coffee shop, I found myself standing in a long line, behind and in front of massive pods of specialty-coffee drinkers. "ARE YOU PUTTING WHIPPED CREAM ON THAT?" the woman in front of me repeatedly screamed at the barista, clutching a cinnimon roll that was approximately the size of the average Bundt cake. "MAKE SURE YOU PUT PLENTY OF WHIPPED CREAM ON THAT!" Meanwhile, the women behind me clucked and cooed about the yogurt parfaits.

All I wanted was a goddammed cup of coffee. Black. To go.

More and more, baristas pause and look confused when you order plain coffee at a coffee shop. You want ... oh, ok. I think we have some of that ... let me check with the manager. He has the keys to the regular coffee urn.

I wish there was a coffee shop in town that just served regular (albeit fresh and good) coffee. There would be no desserts, and the coffee would cost 50 cents instead of four bucks. If you asked for anything else, they'd belittle you until you left in shame.

Someone would come in and say, "Can I get a snickerdoodle latte with extra ..."

"Listen," the barista would say. "Right now you should ask yourself, 'Do I really want to be that guy?' Because I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you're not that guy. Even though, right now, you're acting a lot like you're that guy. Now let's try this again. What do you want?"

I've been to bars out in the woods where the only thing they serve is Bud, Bud Light, and Seagram's 7 whiskey. If you ask for a gin and tonic, they'll laugh in your face. If you ask for a vodka and cranberry, they'll grab you by the back of your neck and haul you out the door. If you ask for a cosmopolitan, they'll reach under the bar and pull out the shotgun. I kind of like those places.

Coffee shops need to employ this business model. I'd go every day.

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On the rare occasions that I allow someone to freely roam about my house, I always try to impress upon them that anything they might decide to consume is almost certainly past its expiration date. They always make a sour face and attempt to wave me off, and that is when I sit them down, grab their shoulders, and look them straight in the eye.

"While you are in my apartment, if you put anything in your mouth without being very sure of its purchase date, chances are pretty good that you will end up in the emergency room."

My inability to keep up with expiration dates, freshness dates, purchase-before dates, and good until dates astounds me. It seems that I do everything that I can. I buy food in small quantities, even though all food seems to packaged with large families in mind. (Seriously, do you think that I personally need EIGHT bratwursts? Even if I wanted to personally eat all eight of those things before they expired, do you really think that I should?) Whenever I open something like a jar of pasta sauce, I write the date that I opened it on the jar lid. Occassionally, I've conducted small purges where I throw away the expired things I find. None of it matters. It's only a matter of time before we're right back where we started.

A few days ago Christa was making bread when she asked me if I had any baking powder. I said sure, found the baking powder in the pantry, and checked the expiration date.

February, 1998

"Well, honey, the good news is that I have baking powder. The bad news is that it expired when you were in college."

While I didn't check before throwing it away, I'm quite certain that there was exactly one tablespoon of baking powder missing from the can. That can has been with me through three moves. I could have thrown it away at any time, but instead, I packed it up, moved it to the new place, unpacked it, and reshelved it.

Suffice to say, I don't bake things.

In case you're wondering, I managed to find another can of baking powder in the pantry, and this one didn't even have a date on it. Christa tried it.

The bread turned out fantastic.

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The little girl had a staring problem to begin with. Something about me attracted her interest, so she was already gawking when I opened up the carton of eggs to make sure that none of them were broken. When she saw the eggs -- or rather the color of the eggs -- her eyes and mouth expanded to seven times their normal size.

"Momma! Did you know that eggs can be brown?" she asked her mother, who responded by practically jerking the little girl's arm right off her body, effectively saying while it might seem interesting that eggs can be brown and healthy, in this family we prefer our eggs white and plasticy. And while we're on the subject, have you started puberty yet? I don't care if you haven't finished kindergarten. We're gonna need to double your intake of bovine growth hormone-enriched milk immediately!

Christa calls me a hippie, which is ridiculous in the first place, and in the second place is like Weird Al calling Milhouse from the Simpsons a nerd. Sure, my shopping basket is usually half-filled with free-range, crunchy organic nuggets, but the other half is filled with what one of my blog commenters called "negative-nutritious grocery product...like anti-matter for the body." Besides, she ran on the cross-country team in high school and constantly wears a wool cap, so there.

From what I can gather, Christa's definition of "hippie" is someone who doesn't work at Wells Fargo, doesn't wear pleated Dockers, doesn't shut down all aspects of life to watch football all Sunday, and doesn't consider Applebee's to be a great place to take a date and/or meet up with friends for drinks. Personally, I wouldn't call this kind of person a hippie; I'd simply call them "normal" or maybe a "non-douchebag." In this way, we are a good match.

When I was a kid, there were two practically synonymous words that my parents used, that each described people of a dubious nature: one was "hoods" and the other was "hippies." Hoods were dirty people with long hair who rode motorcycles. Hippies were the same people, only they rode in VWs or travelled on foot. Both "smoked dope." I didn't know what that meant.

The first time Christa accused me of being a hippie, I was appalled. She pointed out my organic eggs. The "hippies" I know don't even eat eggs, I said, real hippies don't even eat geletin...real hippies don't even eat honey. Then I called her a jock. She practically choked on her own Gatorade.

I guess that among athletic types, calling someone a 'jock' is a lot like calling a mildly healthy eater/somewhat regular recycler a 'hippie.' These are extremes that you don't want to subscribe to.

While I might choose to brush my teeth with non-fluoride toothpaste and while I might choose to wear man-sandals, she runs every day and consistently wears mesh. And yet, while we both love to drink strawberry Fanta and watch TiVo, we also sometimes munch on Clif bars as we trod down the Superior Hiking Trail.

More than all of this, we both like coffee and the internet. I guess, more than anything, we're just geeky bloggers.

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I always expect the place where I live to burn down when I'm not home.

Back when I lived near the freeway (which was pretty much my whole life up until a few years ago) I'd crane my neck and expect the worst every time I had to ride by home on the interstate. On the school bus as a kid, in cars as an adult, I fully expected to my house or my building completely engulfed in flames whenever I saw it from a distance.

There's only one variation on that expectation: Sometimes, I expect it to just explode before my very eyes.

I thought I was over it, since the place where I live now isn't visible from any major road. Tonight, however, as I was driving down the hill, I saw a pillar of smoke rising from the general area of my neighborhood.

Great. I must've left the toaster plugged in.

Is everyone like this? Or is it just me?

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I often wonder why it is that I am so polite. I'm not bragging. It's nothing special to be polite, or at least it shouldn't be. Politeness is supposed to be one of those things you take for granted. Unfortunately, it's the exception rather than the rule.

Tonight as I walked into Subway, I politely thought about how cool the woman's jacket in front of me was -- a shiny satin jacket with the Pancho Villa logo on the back. Then I got a little closer. And that was when I started to hate humanity.

"What kind of cheese do you want?" the sandwich artist asked. Now, I've personally seen this question throw many people into fits of confusion. There are only three types of cheese at Subway, but for some reason people get surprised that they have a choice. This woman responded to the question in the only way she saw fit. She pulled out her cell phone and called a friend.

OK, OK. The sandwich was for her friend. But you'd think that all of this would have been worked out beforehand, or at least that she would have improvised. She didn't. Even when the friend didn't answer. No, she left a message. And then she said, "Can you make my sandwich while we wait for my friend to call back?"

I wanted to get her name and address, wait for her to get pregnant and give birth, and then punch her newly born child in the face.

In retrospect, however, I realize that this is my fault. It is my fault and it is your fault. Confronted with this situation, we're supposed to say, "Excuse, me, but you have no idea how rude you're being right now." It's like that scene in Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home where Spock gives that kid on the bus with the boombox the Vulcan Nerve Pinch and everyone applauds. Everyone's thinking the same thing, but nobody wants to act on it.

Instead, I just sucked it up and dealt with it. The sandwich artist did the same, because that's his job. Then he was extra nice to me, recognizing me as a regular.

The friend never did call back. When it became clear that she could not hold up the line any longer without being absolutely ridiculous, she finally decided (appropriately) on the white American.

In all, I wonder if my life is better for putting up with the douchebags of the world, or if I'd get more satisfaction out of confronting them. I've done both, and yet, I'm still not sure.

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I can't tell you how excited I am about the summons I received yesterday to serve on a federal jury. I got one about a year ago informing me that I would be on call for a whole year, and now I guess I'm on call for a couple of months.

Truthfully, though, I have mixed feelings. While I do want to serve, I have always held that I personally would never want to be tried by a jury of my "peers." Not to sound snobbish or anything, but have you spoken with the average citizen lately? No? Here's a sociological experiment for you: Spend a little time hanging out in the snowblower aisle at Home Depot, and just eavesdrop for five or ten minutes. Now, would you want any of those jackholes deciding whether or not you're going to do time in prison? For that matter, would you want me making that decision? I didn't think so.

Less terrifying but more headache-inducing is the thought of deciding someone else's fate along with 11 other mouthbreathers you might see peeling back the bun and inspecting their slider at White Castle. I've seen enough Matlock to know exactly who's on those juries. The businessman who thinks the whole thing is cut-and-dry (guilty-as-charged!) and just wants to get back to work. The elderly black lady who spends the whole time knitting and slowly shaking her head. The middle-class housewife who's too timid to give her opinion. The guy in the red flannel shirt, who at the end of the trial we find out is actually the killer!

These concerns dampen but don't nullify my enthusiasm. As I said, I am excited to serve. Mainly because I'm the type of person who likes to be in on things. I like to know all the details. The story behind the story. And I enjoy being a good citizen.

The $40 per day, and $.97 milage, though, not to mention the chance to eat in the courthouse cafeteria, that's the sweet part of the deal.

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I'd like to thank LIttle Caesar's Pizza for opening a new "Hot & Ready" take-out restaurant next to my workplace. Adding to other healthy eating establishments in the neighborhood such as Burger King, Quizno's, and the Spur station's day-old weiner rotisserie, Little Caesar's fills a vast gap in the West End's food scene. Because until the arrival of the big LC, absolutely none of the area's food smelled like balls.

In no way am I suggesting that the people who work at Little Caesar's rub, dip, or otherwise nuzzle their meaty scrotums into, on, or against any of the pizzas that they sell. This is not a problem with an individual pizza, or even with this individual restaurant. The fact is that all Little Caesar's pizzas carry the strong, cheesy aroma of the human testis.

I will go even further. Not only do the pizzas smell like fuzzy love-nuggets, but the restaurants themselves smell the same way. Additionally, the entire atmosphere surrounding each and every LC establishment simply reeks of manly gonadal oils.

Biting into a Little Caesar's pizza is like sitting in a men's locker room and swaddling your face in dirty athletic supporters. Every taste is a sensory explosion of greasy man-junk. Soaked into the crust, infused into the sauce, fermented into the cheese, and basted all over the meats.

Thank you, Little Caesar's. We are all ever so grateful for this testicularly delicious sensation you've created.

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Of all the things I do, sleeping is my undisputed favorite. Anything else has the potential to be disappointing, but a good night's sleep will always satisfy.

There are three, perhaps four distinct ways in which I sleep. I'm not talking about the various positions and contortions I twist into while I'm drifting off. (Such as "The Grad Photo," in which I sleep with my fist underneath my chin, but perhaps I'm revealing too much...) I'm talking about the kind and quality of the sleep I'm getting, and the things I experience while I'm unconscious.

1a) Insomnia Simplex One
This is when I have lots of ideas. I have so many ideas. Ideas are more important than sleeping. I'm going to get rich by curing sickle-cell anemia, and I'm going to do it tonight! [Here's where I usually decide, two hours too late, to take a diphenhydramine tablet, which will put me into a retardedly dreamless and unsatisfying sleep until my cell phone manages to urge me awake by incessantly vibrating against the wood floor.]

1b) Insomnia Simplex Two
This occurs whenever there is any kind of upset in my sleep pattern, whatsoever. For example, if I actually have to wake up at a decent hour, which I almost never do, I will not be able to sleep. I'll drift off and then wake up ten minutes later, wondering if it's time to get up yet. Or if I'm sleeping in an unfamiliar place, I'll almost literally sleep with one eye open, just in case a hotel maid or my girlfriend's mom decides to come at me with a machete in my sleep. Don't even try it, lady! I'll be out the window within seconds!

2) Technical Knockout [TKO]
This is perhaps the most common type of sleep I experience. Here I need no drugs or persuasion to go to sleep. I crawl into bed and I literally have difficulty believing how good a bed can feel. I can't imagine why I just don't stay in bed all the time. I fall asleep completely within three minutes and wake up 10 hours later, wanting more despite the fact that it's time to go to work.

3) The Movie Marathon
Here I fall asleep normally, then wake up 20 minutes later, usually at the point of my intense dream where I'm about to shoot someone, be shot by someone, find out the identity of my long-lost cousin, or pick up a hitchhiker in Germany. I stay awake for about a minute and a half while I roll over and realize that I really want to get back into that dream. I always do manage to get back into the dream, but at a different point, like when you're at the movies and you go to the bathroom and return to find that you've missed a key point. Then 20 minutes later I wake up again and repeat the whole process, over and over, until it's time to wake up, which I do with even greater reluctance than I do in #2.

Some people think that sleeping for one-third of your life is a waste. Me, I think it's probably the most interesting thing you can do. It's all a matter of perspective.

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Him: "Hey ... you've uh ... you've heard of Woodstock, right?"
Me: "Sure. You mean the concert back in the 60s?"
Him: "Yeah, yeah, yeah. That was just ... there were so many good bands. Great songs. Great bands, great songs."
Me: "Of course. All the greats."
Him: "Yeah, there was ... there was just too many to name. Canned Heat."
Me: "Canned Heat, sure."
Him: "And ... uh ... Pat Benetar ... "
Me: "Um ... "
Him: "Rod ... oh, geez, what's his name ... Rod Stewart."
Me: "Jimi Hendrix?"
Him: "Well, yeah, but ... what was ... so many ... what was that band ... Styx! You've heard of Styx, right?"
Me: "Oh, yeah. Absolutely."
Him: "Jim Croce. Sonny & Cher ... There's just too many to name. All of them were so, so good."
Me: "Like I said. All the greats."

Throughout my life, I've had a whole list of things that I choose to believe. These are not things that I actually believe, but rather things I have made the conscious choice to believe despite knowing better, simply because it's more entertaining.

For example, while if I were pressured I'd probably admit that I really believe the opposite, openly I believe that human beings have never walked on the moon. The whole thing was done with special effects in a TV studio. Meanwhile, millions of people sat by their TV sets, enrapt, weeping tears of joy for humanity's accomplishment, and all of them were fooled.

Lots of younger people who were not around for the experience actually believe that the moon landing was a hoax created by the government. They have a point. I mean, if it really happened, why haven't we been back? Maybe it was pointless and foolhearty to begin with. Maybe it's too expensive and too risky. But really, if we went to the moon tomorrow (or next year, or the year after that) would you believe it to be true?

The real truth, for me at least, is that it's a lot more fun to believe that the whole thing was fake. I like to think of President Kennedy sweating bullets after he promised the world that we would do it. I like to imagine all the eggheads at NASA wracking their brains, fiddling with their sliderules, screaming, "WE CAN'T DO IT! WE JUST CAN'T DO IT!" Then I like to imagine some intern in the back of the room nervously raising his hand and asking everyone in charge why we can't just fake the goddamn thing. Oh, it's the greatest story never told.

Another thing it's fun to believe in is shadow people. You know how you'll be sitting there, staring at the TV or off into space, when suddenly you'll see a shadow whisk by out of the corner of your eye? That's a shadow person, running around your house. It isn't a good thing, as you can imagine. But which is better: 1) You just saw a shadow. 2) You just saw a shadow person. The choice (and it is a choice -- remember that) is clear.

It's incredibly stunning how few people these days believe in leprechauns. I mean, do you actually want to live in a world without leprechauns? Apparantly, the answer to that question for most people is "yes." Most people are stupid.

One day when I was a kid, we were all out playing in the street when someone looked up and noticed a huge rainbow in the sky. We talked it over, and agreed that finding the gold at the end of it was something that we could actually do. We scrambled onto our bikes and zipped off, pumping away at top speed, but we never found the end. Nevertheless, I ate Lucky Charms every day for a week after that. It was funner than hell.

Whenever I see a ship on Lake Superior at night, I know that it's just another ship. But I choose to believe that I'm seeing the ghost of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Lake Superior itself, of course, is full of sea monsters. But when a black cat crosses my path, it isn't bad luck. That's just another mangy alley cat. Because there's no fun in being negative.

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In sixth grade, they herded us all into the auditorium so that we could hear a band concert performed by our future junior high-school band, the Morgan Park Wildcats. The whole purpose of the concert was so that we could see what band was all about, and start thinking about what instrument we might want to play.

Like everyone else, of course, I wanted to play drums or percussion, but those instruments were limited to kids who already knew how to play the piano. Barring percussion, the only instrument I could possibly tolerate was the saxophone. All the saxophone positions, however, were already taken by eighth graders.

Since I couldn't bring myself to play any of the stupid instruments in band, and I had no desire to join choir, and I didn't have the foresight to join orchestra in sixth grade when you were supposed to, I had only one choice left.

Music Appreciation.

The class, in its description, was actually quite cool. Our task was to appreciate music. We would listen to all forms of music, and that was pretty much all we had to do. Listening to music: I could handle that.

The problem was, however, that I was one of three, maybe four kids in the class who did not have some sort of behavioral problem. My first day in class made it clear that this was a class for kids who either could not handle "normal" music classes to begin with, or had been kicked out of "normal" classes on the first day. The experience was, in a word, awesome.

I sat in the front row, along with everyone else who wouldn't end up in prison before their 25th birthday. Meanwhile, the teacher vascillated between offering us rewards and meting out stiff punishments. It was easy to be a star pupil when you're surrounded by people who are struggling to pass a class where the average assignment is to listen to Bruce Springsteen.

"Springsteen is GAAAAAAAY." That was the consensus among the class. I remember the teacher trying to deal with that statement.

"What kind of gay do you mean? Because gay can mean several different things..." she said.

"He SUCKS! He's LAAAAME," the class said.

"OK," the teacher said. "That's your opinion. But he's not homosexual."

"If you say so," someone murmured.

Meanwhile, those of us so-called "A" students in the front row who actually did not belong in the class but were just slumming it, we were allowed to try and teach each other how to play the guitar. Sometimes we did this in the actual classroom, but usually we did this in an adjacent practice room. On these occasions, the classroom outside melted into complete chaos.

I think that in Music Appreciation was the only time I ever saw a teacher cry while I was in junior high school. It certainly was the only time I ever saw a teacher smash an acoustic guitar, Pete Townsend-style, in sheer rage.

But when I think about it, I probably learned more in Music Appreciation than I learned in any other class in junior high.

Somebody had to do the learning.

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See, if you're in the bathtub, and if you're really careful, you can get your washcloth to float on the surface of the water. All you have to do is take it by its edges and sort of drag it slowly on the surface. Then, let go and it will stay there, floating.

That's what I figured out when I was about five. And so I used to sit in the bathtub, floating my washcloth, and thinking my weird little thoughts: I wonder how they tame the raccoons on Grizzly Adams? They probably dress up in raccoon costumes, so that the racoons are fooled into thinking they aren't humans. You know, that sort of thing.

One day I was in the bathtub when my sister knocked on the door, saying she needed her hairbrush or something lame like that. This ticked me off. Coming from a large family, it was almost never possible to have any privacy, even in the bathroom. Rolling my eyes, I found the obvious solution.

I floated the washcloth so that it perfectly obscured my weiner. Then I leaned back in the tub with my hands behind my head and said, "Come in."

My sister opened the door, looked at me, grabbed her hairbrush and left. Outside the door, I heard the following conversation:

Sister: "So I go in there and ..."
Female Cousin: "I saw!"

It served them right.

When I was about 11, some distant relatives were visiting and the house was even more overrun than usual. At one point, I was in the bathroom doing my business, when some woman opened the door (without knocking) shrieked and slammed it closed again. She apologized and went back downstairs.

For some reason, I developed a crystal clear image in my mind of what would happen when she went back down and told everyone what happened. Someone would grab her and frantically ask, "Did you see his butt? Did you see his weiner?"

Obviously, that's what happened. Because distant relatives in their 50s want to know -- desperately, according to my 11-year-old mind -- all about my butt and weiner.

A few years ago when I moved into the apartment downstairs of where I live now, my landlords gave me a tour of the house, showing me all the features. "This is cool," Nick said, pointing to a sort-of half-blind on the bathroom window. "It lets in a lot of light at the top, but no one can see your weiner."

And really, that's all I ask for. A roof over my head, three squares a day, and complete control over who can and cannot see my butt and weiner.

Life is simple, after all.

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I almost have a theatre minor. I never really planned on pursuing it in college, but just before I was about to graduate, the chair of the theatre department informed me that I was probably eligable. So we counted up my credits and I was one credit short of a minor. If I wanted to, I could have paid the college $250 for an additional credit* so that I could officially say that I had a minor. I chose to keep my money and use it to go to the Grand Canyon instead.

In plays, I got a lot of positive reviews and a lot of negative reviews. When the local paper reviewed the first college play I was in, A Doll's House, I got the best review out of anyone in the cast -- "barely worth listening to." I think the best review I ever received from the newspaper in my entire college career was "able." Yes, he is technically capable of acting. But that's about it.

The best critique of my work I ever receieved from anyone, however, came from another student. He was very intelligent, and very sincere. And here is what he said to me:

"You're a really, really good actor. You could be the next John Ritter."

I laughed, of course. But then I realized that he was completely serious. "John Ritter is incredibly talented," he said, and he meant it.

Ever since he said that, I've kind of kept it in my head, and whenever I see reruns of Three's Company on TV Land, I try to imagine myself falling over that living room couch. Sometimes I see it, sometimes I don't.

When I told Christa the story about the John Ritter statement, she didn't even laugh. "You could be the next John Ritter," she said. "You're a great physical comedian."

I suppose that if this is my unrealized potential, that I'm at peace with it. Most people spend their lives thinking about what they could have been, what might have happened if they'd gone for the gold and struck it big. If what I could have been was Jack Freaking Tripper, then I'm perfectly OK with living the normal-life alternative.

* I realize I'm dating myself when I admit that a credit cost only $250 when I went to college.

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Most of the time, I'm all for the advancement of technology. The majority of the time, each new invention is a tremendous improvement over its predecessor. The computer beats out the typewriter, which in turn beats out the pen. The DVD is arguably better than the VHS tape, but TiVo trounces both of them. The digital camera overshadows the film camera, hands down.

Still, I can't help but feel nostalgic for one rapidly disappearing piece of technology: the pay phone.

The pay phone is one of those things that, in this day and age, is hard to wrap your head around. Before the cell phone, you had to be "home" to receive a call. And as soon as you left your property, you'd become unreachable to anyone who couldn't actually see you. But here and there around town were oases where for a coin or two, you could jack back into the telecommunications grid.

This idea, to me, is kind of romantic. In a way, the pay phone is a lot like the vinyl record in that its accidental aesthetics counterbalance its old-fashioned clunkiness.

One of my all-time favorite pay phones was located in the lobby of my junior high school. There are few places that are more oppressive than a junior high, and that phone was the one link to the outside world where things were free and normal. Usually, people would use it to call kids who were home sick (a la Ferris Beuller's Day Off) and since I was sick more often than anyone else, I'd get calls from school all the time. I always wanted to be able to call in to that phone, and I even wrote down the number so that I could try it, but it didn't work. That didn't keep me from trying it every time I was absent.

Another great phone was in the campground at Jay Cooke State Park. That one was fun to use because it was on a short little pole and felt like it was in the middle of the woods. Calling people from the woods! What a crazy idea! We used this one a lot as teens when we were "driving around." We'd say, "Let's stop at the Best Phone Ever and call Bob." It was something to do.

In college, there were two public phones in the building w