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.

I am starting to rethink my interest in voting for Obama.  Every single president has aged drastically while in office.  Take the once handsome Bill Clinton, for example:

The ravages of constant stress take their toll, and no president escapes unscathed.

Therefore, think what might happen if McCain becomes president.  He already looks like this:

By the end of his term, I think he’d have an extremely good chance of resembling the Marvel Comics character Ghost Rider:

Wouldn’t that be worth a measly four-year term to see?  Completely cool.

On second thought, the dangers probably outweigh the benefits. For example, here’s a screenshot of McCain’s VP pick, Sarah Palin, doing an Anchorage sportscast back in 1988:

It may have been the times, but I think that hairstyle would raise doubts and mistrust in anyone. Once a Saved by the Bell extra, always a Saved by the Bell extra.  She can spin this right round baby, right round.

My nice blog friend Sarah B.--who has been one of my favorite writers, in any medium, for years--wrote a book that went on sale today. It’s called Cringe, and it features diaries and journal entries from a variety of teens and pre-teens, along with candid commentary from the adult selves of those young wordsmiths.

Unfortunately, I have a few paragraphs in the book as well.  But it’s my solemn promise that I don’t louse up the joint too badly; my contribution is quickly skimmed through so you can move on to the real purveyors of angst and comedy.

It makes a great gift for anybody--preferably for someone who likes to read and laugh, but also for people who need something solid to prop up a table leg.  Check it out.

Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation: conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you - ask what you can do for your country.

And I say this even though it is a period of civil war in the galaxy, in the sense that a brave Alliance of underground freedom fighters has challenged the tyranny and oppression of the awesome galactic empire.

So anyway, so long. And thanks for all the fish.

Having a drink in an outside patio with my friend and colleague:

SHE: Oh my god. There’s a spider on the wall. Kill it. KILL IT.

ME: Here, I’ll remove it with this menu--

SHE: NO.  Not good enough.

(STOMP)

ME: Hey! I was going to deposit it in those bushes.  That was a living thing.  Aren’t you a believer in God, and stuff?

SHE: Whatever. It was a spider.

ME: We are all spiders in the eyes of the Lord. Didn’t you ever read Jonathan Edwards’s Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God?

SHE: What, the senator who was just caught cheating on his wife?

ME: Hmm. Now that you mention it, it’s kind of interesting they have the same name.

Bonus conversation with someone totally different!

SHE: You should have been the wedding I was at this weekend. It was Star Wars themed.

ME: .....

SHE: Great Darth Vader cake.

ME: ....just tell me that they’re not planning on having children.

SHE: They’re hoping for twins.  So they can name them Luke and Leia.

There’s been a series of “takeover” style robberies in Oakland, the city where I live.  When I first read about them in the paper, I thought it said “takeout” robberies. And I was totally understanding of that; there’s a place on Piedmont Avenue that charges ten bucks for a lousy prawn burrito.  I figured the article was going to explain all the other takeout robberies occurring throughout the city.

But no, a “takeover robbery” is where the bad guys storm into a place when customers are still there, and they demand all sorts of money and cash.  Suspects in the robberies have now been taken into custody, and I’m not surprised at all, because it’s really impossible to do a takeover robbery in Oakland.  You’d have to say “EVERYONE GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR,” and people would look at the floor--and all floors in Oakland restaurants look about the same--and say “You know what, we’ll take our chances with the jerks with the guns.”

I assume they’re now pulling in witnesses to identify the suspects, and people are all “Yeah, that’s the @*&@ who told me to get down on the floor.  Told ME to get down on a floor in an Oakland restaurant without even letting me put saran wrap down first--me, with a wife and two kids. I hope he fries.”

The police asked for “help” identifying the robbers, which really annoyed me.  What other civil servants ask for help?  Does the post office ask for help with all the holiday packages around Christmas time?  The public is asking the police for help so we can go out and have a ten dollar prawn burrito in peace without being asked to hit the floor, but they just turn it around and say “No, we need your help.” And people wonder why billionaires put on black body armor and fight crime.

I do listen very closely every time they ask for help, though. They usually say that there’s a reward for anyone who identifies a suspect who is subsequently arrested for the crime.  I think, hey, these people are busy and overworked. What if they forget to leave off that last disclaimer? They might simply offer a reward for anyone who identifies a suspect. I’d call them up and say “There’s a guy I work with who talk loudly on the phone and smells funny, and for all I know he did the robberies too. You ought to check him out.  Can you direct deposit my reward money?”

It’s not often that I get to do exclusive interviews on this site, but today I’m proud to present an interview with the individual who is currently one of the most famous, successful, and admired individuals in the world at the moment--Batman.  He had a rough start as an orphan who lost his parents to crime, but then he bounced back by waging war on the underworld and devoting himself to the protection of his city.

	Welcome, Batman, and congrats on being in the summer’s biggest blockbuster.
	I am vengeance.
	You bet you are.  And listen, with boffo box office for your recent film, you must be feeling pretty good about yourself.  What do you think is the secret of your success?
	I am vengeance.
	Yeah, look, that’s actually the main thing I wanted to ask you.  That thing you’re doing right there--it’s the only thing about you that really gets on my nerves.
	You dare?  You dare question that vengeance is my mission, my purpose, my birthright?
	No no. The vengeance thing is great. In fact, I pretty much feel the same way whenever someone cuts in front of me without using a turn signal.  But I was referring to your voice.
	What’s wrong with my voice?
	You’re way overdoing the deep, raspy thing. It pulled me out of the first movie, and the second one was great but the voice still bothered me.  Michael Keaton didn’t over do it--hell, even George Clooney handled the dual personas without drawing too much attention to himself. So what’s your problem?
	What exactly are you saying?
	I’m saying that when young Bruce Wayne went in search of great teachers, such as martial artists and world-famous detectives, you should have gone a little heavier on the vocal coaches and a little lighter on the method actors.
	YOU ARE ALIGNED WITH EVIL AND VILLAINY. YOU WILL FEEL MY WRATH.
	And you know what’s even more annoying? You do it in front of people like Rachel and Lucius, who know who you are.  I’m surprised they’re not all ‘Bruce, we get it, you’re a badass. Now stop pretending you have a 6-pack a day habit.’ What is the third movie in the series going to be called, anyway? “Batman Enunciates”?
	......
	...Batman?...
	......
	Okay!  I totally meant to end the interview early.  So that’s it for now.  Be here next time when we ask The Hulk why Dora the Explorer looks more realistic and three-dimensional than he does.

I’ve seen a lot of ads and articles lately for tips on getting in shape prior to one’s wedding day. And I guess I just think that’s a really awful idea.  When you stand up there and make your vows, you’re vowing to accept and love the other person as they are.  So the last thing you want to do is lose weight or get plastic surgery or something. Rather, you want to look the way that you’re likely be during the marriage itself, because that’s only fair.

If I were to get married, I would get all method actor about it. I’d gain fifty pounds, lose my job, and drag my James Bond DVD collection around with me in a backpack.  I’d greet my fiancee at the altar: “Hey babe, this is gonna be fun!  And after we’re done with this vow thing, do you think you can loan me a hundred bucks? I need to finish paying the caterer.”

As I sit in a sports bar in a Dallas airport, I am reflecting that if I were to start a sports bar--which would not be my first pick for a themed bar, as I find sports extremely boring--I would not make the waitresses dress like referees. There is something off putting about the idea of a referee.  They make people stop, and slow down, and skip the rest of the game. They are foreboding. Is this the right image that one wishes to give ones waitresses?  This is a sports bar; what is wrong with a cheerleader or two?

Plus, if I look to the side and kind of squint, they don’t look like referees at all but vaguely like women dressed in prison outfits--although, come to think of it, that would be my first pick for a themed bar.

Update!: Jesus God, I was just carded.  What is wrong with you people?  I am staring down the barrel of my forties; do you not see Death perched on my shoulder, not unlike the Hitchhiking Ghosts at the end of the popular Disneyland attraction The Haunted Mansion?  How am I now expected to drink this mojito with dignity?

I’m a pretty big whore,* from the standpoint that I’m willing to do just about anything if I’m compensated. And my price point isn’t even all that high.  I read other blogs and they’re all “Someone sent me something to review, but I’m not going to review it because I am artist, doing my artist thing.” Right.  A Portrait of the Artist as a Blogger--whatever. The only reason I have never reviewed anything on this site is because no one has ever sent me anything for free.

But this week someone finally did, and now I have a free Schick Quattro Titanium Trimmer, and I’m going to review it for you.  Here’s what it looks like:

There are two primary reasons I use a razor such as this. Let’s see how it stacks up in each category.

1. Shaving cats.
I have always been a big proponent of shaving cats.  I do this because otherwise cats will lick themselves and create gigantic hairballs.  If you shave them, this doesn’t happen.  Cats will thank you for the service--eventually.

So how did the Schick Quattro Titatanium Trimmer do in the cat shaving category? Unfortunately, I was unable to catch any of my neighbor’s cats in order to find out. Apparently they’ve learned to run when they see me.

2. Alternating between electric razor and a normal one.
This is probably more what I was supposed to write when asked to review the product. The fact is, I’m far too lazy to use a regular razor every day; I almost always use an electric one. But sometimes you want an especially close shave, and then I’ll use a razor like the one I was given or use it after shaving with an electric razor.  This gives me a close shave that I can do to snuggle with those that I love, such as my neighbor’s wife.  Unfortunately, again, I was unable to catch my neighbor’s wife in order to evaluate the product.

Still, I did shave with it and, frankly, it’s a pretty ordinary shave.  Not bad, just ordinary. However, the big gimmick is that it has a trimmer on the end of the handle, battery powered, that works very well.  I do like this feature. Sometimes the electric razor gives me a bit more flexibility, which is why I often alternate between electric and manual, but if the manual has a trimmer at the end, I could see using only the manual razor.  That is, on those rare occasions when I’m feeling inspired to use a non-electric razor.

The trimmer is advertised as being “titanium,” which I guess is good.  I mean, if it was a “plutonium” trimmer than I probably would not have opened the box.  The blades worked well.  I lost about a pint of blood using the product, but that would be true regardless of what razor I used; there’s a reason I tend to stick with electric.

In sum: cool idea to have the trimmer on the end of the razor, so I like it.  And that’s my review.  Now who is going to send me more free stuff?

*However, I’m not so much of a whore that I’m going to mention that you can register to win a free trimmer at www.trimflixx.com by making a movie--especially since I tried it and made one where I’m having a pillowfight with some co-eds.  Frankly, it was kind of creepy. I didn’t like seeing myself in a movie that completely violates the half-plus-seven rule. Maybe a little subtlety in regards to this particular viral marketing gem, guys?**

**But you should still send me more free stuff.

Bringing along two women to help shop for clothes can be extremely healthy.  This way, you won’t necessarily buy what you would ordinarily buy, but learn what other people think you should buy, which frankly is more important.  If I actually bought only what I wanted to wear, I’d have nothing but a closet full of white T-shirts and maybe a red cape or two.  Fernando was right: it’s better to look good than to feel good.

So I invited my friends to come with me during one of my infrequent clothes pilgrimages, and it worked better than I had dared hoped.  Interesting and unusual clothes were yanked off racks and pushed into my hands with ruthless efficiency. If I mumbled out loud about needing a size larger, someone zipped off and immediately got it for me.

The store clerks looked strangely at our whirlwind of activity. I said, “I’m Mormon and these are my two wives.”

It’s also good because the clerks themselves are far less annoying. Usually they try to weigh in with “You would look good in this” and “Try that,” but you can never trust store clerks; they’re driven by commission, and I also think they like to play practical jokes on customers, the way bored cooks spit in your soup.  But they were powerless in the face of my two friends, twin sentinels who monitored by every move and insisted on seeing the results of everything I tried.

To my surprise, I vetoed practically nothing.  There was one red striped shirt in particular that I simply couldn’t handle, although I might go back and buy it if I decide to be Raggedy Ann or Andy for Halloween.

And there were definitely a few times when I was pushed outside of my comfort zone.  A gray sweater that looked as though I should be offering to carry someone’s schoolbooks? A polo shirt with three wide stripes, as though I was flipping burgers for the grandkids while swimming in and out of dementia?  I would have gone past these items without a second thought if I had been on my own, but armed with my own personal shopping versions of Ebert & Roeper, I was forced to take two female thumbs up into consideration. And, once placed on my personage, these odd clothes did actually seem to work.  The gray sweater in particular snapped into place and I saw the fashion-laded possibilities.

GQ will not be inviting me to be on their cover anytime soon. In fact, they frequently write me letters and ask me not to even buy the magazine because it hurts their brand.  Nonetheless, I am content with the results.

It’s interesting, though, how shopping breaks down barriers and causes people to become more candid than they were before. By the end of the day, opinions were offered as to what the new clothes would displace.

“That green, shimmery shirt you wear? Yeah. That’s got to go.” (pause) “You know, I’ve known you for years, but I’ve never spoken up about that.”

Dribbling a basketball outside the car window and occasionally passing it to other drivers.

Talking on my cell phone while holding it in my teeth.

Not holding the wheel at all while I pick my nose with both hands.

Holding a stuffed animal to my ear and pretending to have a conversation until police pull me over, at which point I thrust the animal at them and say “Ha, joke’s on you-it’s not a cell phone at all but rather my old pal Flopsy.”

Talking to friends and colleagues without using a cell phone--such as with CB radio, walkie talkies, and bullhorns.

Driving around my neighborhood with the stereo blaring and the windows rolled down, singing loudly along with Rihanna’s “Shut Up and Drive.”

Calling the police every five minutes to report another driver talking on his cell phone: “He just turned down Lexington Avenue. If you guys hurry, you can totally catch him.”

Pricing out bluetooth headsets. This is technically an act of cultural obedience and not rebellion, but whatever, who asked you.

I’ve never been a fan of nudists. They take the fun out of everything.  What I like about most naked people is the motion and the sounds that precede their nudity: the whisper of cloth as it’s pulled over the head, the rustle of denim as it plunges to the floor, the tearing of fabric as you get fed up with gentility and simply rip it apart. Nudity is the prize at the end of all of that effort, but nudists don’t play like that at all. They’re like, hey, I’m naked and I’ve been naked for the last fourteen hours--so who wants to play volleyball?

Nudists are the kind of people who will tell you what happens on the last page of a mystery novel.  They will tell you what happens in a movie you haven’t seen. If they could tell the future, they’d tell you the license plate of the bus that’s going to hit you.  Their life is one, big, boring issue of National Geographic.

These are all reasons why I would not invite nudists over for dinner. Other reasons include my lack of interest in serving cold food that doesn’t spatter, as well as having to put plastic down on all my furniture.

Questions unanswered by this post:
Which is better, nudity or nakedness?

Do nudists get aroused by slowly putting on clothes?

Is there anyone more miserable than an eskimo who secretly wants to become a nudist?

When Obama is trying to get Michelle to be naked, does he talk about his passionate desire for change?

When nudists find out that one of their number is also an exhibitionist, do they vote the person out of the club?  Or maybe they simply shrug and say “Eh, whatever, there’s nothing wrong with being an overachiever.”