From “Living on a Prayer”:

“She said we’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got/It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not.”

Whoa, hold on here a second.  A few lines up, it was clearly stated that “Tommy used to work on the docks/Union’s been on strike/He’s down on his luck/It’s tough.” And now this chick is saying that none of that matters?  All Tommy needs is her? If I were Tommy, I’d be all “Listen you @*&*@ freak, if none of this matters, I’m not even going to try to go look for work.  You think working on the docks is a picnic?  Screw it. I’m gonna sit here and watch football.  We may be half way there, but you can @*(&*@ carry me the rest of the way. And bring some beer with you.”

From “You Give Love a Bad Name”:

“Blood red nails on your fingertips.”

This is the sign of someone who gives love a bad name? Red fingernails are actually pretty common.  What would you prefer, cyan?  Get a grip, Jon.

From “Bad Medicine”:

“Shake it up, just like bad medicine.”

Is this a typical practice with bad medicine? You grab on to it and shake it?  If it’s really bad medicine, wouldn’t it be likely to explode in your face? I do not believe that we should all shake it up just like bad medicine. I believe that if we actually identify bad medicine, we should pass it on to a qualified medical practitioner.

From “Blaze of Glory”:

“I never drew first but I drew first blood/I’m the devil’s son, call me young gun.”

So, you’re saying that you never drew first but you drew first blood?  Which means you only shot in self defense. This means that you never actually went up against anyone with an ounce of skill but against extremely incompetent adversaries, and then made your reputation by gunning them down. Who did you get into a duel with, Mr. Magoo?  I am going to call into question that you actually went down in an alleged “blaze of glory” if this was the way you chose your combatants.

This week I gave a talk in Arizona.  After I was done speaking, I froze for a few moments just to enjoy the experience of people applauding.  It didn’t mean anything, of course--people tend to applaud after a talk, whether or not they actually liked it--but it didn’t matter. Sincere or not, it’s not every day that people clap for something you’ve done, and it’s an experience worth savoring.

Ironically, there’s only one time when you can be sure that people are applauding sincerely, and it’s the time when it matters the least.  When people clap after a movie, you know they mean it because there’s no one there to offend.  At the same time, of course, it’s completely ludicrous. It may well be true that the audience members liked the movie, but I can tell you that the object of their enthusiasm, Tom Hanks, neither knows nor cares.

I did get an idea for a clock radio, however.  Usually I wake up to my NPR station and it’s okay except when people are yapping on about pledge drives or collapsing financial markets. Wouldn’t it be great if a clock could wake you up to the sound of rapturous applause?  Because let’s face it--it’s not your fault that you need to check out for eight hours at a time, getting your strength back and drooling on your pillow. It would be a nice feeling if, each and every day, you woke up feeling as though the world was welcoming you back to its stage.

Although I’m upset that I developed athlete’s foot well before any sign of athlete’s abs, I have still taken some pride in the development.  I have attempted to share this pride with others:

ME: I have athlete’s foot!

SHE: You mean the thing with the...the…

ME: ...fungus!

SHE: That is so gross.

ME: No. It means I’ve been paying studious attention to my physical health!

SHE: There’s other ways to get athlete’s foot other than being an athlete.

ME: Shut up.

SHE: Have you been wearing different shoes?

ME: Okay look, I never had it until I bought those form-fitting cotton socks from Costco. But I do not think they are the cause!

SHE: I don’t want to talk about this. It’s gross.

(The next day):

ME: Hello again!  Are you ready to discuss my fungus?

SHE: NO.

For a while I let the condition fester.  But the skin began to look red, scaly, and misshapen, as though I had accidentally stepped into a lobster that subsequently attached itself to my foot.  So I reluctantly started applying medicine.  This itself was educational—I had many potential medicines to choose from at the drugstore, and almost picked up one that said “FOR WOMEN ONLY.” Seriously, who says there aren’t fundamental differences between the genders? They don’t even get foot fungus the same.

And now the medicine is starting to work and my foot is going back to normal, and I sense a little piece of my specialness disappearing with it.  My only consolation is that I can probably get it back simply by going on some extended runs wearing Costco cotton socks.  I can tell you, that is a very nice feeling to have.

I don’t mean to get all Chandler Bing on you, but I have found that I can’t sustain a relationship with any girl who doesn’t have a pretty good name.  If she has a bad name, it will bother me. It will irritate me. Eventually it will haunt me.  And eventually we will break up.

I once dated a girl named Mariah. This couldn’t last because I had a golden retriever as a kid named Mariah. It was impossible for me to separate the girl from my memories of my childhood dog.  It didn’t help that both Mariahs were redheads.

I dated another girl named Melody.  I knew this wouldn’t end up well.  What if she wanted to name our kids Octave, Chorus, and G-flat?

I dated another girl named Rhetta.  All I could think of was Rhett Butler, Clark Gable’s character in Gone With the Wind.  It interfered with, well, just about everything, but particularly the things that were important.  There are certain times when I just don’t need to be picturing Clark Gable.

One of the first loves of my life was named Jessica, which proves the entire point I’m making.  Jessica is a completely neutral name.  It could be good or bad; there’s no way to tell. It was the absolute perfect name to start with, because it was a blank slate. (She turned out to be very nice, and so I am predisposed to like Jessicas.)

Once I crushed hard on a Stephanie, and I don’t think it was because it felt good whenever I could make her laugh.  It’s just a very good name. It starts out with three syllables, but can easily be shortened to “Steph.” It is a flexible, adaptable name well suited for the rigors of love.

Some guys tell me that they like brunettes, or that they are “ass men.” I say that I’m an “assonance man,” with particular emphasis on hard consonants at the beginning and smooth sibilants at the end.  People look at me funny when I say things like this, but that’s fine: they are the ones who will end up married to someone with a bad name, not me.

I don’t want to overstate my point.  I am not saying that a bad name will rule someone out entirely.  Naturally, my preference is not live out my golden years with a Margot or a Leticia.  But even if the name “Leticia” sounds like a cat parting ways with a hairball, it can easily be shortened to the breathy, friendly, inviting “Tish.” If there’s one thing I understand about relationships, it’s the need for sacrifice and compromise.