I got a new bed
It’s a pretty good lay
It’s got high thread count sheets
And the cutest green duvet

I got a new bed
One that will help me rest
Now there’s one bed for me
And another for a guest

It will help me sleep well
My back will never bruise
But when that alarm goes off
I totally hit the snooze

(I totally hit the snooze)

I got a new bed
It’s a nice size
It feels good on the skin
It’s okay on the eyes

I got a new bed
I’m pleased to announce
And although it’s pretty solid
I’d rather you not bounce

It’s fun to fall asleep now
Definitely not a chore
Too bad it can’t shut me up
When I start to snore

(When I start to snore)

(Guitar and saxophone jam)

I got a new bed
It fits about right
You can doze off to sleep
Or have a pillow fight

I got a new bed
It’s really quite soft
It helps me dream of Angelina
Being all Lara Croft

Now I’m not looking for attention
Don’t want you to shed a tear
But it’s fair to say
I’ll be eating ramen for a year

(I’ll be eating ramen for a year)

(Guitar and saxophone jam, repeat, fade out)

SHE: I’m not worried about going on a date with a guy I don’t know very well. I have a series of questions that tell me whether he’s a serial killer or not, and they’re proven to work.

ME: Like what?

SHE: Question #1: Have you ever tortured small animals or insects for fun?

ME: Good…

SHE: Question #2: Have you ever lived alone in a cabin in a land-locked state?

ME: ....

SHE: Question #3: Are you a serial killer?

ME: ...

SHE: ...

ME: ...and you say that this screening process is proven to work?

SHE: Absolutely. I am not dead.

Hanging out at the neighborhood swimming pool as a kid, I found things to be predictable.  The wooden deck, baked by the sun, was always stove hot.  Bees grew to the size of ping pong balls.  The air smelled of heat, chlorine and suntan lotion.

For some reason I remember the suicides. This quasi-forbidden beverage was a big deal to an eleven-year old boy.  A suicide was made from all the other soft drinks in the concession stand: coke, 7-Up, Dr. Pepper, and root beer.  It was never clear why this concoction struck fear into the hearts of some adults the way crack cocaine does today, but not every older teenager who worked the concession stand would make it for us. You had to ask for a suicide from one of the cooler ones, or even better, wait until the concession stand was unmanned and then sneak in and make your own.

One afternoon did not turn out to be predictable at all. That was the afternoon that an older girl, maybe fourteen or so, came into the pool area.  She wore a one-piece bathing suit, but it had a plunging neckline that showed off large fields of pale white skin.  It was as though the designer had gotten drunk while making it and completely forgot that the thing was supposed to be functional pool wear, not a sultry ballroom gown.

My friends and I had finished a game of racquetball.  We lay in the shade, dripping with sweat and drinking suicides, watching people swim in the pool. Suddenly, my friend jabbed me in the chest and said “Look. LOOK.”

Up on the high diving board, the girl prepared to jump.  She smoothed back her hair and closed her eyes. But she hadn’t realized that the right side of her plunging neckline bathing suit had flipped back, revealing her breast.

Even though she was far away, all the way up on the high dive, we could see that her nipple was startlingly red. I had never dreamed of a red that color.  It was like a strawberry ripening.  It was like a rose blooming. It was like the blinking lights that beckon airplanes to land.

And then we realized something else: the moment was continuing. She still didn’t know.  Although the pool patrons had begun to look up and see the vision shimmering above their heads, she hadn’t realized what happened. She continued her swan-like strut up and down the diving board, readying herself to jump, while her swimsuit continued its cowardly retreat.

Finally one of her friends waved at her, and she looked down, and her face turned a color of red that nearly--but not quite--matched her other exposed part. As she covered herself, the moment finally ended and we all erupted into laughter and excited talking, beginning a conversation and an exchange of impressions and opinions that would continue for several days, even weeks, to come.

I looked over at the girl a few minutes later. She was predictably mortified, but also smiling and talking with her friends. I knew that she would get on her with her life and exhibit a notable lack of permanent trauma.  Which was good, because it wouldn’t have been fair to make her pay for the gift she had given us.

And she had given us a gift.  I don’t just mean that she gave us the gift of her skin, showing us female flesh that was real and true and not trapped behind the wavy lines of a scrambled cable channel, or airbrushed frosting-pink inside the pages of a carefully hidden skin mag.  Rather, when her swimsuit flipped back and her breast burst forth, like the morning sun rising into the sky, she broke us out of our routine.  She showed us that not everything stays the same, or predictable, or staid.  She showed us that anything is possible.

Update! Barbara has another point of view.

I have belatedly started listening to the 2006 Christine Aguilera album “Back to Basics.” Aguilera usually isn’t my kind of music, but I like retro pop, and she does a fun job of doing R&B, blues, and other older styles with a modern flavor.  I particularly noted the third single from the album, “Candyman.” If you haven’t heard it, check it out.  It’s okay, I’ll wait.

I noted the song in particular because it ended up providing a lot of information about what gets Christine hot.  Now, don’t get me wrong--if I had a laminated “Friends"-style list of celebrity lust targets, she wouldn’t even make the top ten. But hey, if she’s going to start singing about things that get her going, sure I’m going to listen.  These lyrics caught my attention:

“He’s a one stop shop/makes my cherry pop
“He’s a one stop shop/makes my panties drop”

I was definitely curious. Aside from gravity, what does make Christine Aguilera’s panties drop?  So I listened carefully for the telltale signs and evaluated how I might stack up.  My score? Not very good. Here’s what she values:

“He had tattoos up and down his arm.” Very bad start.  I do not have tattoos up and down my arm. I used to have a cool scar on my chest from when I ran into an electric fence as a kid--I wasn’t too bright--but it’s long since faded. I also had a cool henna tattoo once. That has also faded.

“There’s nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm.” This one I’m good at!  I have charm!  I am particularly charismatic as I wax eloquent on lore and trivia as it pertains to old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“He took me to the Spider Club at Hollywood and Vine/We drank champagne and we danced all night.” I’m okay springing for champagne, but dancing all night?  That is tiring. But if it’ll get me to the dropping/popping thing as previously referenced, I can increase my cardio workouts and maybe hang in there until midnight or so.  Oh, and I’d also need to take dancing lessons.

“He had lips like sugar cane.” Well, sure, why not. I’ll dunk my face in a bowl of granulated sugar.

“He’s a one stop shop with a real big (word dropped in the song).” Err....no comment.

Maybe I’ll forget about the candyman business and settle for being a sprightly little piece of Skittles.

The furniture delivery people just left my place.  Yesterday they gave me a delivery “window” from 8 a.m. to noon.

Okay, first of all, that is not a window. A window is 30 minutes. An hour tops.  Four hours is an entire glass ceiling.

Then, they arrived at 7:30 a.m. and called me incessantly.

A four hour window and you can’t even hit that?

They asked me where I wanted everything put.  I would have told them, but I doubt they would have been willing to comply given that my directions would have included a sensitive anatomical region.

Ever hear the expression “can’t hit the broad side of a barn”? I’m officially changing that up to “can’t even make it inside a furniture delivery window.”

The Eliot Spitzer situation has ignited the old controversy over whether prostitution ought to be legalized.  Although generally I side with individual choice in these matters, I am categorically against the legalization of prostitution.  I absolutely hate shopping for items such as clothes, furniture, and even groceries. Can you imagine how stressful it would be to enter a Prostitute Emporium?  The second you walked in the door, you’d be pounced on before the bell had even stopped jingling.

MADAME: Hello sir!  How may I help you today?

ME: Uh, I’m just looking.

MADAME: Here!  Try one!  It’s the only way to tell if it fits!

(She shoves me at a tall brunette.)

ME: Ooof.

BRUNETTE: You’re hot!

ME: I’m not buying you.

BRUNETTE: Then get off me.

MADAME: How about these two blondes? This one’s Inga, and this one’s Inga! They’re very cost effective.

INGA & INGA: Ja, hello!

ME: Um, I’ve had bad experience with cheap Swedish models. They were good when I was a student, but they’re difficult to assemble and fall apart easily.  Here, let me show you.

(to Inga & Inga)

Are you in this business because your father neglected you?  Do you secretly crave his love?  Is your profession a reflection of your own self loathing?

(Inga & Inga run off crying.)

MADAME: Well, that wasn’t a fair test. Our floor models are always a bit more fragile.

ME: Look, I’m really just browsing. I don’t need--

MADAME (looking me up and down): You’re a size small, aren’t you?

ME: HEY!

MADAME: Listen, this ain’t no library. You come in, you can browse for a bit, but eventually you gotta buy. If all you want to do is watch, find yourself a DVD.

ME: Well, look, I’m kind of looking for something special.

MADAME: We can do special. Just going to cost a bit extra.

ME: It’s...well, I’m looking for a woman about 5’7, light brown hair, glasses, educated, hopefully with a bit of a midwestern twang.  I need her to read this to me so I can...you see...well, here.

(I thrust a paper in her hand. She looks at it, reads):

MADAME: “Great work on the introductory paragraph!  Be sure to work on your transitions, and also support your thesis statements with secondary reference sources. Other than that, another sterling essay and you’re well on track to a very strong report card.”

ME: My seventh grade teacher.  I’d...I’d like one of your girls to read those comments to me. Over and over. 

MADAME: Hmmm. You’re sicker than I thought you were when you walked in here.

ME: Also, I’m willing to clean erasers.

MADAME: Okay.

(She picks up a microphone)

ME: Wait, wait, this place is crowded today, do you think you could be discreet about--

MADAME: HELLO, I NEED A SANDY HAIRED MIDWESTERN JUNIOR HIGH TEACHER WITH ERASER EXPERIENCE ON AISLE FIVE.

ME: Christ!

(My boss waves to me from across the room.)

BOSS: Good job, guy!  Personally, I’m just interested in being held!

ME: I’m outta here.

Can you imagine?  Let’s all work to keep this profession underground. Besides, I like the way it takes down a politician or two every few years.  Between prostitution, fraud, and illegal donations, I predict we won’t have any politicians left by the year 2019--and frankly, that’s a world worth bequeathing to our children.

For the second week in a row, I’m stuck in a hotel room for several days.  The shampoo in my bathroom is called “Clarifying Shampoo.” I have absolutely no idea what to make of this name. It sounds like something Dumbledore would use to ferret out his enemies.

Why do they bother to put art on hotel walls?  Does anyone really walk into the room and say “Oh, a nice sailboat, I feel like home”?  More often, I wake up completely disoriented and and a bland, framed dandelion swims in front of my vision. I can’t remember whether I’m in a hotel room or a nursing home, and I resolve to quickly consult my Clarifying Shampoo.

ME: How’s your daughter?

HE: Well, she’s undergoing a tough transition right now since she’s away from home for the first time.

ME: Really?

HE: Sure, she’s at college. So she’s undergoing a pretty dramatic separation from us. She feels upset a lot of the time, and although she’s making new friends, she often misses home and feels isolated in her new environment.

ME: Wow. She told you all of this?

HE: No, I read about it on her MySpace.

He always reaches over and takes the last of your french fries.

He weaves in and out of freeway lanes so you can’t pass.

He leeches off your internet connection to download porn.

He fumbles with ATM machines with a huge line standing behind him.

He talks about what happened this week on Lost without asking if you’ve already seen it.

He refers to himself as a “consumer advocate,” the way other people refer to themselves as “unusually dichotomous” or “crazily spontaneous.”

He claims to be “anti big business” but makes it his own business to be on television for no real reason.

He thought The Bucket List was pretty funny.

His supporters talk at you with a frightening, glassy-eyed intensity that make Obama fans seem mellow by comparison.

You should have heard what he said about you when your back was turned.

Like everyone else, I hate mattress shopping and I’ll gladly wait until my old mattress is sagging like Hilary Clinton’s poll numbers before buying a new one. But finally, after dreaming that I was being swallowed whole by the Staypuff Marshmallow Man, I realized that there was nothing to be done but go out and shop for a mattress.

It was Saturday of a President’s Day weekend, which celebrates all the Presidents except for Harrison (c’mon, the guy died of pneumonia 31 days after being inaugurated), so the mattress store was pretty empty. I walked in.  I found the area that more-or-less matched my budget.  (Hint: it wasn’t the $8,000 section. Who spends that kind of money on a mattress? They’re not even stuffed with hundred dollar bills.) I cracked my knuckles. I did a few stretching exercises.  My mental iPod kicked in and started playing Moby’s “Jam for the Ladies.”

And then I sprang on the mattresses.  I flopped on them and pretended to take a nap. I somersaulted off of them. I leaped from on top of them and did a brilliant triple dismount, landing agilely on my feet and only lightly spraining my toe.  I wiped the sweat from my brow and did the whole routine again.  My mental iPod segued into “Footloose,” and I bounded from mattress to mattress like an 18-year old mullet-headed Kevin Bacon.

After jumping off my favorite mattress and sliding across the floor on my knees, I stopped to take a break and calibrate my findings.  At that moment, the salesman came over to talk to me. “I hope you’re finding everything you’re looking for. And please, feel free to lie on the mattresses and find the one that’s right for you.”

I realized that he hadn’t seen me. I said, “Uh, yeah, I’m actually doing that.  I figured it was okay to test the mattresses when you’re shopping for one.”

He laughed. “You’d be surprised. It’s often a chore to get people to try the mattresses.”

“What, really?”

“They just feel uncomfortable about it.”

Christ. I may not be the most spontaneous or hedonistic guy in the world--the closest I’ve been to anything like Burning Man was when a bagel accidentally caught fire in my toaster oven--but even I know that when you shop for mattresses, all bets are off. You snore, you drool, you jump, you bounce. Bring your Significant Other and spoon. It doesn’t matter. It’s a mattress store, not an art gallery.

This brings to mind some of most poignant words that I’ve ever heard.  I often see them hanging up in picture frames in houses and over people’s desks at work. They inspire me. I call them the Mattress Mantra, and they should be the bywords of mattress shoppers everywhere:

Haggle for them like you really need the money
Roll around on top of them like nobody’s watching
Bounce off them like you’ve never been hurt.

It took me the longest time to figure out what all the fuss about waterboarding was.  It sounded like a fun thing to do in a lake or the ocean, like surfing or windsailing. I would read about the C.I.A. using this practice on prisoners, and I was all, so what? What else did they do, take them out to the country for a nice picnic?

Eventually I figured out that it was a serious form of torture where you tie someone face down on a board and souse them with water until they experience the sensation of drowning.  That didn’t seem like such a fun way to spend a day.  And I guess now I’m confused all over again, because this form of torture is being used because it doesn’t leave any physical marks although it can cause excruciating pain.  If that’s the aim, why not just make them watch the current season of Nip Tuck?

Ever notice that no one ever gives up religion for Lent? 

It’s always chocolate or beer or ESPN.  I say, challenge yourself with a stretch goal. “In forty days I will return to my faith, but for now I’m just going to worship this old pagan goat’s head.”

I have an idea for a surefire money maker that would appeal to all ages. It would be an exhibit that allows visitors to walk around and look at people whose bodies had, a long time ago, been trapped in a glacier.

Particularly princesses. With their bright pink dresses still visible through the blue, frozen haze. Caught like a snapshot in time, their eyes milky, their bejeweled hands outstretched as though, at the moment of their demise, they thought they could claw their way back to life.

I’d call it “Disney On Ice.”

I found a few pages of an unfinished screenplay over the weekend, and this scene made me smile although I have no recollection of writing it.  It takes place in a record company where our protagonist, Peter, works as a talent scout. He and his friend Abby are meeting a new artist that the label might want to sign, a hardcore rapper type.

MACHETE: I’m Macheté.

He pronounces it “Mash-sheh-TAY.”

PETER: Machete?

MACHETE: No, Macheté. With an accent at the end.

PETER: Wait a minute...I know you.

Macheté looks at him suspiciously.

PETER: You’re Tim Mason. You were in that boy band, The Virgin Daquiris.

MACHETE: Long time ago, bro.

PETER: Yeah, but you had that number one song, “I’m Your Sir Galahad”!

Macheté glares at him.

ABBY: He hates to talk about that song.

PETER (singing): “I’m your Sir Galahad, and you’re the Gal I had...”

MACHETE: Can it.

PETER: Catchy tune.

Macheté takes a menacing step in Peter’s direction.

MACHETE: Maybe you’d like to catch my fist.

ABBY: Boys, boys.  Let’s respect the fact that Macheté is moving on, upgrading his image.

MACHETE: Yeah, urban sound’s better for me than that boy band crap. Allows me to channel the pain of my youth.

PETER: Pain, what pain? I read about you, you were middle-class suburban. What do you sing about, your Mom putting parental controls on the TV so you couldn’t watch Skinemax?

That’s the last straw. Macheté LUNGES at Peter. They collide into a table, knocking over glasses.

ABBY: Jesus!

She wades into them, forcibly separates them.

MACHETE: He insulted my honor!

ABBY: Peter just doesn’t understand, uh, the code of the street.

PETER: What, you mean the cheat codes for Grand Theft Auto?

I have no idea where I was going with the scene, but I do like the idea of a character named “Macheté” with an accent.  Maybe that’s a whole story right there.