As many know, the wondrous Sarah B. has turned her concept Cringe into a book deal, as well as a television series that just finished filming its pilot.

Cringe is where people stand in front of an audience and read excerpts from the diaries or journals that they kept as teenagers.

I am sad that I can never participate because I didn’t keep a diary as a teenager.  But it did occur to me that I wrote a few diary entries in junior high, so this past Thanksgiving I ransacked my old bookcase at my parents’ house to find it.  I did, in fact, find the journal.

Of course, the first thing to notice is that the journal is actually an official Judy Blume diary given to me by my mother one Christmas:

Which leads to the inevitable question: why did my mother think I was gay?

I knew that the diary contained mostly blank pages.  The only thing I remember writing was an account of me challenging another kid to a fight after school.  We fought and eventually the police got involved.  I wanted to re-read that entry, but I completely forgot that I filled out the introductory page as well.

Here’s how I filled out the Introductory page at age 12:

I LIKE: Comics, girls, The Greatest American Hero, rock n roll parties, fun, space stuff, adventures, books, and stuff that makes me look glamorous.

Oh. So that’s why my mother thought I was gay.

Note to younger self: Look, Liberace, I’d worry less about the glamor bit and concentrate more on taking the steep turns less quickly on your way back from dinner with your prom date.  Such attention to detail will ensure that your date doesn’t throw up, which will help get you laid a lot faster than whatever extreme makeover thing you’re going on about.

As for “rock n roll parties"--settle down, Greased Lightning, you’re not exactly the leader of the T-Birds.

I HATE: School, fights, poison oak, acne, crime, snobs, Ronald Reagan, peas, hikes, manners, and people with no sense of humor!

Actually, I still hate most of these things.  Hikes can be nice.

THIS YEAR IN SCHOOL: Will be told probably later in this package called Judy Blume’s (yes Judy Blume!) diary.  Do you have any comic books?

There’s going to be a television show with this kind of material?  I don’t know if I can stand another ten seconds of this, much less a half hour.

Some material in this diary may not be suitable for children or adults.

Okay, sorry, I was going to transcribe the entry about the fight, but I’ve reached my limit--much the way one can only take about twenty minutes of any movie starring Amanda Byrnes.  I’m going to go de-tox.  I haven’t been this glad not to be twelve since the day I turned thirteen.

There’s a lot to hate in the world and I’m constantly reshuffling my top five to make way for new entrants. For example, wouldn’t it be nice if every person who says things like “I’M YER NUMBER ONE STUNNA” was dropped from a tall building? But I think a powerful new contender has to be the trend of rich people tossing off racial or ethnic slurs, and then going to “leaders” of those racial or ethnic groups in order to ask for forgiveness.

This happened when Mel Gibson was arrested for drunk driving and started in with an anti-semitic rant; after the dust settled, I read that he met with Jewish leaders in order to discuss the incident and formally apologize. Similarly, Michael “Kramer from Seinfeld” Richards recently broke into a racist tirade at an L.A. comedy club, and he hired a PR consultant with “deep contacts in the black community” in order to help repair his public image.

Sadly, here’s how I expect those initial conversations go:

IDIOT CELEBRITY: Hi, I’d like you to talk to the press on my behalf and say how we talked and how what I did was wrong but it’s not really my fault.  It was the fault of our culture of racism and violence and Martha Stewart products, and stuff.

LEADER: I see.  And what do I get out of helping you salvage your alleged Hollywood career?

IDIOT CELEBRITY: You get your name in the papers, further associating you with the racial and/or ethnic group that you represent, which helps solidify your credentials as the go-to person for that entire collective.

LEADER: Fantastic.  You have a deal. But listen, you’re not really racist, are you?

IDIOT CELEBRITY: Oh no no. I just stubbed my toe and a bunch of racial epithets came out.  But, I mean, that doesn’t make me racist.

LEADER: I should say not!  I look forward to doing business with you!

Here’s how those scenes should go:

IDIOT CELEBRITY: Hi, I’d like you to talk to the press on my behalf.

LEADER: I see.  Now be quiet for a moment...I’m getting a message from the racial/ethnic group that I’m supposed to represent...it’s like a billion voices in my head, all whispering the same thing…

IDIOT CELEBRITY: And?  And?  They say that they forgive me?

LEADER: They say that..that…

IDOT CELEBRITY: Yes?  YES?

LEADER: ...that you’re an asshead, that you should have stopped with the first Lethal Weapon, and that your so-called religious epic was actually a glorified snuff film. Get the hell out of my office.

However, I’m a realist. I know that this trend is likely to continue in full force as even more famous people with deep pockets spew hatred and bile into the world, causing even more leaders to line up behind them in order to scarf up the resulting publicity. Therefore, I’ve decided to become one of those leaders.  Despite being straight, white, and middle-class, there’s nonetheless a group with which I’m closely identified in the public eye: People who hate people who make turns without using a turn signal.  Therefore, I’m making myself available to any celebrity who makes a turn without signaling and thus elicits a public outcry.  Come to me, let’s talk about it, and maybe I’ll go to the press and speak on your behalf.

But you have to be smart about it.  For example, I recently met with Britney Spears and it didn’t go well:

BRITNEY: I took a left-hand turn without signaling and now everyone hates me.  Can you talk to the media and say how sorry I am about it?

ME: Well, Britney, I represent a group that really hates people who make turns without signaling.  Why did you do it?

BRITNEY: My hands were full.  I was balancing my baby on my shoulders while snorting crack and signing Kevin’s divorce papers.  The steering wheel and routine functions of the car just became an afterthought.

ME: Okay, I’ll speak to the press on your behalf--

BRITNEY: Yay!

ME: BUT only if you agree to certain conditions.  First, when you’re driving around with your kid, use a goddamn babyseat like everyone else.  It’s your baby, not a football.

BRITNEY: That’s a sound parenting tip!

ME: Second, don’t marry any more gold digging rap star wannabee dancers.  Third and most important, stop using letters such as “4” and “U” in the place of actual English words such as “for” and “you.” For example, in the title of your Top 40 smash “I’m a Slave 4 U.” Prince did that first--and you, Britney, are no Prince.  It’s annoying as hell when you do it.

BRITNEY: Got it!  Thanks!  Okay! 

ME: So I guess I’ll call up the newspapers and start saving your reputation.

BRITNEY: That’s awesome!  2 R 2 Good 2 B 4-gotten!

(pause)

Oops.

ME: Get the hell out of my office.

Previous studies have indicated that consuming red wine may help prevent obesity and age-related diseases, while increasing strength and endurance.

But now a new study confirms that red wine also leads to amazing superpowers.

Leading scientists monitored a test subject who drank great quantities of red wine over the course of several months, and as a result became able to lift cars over his head, defy gravity, and perform stunning feats of heroism.

“It wasn’t just the wine by itself,” explained one of the lead researchers.  “Our test subject consumed the wine for a significant period of time, and then uttered the phrase ‘Sauvignon!’ Apparently, this word is one of the key harmonics of the universe.  It caused an ear-splitting sound, much like a billion grapes being crushed at once.  When the smoke cleared, our test subject was wearing a spandex outfit and cape, and found himself endowed with abilities such as strength and flight.”

Although the test subject now responds to the name “Captain Cabernet,” he hasn’t actually taken the step of fighting crime.

“I will fight no crime until it’s time,” explained the test subject, who preferred to remain anonymous in case he does, in fact, wind up with a rogue’s gallery of supervillain adversaries.

Captain Cabernet also possesses a strange power called “wine vision.”

“That one isn’t very useful, though,” said the lead researcher.  “Wine vision just means that Captain Cabernet laughs and giggles whenever he looks at anything.  In effect, he’s seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.”

Scientists are also quick to warn against overstating the positive effects of wine.

“It’s not like everyone should run out and start drinking barrels of wine.  Oh sure, you’ll gain super strength and flight.  But so far, there’s no surefire way to maintain a secret identity--not with the way your teeth get stained.”

Biking can be an excellent source of cardio exercise.  However, don’t make the mistake of thinking that you can simply jump on a bike and start riding.  The battle lines between cars and bicyclists have slowly been drawn for years, and you need to understand the rules of engagement.

In order to be a part of bike culture, you must follow a series of very specific cultural directives.  Mainly, it’s necessary to be a fascist in your quest to hog the road, weaving in and out of driver blind spots as though your sense of equilibrium has been permanently damaged by listening to Metallica at full volume.  Is your green, orange, and yellow spandex too tasteful?  Don’t feel shy about adding a purple helmet and pink shoes.  Curse out cars who veer as little as two inches in your direction, and curse out anybody with a “MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT” bumper sticker just out of general principle.  Be sure to carry a cloud of smugness around you that ensures that every motorized vehicle within visual range understands your inherent superiority and your ability to save the environment from destruction by sheer virtue of your finely tuned calves and pedaling acumen.  Most importantly, remember that road signs are simply a suggestion, not a directive.  Glide past Yield and Stop Signs as though they’re project deadlines at work, and stare blankly at any motorist who screeches on the brakes in an attempt to avoid hitting you.

Bicyclists sound like a hard-bitten bunch of felons, don’t they?  Don’t judge too harshly; they’re simply reacting to their environment.  Most drivers fly into a fit of road rage at the mere sight of a U-lock.  In their eyes, call bicyclists are a pack of potential eco-terrorists, and should be exiled to Romania where they can ride up and down hills to their heart’s content.  Drivers feel as though that if God intended people to ride bikes, he would never have created five-lane highways.

Motorists and bicyclists constitute one of the great blood feuds of the last century, making the Sri Lanka’s Tamil Tigers and Sinhalese majority look like the cast of “Up with People.” Good way to burn calories--if you survive the experience.

I was so stupid as a kid. I always worked hard to win sports trophies, although I was terrible at everything. Baseball, soccer, basketball--I was awful at them all.

But then I realized I could just visit sporting goods stores and buy the trophies myself.  Cut out the middleman.

Now it’s great.  I keep a big trophy case in the middle of living room.  By now I’ve grown quite a collection. It’s a great icebreaker. People look at it and exclaim “My God!  Soccer and basketball and--rugby?  Lacrosse? You must be really good!”

I just smile and say, “I like to think so.”

The lumbering Irish Boston bouncer peered at my driver’s license and said “Were the elections as big a deal for you guys as they were for us?”

I looked up at him in abject terror.  He wants to talk politics?  I don’t know much, but I do know never to discuss politics with someone who’s four times as large as I am.  Particularly when you don’t know where they stand.  I thought to myself: Huge, Irish, a bouncer.  What political party is that?  Green?  No wait, the Greens aren’t named after Ireland.

I said, “Ha ha ha, mumble mumble, ha ha, oh that Governator, yeah, that’s our Arnie, ha ha ha.  I need Jameson’s whisky now.”

It actually has been strange to be doing my little trivial work things on the east coast all week while serious and substantial events have been transpiring throughout the country.  The Dems retake the senate.  Rumsfeld resigns.  Britney splits with K-Fed.

The Rumsfeld thing was brilliant on Bush’s part.  He waited until after the election so the move didn’t look like desperation, and it also significantly helped disrupt the election news cycle.  The ink on headlines such as “NANCY PELOSI: THREAT OR MENACE?” were only starting to dry when the story hit, drawing attention back to the White House and a ridiculous symbolic gesture of change in regards to Iraq. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that it matters.  Rumsfeld had already lost most of his power, and I could almost hear the song in Bush’s heart (to the tune of Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back") as he pressured the guy into resigning:

We’re sending Rummy back
(Yeah!)
‘Cause he really blew Iraq
(Yeah!)
The dems took congress, what a heart attack
(Yeah!)
But no worries ‘cause we’ll take it back
(Take ‘em to the bridge!)

Like I said, serious change in our country.  And speaking of which, did you read that Ryan Phillipe wants spousal support from Reese?  S’matter, Ryan--your residual checks from Cruel Intentions starting to run out?

I’ve spent the last few days in Little Falls, New York, staying at my boss’s house.  He grew up here. His parents also grew up here, and they live down the street from him.  There’s 5,000 people in the town and they all say “hello” when you pass them.

He took us to a street corner and said “This is where I made the decision to move back once I had built a successful company. It was during the town parade, and it was an epiphany.”

I said, “That must have been some float.”

He took us out to dinner. His 15-year old daughter started texting during the meal.  He sent her a text message that said “STOP TEXTING.”

I said, “We had texting when I was in school, but we called it ‘paper airplanes.’”

Later I asked to my co-worker, “Am I making too many jokes?”

She said, “You’re fine.”

The restaurant we ate dinner at is rumored to be haunted.  We watched a VHS tape of a History Channel show that discussed it.  On the show, a frizzy haired psychic said “This place has very dark and negative energy.” But of course she said that. Is a psychic going to walk into a building that’s supposed to be haunted and say “Nah, it’s fine”?  That would be like an interior designer walking into your house and saying “Perfect.  I couldn’t have done better.”

In the morning I went running.  It really wasn’t that cold for a November in New York, and I wore shorts.  Passerbys looked at my milky white legs, running bare at 7:00 in the morning, and probably thought “Crazy hippy Californian.” But it was nice.  The autumns on the east coast are clear and distinct, like a map in relief; autumns in California are blurry and unimpressive, like an afterthought.

We went to a so-called antique store that was really like a large, sprawling garage sale. I found an old ‘60s James Bond lunch box for $45. My co-worker said that I should buy it.  I said I really didn’t need it cluttering up my apartment; I just liked knowing that it existed.

I met the mother of my boss’s executive assistant. She complained about computers.  She said, “Some tech support guy was typing at me, trying to help me.  I said, ‘I want to talk to a real person.’ He said, ‘I am a real person.’ He told me to right click.  What the hell does that mean, right click?  Let me tell you, I’ve never right clicked anything in my life.”

Tomorrow I head off to Boston where I have to actually do some work.  I’m glad I came here first.

The most widely read post on this site is this one.  This is because people consistently Google its subject matter.  The post will actually provide the answers to their questions, but they’ll have to read the whole thing plus dozens of comments. Therefore, I’ve updated the post with a FAQ to help them out.  I am doing this for two reasons:

1. Increase the power of the Internet to deliver real-time information to life-shaking quandaries, and

2. I really want someone to yank the magnet out of that damn tape and then mail the show to me.  I’m dying to hold a “Dads” viewing party.

Duck and cover
Parry and thrust
Bob and weave
Stay and have dinner
Dance dance dance
Life’s tough, get a helmet
Interrupting cow
‘Nam-er-iffic
Word to your moms, we’ve come to drop bombs
Save the cheerleader, save the world