The New PMS: The Password Is ...

Mama never told me there'd be decisions to be made like this. But then again, if Mama could have foreseen the complexities of 21st century life she would have raised me to be a Reality TV star. To cut to the chase, though, I have to change my password. The one at work, not the one to get on my computer, not the one to get my email (or to get my other email), not the one to write a blog, not the one to get money from my bank, tunes from itunes, books from amazon, and on and on. I hear your moans. Is there anything more mind-messing these days than Password Management Stress (PMS)?

Ah, remember the good old days of, say, ten years ago? Back when passwords were like five letters and you could get away with something as simple as "genius"? And you could use the same one for everything and never have to change it? Gone the way of the five cent cup of coffee and actually talking to a live person on the telephone. Now you practically have to write an original algebraic formula and change it every time Sarah Palin announces she's not yet ruling out a run for the White House, "at this time."

For a week now everytime I log on at work (on the average, six to ten times a shift) I get a message that my password will expire in so many days (I think I've still got a week--at least the computer recognizes this decision is not to be taken lightly and it gives me ample time to compose [because let's face it, and this I believe is my point, present-day password coming up with is a creation, an exercise in cryptic personal poetry that only Emily Dickinson could fully appreciate]). Now of course I could have been efficiently snarky and, the first time I got the message asking me if I want to change my password now, just typed in as my new password, "noIdont666" and been done with it (actually, that sounds like a good idea; wish I'd thought of it then). But no, one (and now let me take back my earlier praise of the computer's thoughtfulness in giving me such an early warning; with 15 days of countdown time and having to navigate the message every time I log on, I now realize that computer is just contributing to my PMS, making me think I've got plenty of time, but constantly reminding me that the clock is a-tickin' and constantly making me think about starting over from scratch and composing another little gem of personal identification that I can live happily with for the next three months [because that's what it is, isn't it? a password? your own little island of personality and identity in this cold, personal, identity thieving world of ours? and let's not forget that not only am I a tail-cusp Baby Boomer {which automatically should qualify me to be excused from all this technogobbledygook but I'm also a tail-cusper when it comes to typing class, just before the advent of "keyboarding skills" and I didn't grow up banging on a keyboard and I'm a complete doofus when it comes to hunting pecking looking at the keyboard and btw for every typo that finds its way into this blog there are three score that have been corrected in medias res (i.e. these posts don't just roll off my fingers) and now I have to come up with longer and longer passwords for everything and worry about capitals and symbols and numerals {let me here just make an addition to the previous post's modern Roman Numerals: TEBOW=6 out of 22) and then I have to remember the stupid thing {screw the poetry, a password is no such thing, it's stress, man, pure stress, only and always] when I've just gotten used to blindly tapping in the previous one, and speaking of tapping and getting back to the whole typing-challenged thing, it works better for me if my passwords are all accessible by one hand, preferably the left, so my passwords need to be basically all left of the 6yhn keyboard equator and why can't I just type in my obscure middle name, six simple easily typed letters and leave it at that but no for a week now I've trying to come up with the perfect password that satisfies all my special needs and one that won't be rejected when I first plug it in and of course have to enter it at the right moment so in case problems do arise I can reconfigure without customers and Co-Worker and Boss breathing down my neck to complete transaction/log off already and has it really come to this a world full of cyper terrorists and malevolent hackers and identity thieves [wasn't adolescence all about identity crisis, one where you emerged not unscathed but functional and with your identity in cement? and now look at me this new-fangled PMS has got me to the point where for the first time in my life I've lost control of my parentheses and brackets and grammer and punktuation and spelling concerns have fled the ship and metaphor management is three sheets to the rain and somebody please help me i need a password that works and can remember i just want qwerty and correction tape a laddie pencil and futuristic ads about wonderful life will be with computers and where am i what decade is this how do I finish this thing ){]({}]

Roman Numerals For The XXIst Century

I discovered the other day that Co-Worker has made a little "Roman Numeral Cheat Sheet" that she keeps near a computer. Now I don't work for the Super Bowl or for a bunch of monks (is there a collective noun for monks? a shhh of monks? a pate of monks? a thelonious of monks?), but in our business one sometimes has to wrestle with Roman numerals. As somebody who attended grade school before calculators, studied (sic) Latin, and loves watching movie and TV credits roll by to see how quickly he can convert those lettered "numerals" into numbered numerals (I'm so competitive in the stupidest of things that I often toss and turn all night because both of my sides want to be the one to be slept on), I must admit, I'm pretty good with Roman numerals, though that D=500 thing always makes me pause. But after pondering Co-Worker's cheat sheet, I started wondering about those RNs. Are they still taught in school? I asked youngest Co-Worker that very question. He said yes, but then failed pretty miserably my pop quiz; surprisingly, it seems, L=50 eludes a lot of folks.

So, in the spirit of "the glory that was Greece, the grandeur that was Rome" (or however E.A. Poe put it) I started thinking it might just be time for a bit of a Roman Numeral Revival. And where else to launch such a thing as this ever-pertinent, ever-serious blog? The time seems totally ripe to celebrate numbers that are actually letters, or vice versa. We live in a time when nothing is as it should be, don't we? We have phones that are used for everything but calling people (and especially returning calls!), we seem to be rapidly giving up on a world rife with a variety of crazy despots (though who knows, Newt hasn't taken himself out of the race yet), and somebody named Snooki has published a book before I have. So what the hell, let's have numbers that are letters, right?

Naturally, though, we need to modernize things a bit for our (generally) non-toga-wearing way of life. The old standbys I, V, X, L, C, D, M (did the Romans count beyond 3,999?; what's 5,000 or 10,000 or one trillion?) are fine and very useful, but our needs in this century are much greater than Caesar's and the boys', don't you think? What follows (admittedly in the Beta [Greek, Roman what's the difference?] phase only, and certainly open to 21st century tweaking by committees and sub-committees) is a jumping off point for a new era of Roman Numerals. Tell me what you think.

• YOY=the estimate the auto repairman gives you
• OHPLEASEOHPLEASEGODOHPLEASE=the numbers you play each week in Lotto
• UMMMMM=the number you report to the score keeper after hitting two balls out of bounds, one in the water, and three-putting on a short Par 4
• OHSHIT=the difference between the price of what you've just purchased and the amount of money in your wallet
• P=the cost of a pay toilet (do pay toilets still exist?)
• XXX=30, still (perverts)
• DMV/BMV=infinity
• BYOB=the going rate of a liver transplant on the black market
• WTF=the number of people who will voluntarily vote for Newt Gingrich in MMXII
• DREAMONOLDMAN=the year Cleveland will next celebrate a sports championship
• CELIBACY=the total amount of $ Tiger Woods will spend in his lifetime on alimony and hush money payments
• LOL=what your dentist charges for a hit of nitrous oxide
• Nth=the number you get from the pull-a-number thing at the bakery
• BRRRRR=the temperature in Cleveland tonight
• TnA=the standard cover (sic) charge at your local strip club
• BUYGOLDGUNSANDSOUP=the tipping point of the national debt
• FUBAR=the national debt
• T=the price of tea (CWE) in China
• SNAFU=the overdraft fee your bank charges
• HELL=the price of your soul

My Middle Ten For 2011

The older I get the humbler my pleasures seem to be. This morning when I woke up the greatest feeling I got about it being a new year is that finally all the Top Ten lists of 2011 will stop. I used to be a sucker for these things, top ten movies, records, books, top ten pictures, influential people, events, etc. I used them to measure my hipness and to gain lists of further things I needed to check out. But that was all back then when there were about a dozen, two score tops, of the things. Now everyone's not only got an opinion but the means to broadcast it to the world. We're saturated with best of lists, and the result is cultural inflation; look hard enough and just about everything makes it to somebody or other's list. I don't know how many best of music lists I've scanned in the last month or so, but I can tell you there is an incredible absence of overlap in them. If that's good or bad in your calculus I don't know or care, really, but it reminds me of Lester Bangs's prediction that "we will never agree on anything like we agreed on Elvis," or something like that. 

Thus, you'll get no best of list from me. Only dead fish go with the flow, right? But the flow flows still, doesn't it, and as a fellow blogger, it would be horribly remiss of me if I didn't offer some kind of list at this time of the year. And so I offer you what follows below, a list of the exact middle ten on my holistic best of the year list (I mean figuring out your top ten of anything and then justifying the order of them doesn't take much gumption, does it?, but calculating the middle ten of every best of experience of the year, well now, that takes some genius, and I know such effort and accomplishment is what brings you expectantly to this blog).

I came up with the idea of a holistic best of list a couple years ago, when I realized that life is not compartmentalized into movies, records, books, events, experiences--it's all knit together in some grand latticework of life, innit? So, quite simply, what I do is catalog my entire year's life constantly--any experience that has any positive impact (no need to catalog the negative ones; they loiter with no effort on my part) on me at the time gets logged onto my virtual hard drive--i.e., my memory. Periodically throughout the year I sift through this particular file, deleting what turned out to be mirages of bestness or ones that proved to be wholly fleeting, while also adding those that lingered, slowburning, not qualifying at the time to be considered a best, but whose impact over time proved to be undeniable. Anway, enough of the science. This year (this morning, actually, because you can't really construct your year's best of list until the year is actually over) I took the time not only to count but also order my best of list. It turned out I had 438 best experiences this year. Not bad, not great. What follows are numbers 215-224. Read on and you'll get a decent approximation of how averagely best my 2011 was, which (this middle list) is a lot more accurate a representation of me and 2011 than anybody else's probably fudged-a little-to-make-it-seem-holier-than-it-really-is top ten list. Extremes are fickle; the middle is where we live, whether we like it or not. Read, ponder, and have a fair to middling 2012 you can look back on with contentment.

215. The "bear claw" croissant bought at the Monticello-Green BP station and consumed on my way to work, October 23. A breakfast staple when I'm working mornings, this particular croissant seemed perfect--moist and not too flaky. For some reason I was able to pay for the delicacy--along with the daily paper and my coffee--with exact change, the banter with my second favorite cashier there was wittier than most days, and I not only got to make a right on red while masticating the croissant, but also then made the following left hand turn unimpeded, which is a rare occurrence. All in all, a great croissant experience.

216. In the middle of a movie-going spree, before viewing Moneyball, I saw for the third time the trailer for some wacky woman private eye comedy thriller coming sometime soon (not yet, I don't think) which convinced me that all the good parts of the movie were in that trailer, so I needn't waste time and money going to see the movie when it does come out, but which, at about 3 minutes, was still pretty entertaining and provided me with enough knowledge that I could easily feign having seen it in case co-workers some day are engaged in a giggly discussion of the movie or in case it winds up on a majority of best of lists next December.

217. That late afternoon nap on March 6. Sometimes I wonder if I've ever completely awakened from it. Glorious.

218. Sitting in a bar listening to a band play but watching intently a marathon of The Big Bang Theory on a big screen TV above the bar. Even without the sound on, and too far away to read the closed captioning, I was able to get the gist (and some of the nuances) of the show during the band's relatively short set. For a man without a TV, having a working knowledge of yet another TV show is always a good thing. Funnier than I had assumed, that Big Bang.

219. Ironically, my annual July 2 "half the year's gone" party. About half the people I invited showed up, which is good because I had dropped the second 12 pack of beer I had bought and all the bottles broke. We grooved to new albums by Paul Simon, Darryl Hall, and Sam.

220. The chuckle I got from hearing co-worker say, after rounding a corner and being bumped into by a customer, "Good thing I'm sturdy," and then spending a few hours contemplating what a great, and much underrated, word "sturdy" is.

221. Hearing my 12-year-old nephew say, while walking stiffly into the house covered in mud from a soccer game, "I'm in need of a major shower."

222. The interaction I had with a customer when I made note of the book he was buying (either one by David Mitchell, David Foster Wallace, or David Brinkley--I can't remember the exact one, just that it was one of the three Davids in my pantheon). "Oh God," I gushed, "I love this book." To which he replied, without a British accent, btw, "It's for my nutzo brother. It's the only thing he wants in hospital."

223. The new Tom Waits song, "New Year's Eve." We've heard it all before, Tom, but it sure feels nice. Nice like slipping into your favorite pair of Long John bottoms on the first cold day in December, especially if you've washed them since the last time you wore them in early March.

224. Discovering this great picture of Bob Dylan, avec moustache, which I had never seen before:

Smellin' (Not) Like A Well-Spent Buck

Pre:

I will be taking a shower very soon. Go ahead, hurl all the jokes that statement might elicit (TMI; Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!; the visual's killing me; in lieu of the arrival of Godot [or even Guffman], world peace, a cure for cancer, or a championship in Cleveland, I guess we'll take it; no, you don't take a shower, a shower takes you; is there enough water in the world?; I'd alert the media if you hadn't already alerted the whole world)--I can handle it. You see, I haven't looked forward to a shower this much since the one I took in Pennsylvania twenty-five years ago after taking hundred-year-old tin plating off a ceiling and getting covered in a century's worth of coal dust. Because this shower promises to make me a new man.

Let me explain, as best as my soon-to-be-old self can. Yesterday I shopped for sundries at my new favorite shopping place, the Dollar Tree store. Now I could fill a month's worth of blogs about the pleasures of this store, but then the lines might get longer, so I'll just say that when I turned into the soap aisle I was a little discombobulated. Instead of facing a rack filled with generic one dollar bars of soap like I half-expected, I was met with myriad choices of all sorts of name brands. Though I do indeed cleanse regularly, I have never developed a personal favorite among all the various bar soaps to be had. Soap's soap, right? Momentarily thrown off by the fact that all the soaps came in packs of two, rather than the three you normally see at the "higher end" establishments (I worried about what buying just two bars rather than three might do to my rigid hygienic rhythm), I quickly zeroed in on a two-pack of Irish Spring (manly, yes, but she likes it too!), figuring any suggestion of spring in late December couldn't help but lift my spirits, and the word Irish, in my lexicon, equals Guinness, which equals good. But somehow (fate? a Guardian Angel? the psychology of advertising?) my arm strayed and I found myself picking up a two-pack of Dial. Oh God, you're thinking, this is all about Dial soap? How mundane. Alas, this was no regular two-pack of Dial soap, but something different (thank God for product extension)--Dial For Men 3-D! Did any wandering Israelite glimpse the Promised Land with more euphoria than I beheld that two-pack of one dollar soap? God only knows. For right there on the outer plastic packaging I was promised "All Day Odor Defense with Odor Control Agents." Good God, I was ready to lather up right there in Aisle 4. Hold your suds right there, mister, I cautioned myself, having endured nearly fifty years of ad-speak, misleading and downright false claims by hucksters, shysters, pitchmen and -women, endorsers and furry talking animals. Certainly the proposition that my body would be protected "all day" (I must admit I was too giddy with the possibilities to consider the fact that odor might occur at night, too) by "agents" was quite persuasive (I envisioned a tag team of Daniel Craig as Bond manning the extremities and sultry Barbara Feldon as Agent 99 protecting the more intimates as my personal Odor Control Agents), but I had to investigate further. Thankfully, and handily, the back of the two-pack package assuaged all my fears of being taken in by mere marketing malarkey. There, in an easy-to-read pseudo-PowerPoint chart, the 3 D's of the All Day Odor Defense 3-D were clearly spelled out, under the actually trademarked (you know they mean business and are totally on the up and up when they take the time and expense to trademark such things) heading, Odor Protection Covered From All Angles (I thank the Dial Corp. for assuming my body can be classified as angular):

1. Destroys Unique Odor Targeting System
2. Deep Cleans Powerful cleansers rinse clean without drying
3. Defends Deodorant Booster for all day confidence

Dial for Men, indeed. You had me at Destroys and sealed the deal with Defends. Codespeak for testosterone-laden, no doubt. The thought of a high-tech team of Agents and Targeting Systems working on my body absolutely thrills me; I'm sure that when showering I'll picture a Tom Clancy scenario of computers and highly competent men, led by the estimable Brian Dennehy, waging a clandestine all-out war on my natural body odors. And to Irish Spring, I say "Ha!" I now have a "unique" system, full of blipping radar/sonar screens, I'm sure, targeting my odors. "Deep Cleans," "Powerful cleansers"--I see power hoses and loud machines manned by guys named Gus de-gunking me thoroughly (though I'm a little puzzled with the whole "rinse clean without drying" thing: showering without drying? shouldn't "rinse clean" be considered redundant?). And no doubt my Mennen Speed Stick will appreciate the "boost" as it works up its daily sweat trying to keep me deodored all day.

Sold! 3-D me Dial, I'm getting naked now just for you!

Post:

Betcha don't smell me now, do ya? Go ahead, press your nose up against the screen and breathe deep. Nada, right?

(Nomenclature announcement: The blogger formerly known as Mr. Spitoutyourgum will henceforth go by the handle of Lord SupremelyManlyandUnodored.)

What can I say? Dial Corp. (a Henkel Company), of Scottsdale, AZ 85255, I'm ready for my endorsement contract. Send all inquiries and remunerative offers c/o spitoutyourgum, Cleveland Heights, OH 44112.

As a preamble, a kind of A-List opening act, I treated myself to an infrequent shave before my shower, albeit with a brand new Mach 3 blade (baby butt smooth, my face now). But I did hesitate before stepping into the, well, what will forever now be known as The Shower That Changed My Life. I thought for a second about waiting a few days, holding off on the Dial For Men 3-D until the New Year, as a symbolic gesture, but once I got a look at that bar of soap, well, it was full speed ahead, men, damn the odors! The sight of the actual bar did shock me at first, I'll admit. Rather than the usual neutral tone of soap, Dial For Me 3-D sports a bold blue (okay, I'm colorblind, maybe it's purple; the two colors are pretty much the same in my eyes) look that made me think of all those wads of bubblegum my mother warned me against in my full-toothed youth. Restraining the urge to take a big bite out of the bar, I looked at it solemnly and said, "Agents, to the ready. All systems go," and stepped into the tub. It would take a much better thrice-weekly blogger than I to describe the instant ecstasy and sensation I felt upon soaping up. All I know is that an instantaneous feeling of manliness suffused my body and (what a targeting system!) my soul. The tiled walls yelped "Hell, yeah Man!" when I involuntarily started singing Ted Nugent's "Catch Scratch Fever"; a complete 180 from my usual shower-warbling of Dan Hill's um touching, though I admit kinda unmanly "Sometimes When We Touch" ballad. Oh the joy of seeing all those Daniel Craig and Barbara Feldon suds racing over my body to do there protective power cleansing (rueful sidenote, though: I regret the mention of Brian Dennehy above; no naked person, no matter how gloriously he or she revels in his or her nakedness, should be subject to thoughts/visions of Brian Dennehy). That "Unique Odor Targeting System" is truly amazing, and, Dial Corp., screams to be trademarked ASAP. I actually have had intermittent periods of not smelling in my life, but never so, well, uniquely unsmelling. By the time I got to the end of "Cat Scratch Fever" I distinctly heard a sud's voice cry out,"Code Red! Code Red! Left knee, dorsal," to which another replied, "Copy. Got it covered, Jack. Job well done, men. Let's head for the drain and call it a day." Somewhere Tom Clancy shivered with pride.

Silly me, I was halfway through absently toweling myself dry when I realized, but why? I already was noticeably "rinsed clean without drying." I guess towels in my life will soon become, like my nipples, just a vestigial presence. As a coup de grace, an unexpected cherry on the top to what had been a colossal ice cream sundae of a daily (more or less) ablution, when I applied my Mennen Speed Stick, instantly my armpits sang with glee: "Great God! What a boost!" Folks, I'm ready for the day unlike any day I've ever been ready or not for.

But the inquisitive part of me--power cleansed & rinsed clean without drying like the rest of me--was still a bit unsatiated. What is it, what is the secret of this miracle, this Dial For Men 3-D? Once again I consulted that already-pored-over plastic wrapping. Here, in toto and verbatim, are the ingredients (in case you're too cheap to spend a buck yourself and want to attempt to duplicate this wonder of modern chemistry at home):

INGREDIENTS: Soap (Sodium Cocoate*, Sodium Palm Kernelate*, Sodium Palmate*, Sodium Tallowate*), Water, Talc, Coconut Acid*, Palm Acid*, Tallow Acid*, Palm Kernel Acid*, PEG-6 Methyl Ether, Fragrance, Farnesol, Glycerin, Sorbitol, Sodium Chloride, Triclocarban, Pentasodium Pentetate and/or Tetrasodium Etidronate, Ultramarines
*contains one or more of these ingredients

The armchair chemist in me weeps in amazement. First of all, I'm very happy that the first ingredient in this particlular brand of soap is soap. Consumer confidence? Check. Quite frankly I am also amazed that such a perfect product seems to leave a lot to whimsy in its construction: those maybe/maybe not asterisks, that and/or (I'm hoping my two bars contain the Tetrasodium Etidronate--sounds so cool), although, clever clever clever Dial Corp., maybe all those maybe's are just there as red herrings--you might think you can replicate the wonder of Dial For Men 3-D at home or in a competitor's lab, but good luck hitting on just the right combination of all those sodia and acids (I think I new a guy in college, from Hawaii no less, who swore by [and ultimately drifted by and by] coconut acid). And see, just see, how the Dial Corp. goes the extra mile? Just any old PEG Methyl Ether might me good enough for other soaps, but only Dial Corp. procures the really good stuff, the PEG-6. And who knew there was an actual entity called 'Fragrance"? Say Bill, go out and get me another couple vials of fragrance. The true secret, of course, comes at the end of that mind-numbing, ADHD-tempting train of chemicals: Ultramarines. No wonder the soap's so manly, so systematic, so agented--ultramarines (not just any rank and file Marine, but an ultra- one [wonder what those haircuts look like]). Semper Fi, man. Dial For Men 3-D, as long as I have a buck in my pocket, I'll always be faithful, from this clean, unsmelling day forward.

And so, now it's time to go to work, to unleash my new unsmellingness to the outside world. I've never been so excited to go to work on a non-payday before. Will I be able to contain myself, though? Can I be humble and wait for the inevitable torrent of "Gee, Dan, you don't smell at all, today. What's up?" and "I don't mean to pry, but did you receive some special Odor Control Agents for Christmas" comments, or do I (proudly) immediately and constantly pepper people with, "Smell me yet? Didn't think so" boasts? Who knows what awaits in my brave, unodored new world?

I once read something about some professor who allegedly went a whole year conversing in nothing but Bob Dylan quotes, an impossible, extravagant, though admirable to me endeavor. As for right now, newly and uniquely cleansed, I'd be happy just to be on the receiving end of the line from the Replacements' song below(alas, either dropped or indecipherable in this rendition): "You're the coolest guy that I ever have smelled." Or not smelled, to be precise.







and, well ...

I Can Tell By Your Body Language That You're A Tea Drinker

Is an insight into human behavior that has been gleaned because of envy still valid? The other evening, co-worker and I had just returned from our breaks when I saw her drinking from a paper cup with one of those cardboard cozy/the-cup's-too-hot-to-handle things. Immediately I was simultaneously mad at myself for not thinking and jealous of her for thinking to grab a to-go coffee to aid in enduring a holiday shopping madness evening. "Damn," I said, probably slugging my forehead at the same time, "I should have gotten myself some coffee too!" She replied, "It's tea." But "replied" hardly does justice to the totality (at yesterday's Christmas mass, the priest used the word "totality" at least three times, I swear) of her response. No, she cuddled and huddled compacted and retracted her whole body around the center of gravity that was that paper cup as if she were hugging a five-minute-old puppy, and let out a quietly proud but weirdly defensive (not defensive in an "I'm ashamed to be seen drinking this" way, but defensive in an "I'm hoarding the family jewels in my hands here, please don't bother me" way) eek of declaration, "It's tea." At that moment, as my senses were flooded with the image of her folding herself inward to surround that cup of tea and hearing that wanly whispered "It's tea," I realized that co-worker (lovely person that she is) was no individual but just another tea drinker, any old tea drinker, at once both the apotheosis of tea drinkers and also maybe just the ten billionth tea drinker in the history of the world. Because in that moment of her quiet (in volume) but cacophonous (in terms of total body/soul language) I saw what I have always seen but have been too blind to notice, what everybody always sees but never really acknowledges--if somebody is drinking tea and you ask them what they're drinking, there is only one possible response, one genetically/chemically/culturally (whatever the origin)-determined verbal and physical response for that person to give: a hunching, cuddling, slightly defensive but also very proud, somewhat whispered eek of, "It's tea."

Just try it. The next fifty people you see drinking something obviously warm from a paper or ceramic cup, go up to them and ask (accuse them of) them if they're drinking coffee. You'll either get a simple "yeah," "hell yeah," or, depending on the person's level of caffeine addiction, "hell effing yeah, it's coffee," or you'll get the same old cuddled whispered eek, "It's tea." Well, sure, there are degrees of that cuddled whispered eek (CWE) but it's there nonetheless. I mean, far be it from me to ever entertain, let alone utter, let even more alone publish a sexist thought, but I do believe as a whole, women might CWE a bit more pronounced than men, but even in the roughest toughest beer guttest truck drivin' tea drinker, you'll get a CWE. Who knows, maybe it's just a phonetic thing, that quiet squeal that has to be made pronouncing "tea" that makes one have to enfold oneself a bit and meekly announce what one is drinking (think Georgette from the Mary Tyler Moore Show admitting she's just won a hundred million in Lotto--that's the overall effect of one's--anyone's, everyone's--announcement that he or she is drinking tea). Trust me, you can search the world over, seek out the gnarliest urban back alleys and the most remote rural thickets, and you will never ever find anyone who will answer your query with a robust, Moses-parting-the-Red-Sea expansive gesture, "It's fucking tea I'm drinking, shithead, now sod off!" Physically impossible, that. CWE, exclusively, universally.

Now I have nothing against tea, and I am categorically NOT impugning tea drinkers. Once in a while I like a cup of tea myself (hot tea, we're talking, though I guess the proper terminology is brewed tea; I've never "gotten" the appeal of iced tea. I appreciate that many people swear by it and that's fine. I love lemonade, which seems to me to be the dog to iced tea's cat. But iced tea never has appealed to me, and while I certainly like libational concoctions, don't even mention Long Island Iced Tea to me--you lose me at Long Island), and I am sure that on those rare occasions when I am drinking (and loving, I'll admit) some hot brewed tea, if anyone would ask me what I was drinking, I would respond with a modest CWE. How could I not? (And no, I'm not going to get into the differences involved in drinking other warm drinks--the worlds of espressos and cappucinos et al. are not worlds I care to tread into or rub elbows with.)

It seems to me there's a whole culture, a benign secret society, that goes along with drinking tea, as opposed to the Joe the Plumber, rather mundane world of drinking coffee. You drink coffee from a mug, but tea from a "cup." You buy somebody a generic coffee maker (face it, the most famous coffee maker is just good old Mr. Coffee), but you buy somebody a "tea set." You make coffee in a pot, tea in a kettle. Is there a more quaint word than "kettle"? Even the fanciest, most aerodynamically designed coffee cups are merely crafted. Tea cups and kettles are works of art. The fastidious Brits are notorious tea drinkers. Swarthy Latin Americans are coffee drinkers. Again, not casting any aspersions, facts are facts, but tea drinking--compared to coffee drinking now, not miniature doll-making or curling (the "sport," not curling the hair on a miniature doll)--is just a little twee, ain't it? (I lead a busy life, I don't have time to research the etymology of "twee" but here's fifty bucks saying it came about because of a speech impedimented tea drinker.)

Which all leads me to the bigger picture, the bigger question. Do all classic liquid refreshments possess unique body/verbal language signifiers, like tea has its CWE? Is there a certain getting-ready-to-fight tensing up and side-of-the-mouth snarled "whiskey" that emanates from whiskey drinkers when you ask them what they're drinking? A hyperkinetic human trampolining "Jolt, man, want some? You can't have any of mine" when you ask Jolt drinkers what they're drinking? A louche, uncontrollably disdainful smirk of "Martini"? A torso expanding proudly kick ass man exclamation "Beer, dude"? A jejune just the facts ma'am muttered "Grain alcohol"? A calorie burning strut of a sermonizing "Carrot juice"? A flatlining shadow of a shoulder shrug that merely hints "Absinthe"? Who knows? I am not an anthropologist. Just a blogger, done for the day and looking to re-fill his coffee mug.

Christmas Greetings From The Spitoyurgum Family

Well Ho Ho Holy Gee Willickers Friends, it seems like just yesterday Randall and Dewey were beating the heat with their homemade Slip'n'Slide, and now it's Holiday Time! My how time flies here in the Cleveburg Metropolis. Not to worry, though, Drake and Polly have knitted each other their Yule sweaters (23 years and counting for that tradition!), and the boys (sorry, Randall, man and boy) have rigged up another Wow-O lighting display (you can see it driving by the old homestead, or maybe, on a cloudless night, from Outer Space!) using the new Survival Generator Dewey designed in his la-bor-a-tory (formerly Polly's laundry room). As long as Santa can navigate all the motion detectors, alarms (silent and not so), and trip wires Dewey has rigged the house with, I'm sure we'll all have a splendid Christmas once again. 

The big news for the Spitoyurgums in '11 is the new member of our family. Now hold on there a minute, Drake and Polly haven't gone back to cross-stitching or anything; the new Spitoyurgum is none other than Wiccandood, a beautiful, though nosy I might just add (and, alas, camera-shy), ferret that Randall won at his annual excursion to the Unsound & Furry Con in Decatur, IL. After the not-really-necessary 911 call following Polly's fainting spell upon first meeting Wiccandood, the family has embraced its newest member. In a related note, if you're in the neighborhood, stop on by to "check out" the new carpeting and drapes we've installed (as well as the elaborate "apartment" Dewey built for Wiccandood--after he quite amusingly "threatened" that "either that rodent gets put in a cage or they're going to put me in one for 20 to life for the havoc I'm fixin' to wreak"--Boys! How does Polly survive living with 1, 2, 3 and now 4 of them??!!!).

Dewey continues pursuing his myriad interests as he makes his way through 11th grade. He has started a club at school, the Students United to Draft Col. Oliver North To Run For Czar of the United States, serves as the trusted "roadie" for his two "buddies" William and Theodore, who are among the state's most promising aspiring air guitarists (finished fourth at the Hocking County Fair, despite what Dewey claimed was "a totally senile sucky third judge"), and of course spends the bulk of his free time "tinkering" in his lab (Dear Santa, bring more portable fire extinguishers, please!). In his first gesture toward "style" and "being his own person," fashion-wise, Dewey cut a unique and distinctive wedge from the side of his bangs (look at him so proudly pointing it out in the photo! Polly's baby's growing up!).

Dewey's older sibling, Randall, has been busy these few months exploring all the opportunities presented by his "gap" year. To date he has attended 26 Renaissance Fayres, where his continued mastery of the panpipes has won him quite a "cult" following. He is also quite the budding jousting expert. Claiming that he is "bored to the gills" with technology, especially the "social" aspects of social media (these kids and their lingo!), Randall has taken up the ancient art of smoke signals, creating quite a haze in the backyard most nights, sending out signals in search of "a true soul mate" (Santa, how about some more kindling wood and blankets?). From the proceeds he garnered by selling his beloved and vast trove of Magic Cards on eBay (tears were shed, Polly will admit, if not Randall himself), Randall purchased a bus ticket to Tulsa, OK and had himself a ball at the inaugural Male-AdjustedCon; he reports that "drum trapezoids" will soon be all the rage. And just look at that well-kempt goatee he returned with!

Papa Drake has spent a fair amount of time this year trying to interest the Guinness people (book, not beer) in his "gotta be some kind of a record" streak of wearing a different sweater vest for 734 (and counting!) straight days. Polyester Perseverance indeed! In his very best Gandhi-like, civil disobedient, if-you-can't-lick-'em-join-'em mode, Drake has taken to volunteering at the Unemployment Agency as a greeter and all-around ad hoc ombudsman, putting his vast experience to, well, work, aiding people in directing them to the appropriate line to stand in, advising them on which forms need to be filled out and which can be, as he puts it, "sh--canned," and apprising them of the current going rate for plasma. A true public servant. And of course, he has his "side" business of appearing as Waldo for kids' Where's Waldo-themed parties.

And Mama Bear Polly keeps rolling along too! In March she reached a milestone, clipping her one millionth coupon, and in August she received "special mention" at the Tuscarwaras County Fair Bake-Off for her tasty parsley muffins. Her audio book club thrives (time off this month for the holidays but the group will re-gather in her living room come January 17th to listen to Nicholas Sparks' True Believer, once again read by the author; all are welcome). And, as you can see from the picture (you better see!), Polly has shed a few pounds this year; she is investigating the possibilities of writing a book tentatively titled Walking Your Ferret To A Skinnier You! Drake has kindly offered to read the audio version. Other than all that, she continues her domestic endeavors: putting the seat down, finding (and counting) more uses for Krazy Glue (that's her other proposed literary effort--1,001 Sane Uses For Krazy Glue), and trying to interest her boys in the benefits of a good old-fashioned iron.

Here's wishing you all a happy and blessed Christmas and New Year, from all of us Spitoyurgums: Wiccandood, Dewey, Randall, Drake, and Polly!

The Ten Commandments Of Holiday Shopping: How Not To Be A Cranky Customer

The other day a co-worker (perhaps at the end of her shift, at the end of working six straight days of holiday madness) suggested told me to blog about cranky customers. Now being the autonomously creative guy I am, I usually pay no heed to requests demands, and as I was in the first hour of working after a couple days off and the John Denver and The Muppets Christmas CD was NOT playing at the time, I was in a rather good mood, when all holiday-shopping customers looked like they had just walked out of Johnny Mathis's rendition of "Winter Wonderland" and the only thing cranky in my world was my old war-wound left pinkie (a victim of a thumb-wrestling bout gone awry with a Salvation Army bell-ringer back in the 80s). Thus, I kind of dismissed the idea that customers could be cranky at all. Well, a few hours later, I had an inkling. But far be it for me to Scrooge all over anybody's Yule time cheer. So instead of whining all about nasty customers (maybe 1%, how ironic?) and recognizing that they are truly the lifeblood of, well, of my paycheck, to be blunt, I will simply offer some tips on how you can avoid being called a "cranky" customer by some hard-working, well-meaning, friendly (and trust me, they don't get much friendlier than said co-worker) retail employee. Now I know I have covered some of this before, but this is official; I am codifying these behaviors in the ALL POWERFUL form of TEN COMMANDMENTS (all I've ever wanted for Christmas is Charlton Heston's mien). Follow these dicta and you won't necessarily achieve eternal salvation, but I promise you you will not contribute to others' madness, which in this silly world is a pretty good merit badge to earn.

The Ten Commandments of Holiday Shopping

1. Thou shalt leave thine cellphone in the car.
2. Thou shalt wait thine turn and never assume that simply yelling, "Excuse me!" will grant thou instant service.
3. If thou art paying with a check, have thine driver's license handy and use the time in line to make out the check as completely as possible; nothing unnecessarily slows down a long line (the line thou've been silently [or not so silently] cussing for ten minutes) than an unprepared check-writer.
4. Thou shalt realize that holiday shopping is not some kind of quasi Price Is Right game; don't gather a bunch of merchandise, have the register person ring it all up, then start asking the register person to "take that one off" until thou reaches thine spending limit; either do the math in thine head while gathering, or bring a non-cellphone-feature calculator.
5. Especially as we get closer to Christmas, thou shalt not hold the store, or especially the specific employee trying to help thou, responsible for not having the item thou seeks. Lots of people celebrate the holidays by purchasing merchandise for others--it's definitely possible that the item thou seeks hast been sought by others who have gotten here first (see the early bird thing for further clarification). Thine loved ones love thou. If thou can't purchase the only thing they want for Christmas, in all likelihood (if they're really worth loving) they will still love thou even if thou doesn't buy them that particular thing. So chill out, thou.
6. Thou shalt certainly make sure thou hast an acceptable form of payment (most stores don't operate on the barter system anymore, 'tis a pity) and that thou hast sufficient funds available in that form of payment, before thou reaches the point of having to fork over the payment.
7. If thou art paying in cash, please arrange the bills so they're all facing the same way and hand them to the register person when he or she is ready to accept them; thou shalt not toss a bunch of crumpled bills on the counter in disdain that thine purchases cost as much as they do. Furthermore, an endless search for the correct change is almost as bad as waiting until the last minute to search for thine checkbook and start making it out, asking what the date is, what is the name of this store, how much was that again--making change is easy for a register person; really it's no problem.
8. Thou shalt never say, in the event of a piece of merchandise not having a price sticker or not immediately ringing up, "I guess it's free, then, hunh? (chuckle chortle snort chuckle)." Nothing is free in life, and thou art only the billionth person to utter that bon mot.
9. Thou shalt not make the assumption, especially the week of Christmas, that all the "good" merchandise is still stacked in some nebulous "back" just waiting for thou to show up and shop. What's on the shelves is what's available for purchase; what's not, is not.
10. Thou shalt realize that obscure items that were "on that table right there" back in August have probably been moved and quite possibly been sold, gotten rid of, or even stolen since then. Shit happens. Merry Christmas.