My Interview with Sarah Palin

All Palin dialogue taken from her book Going Rogue: An American Life, available anywhere fine hardcover memoirs are sold.

Handsome, young, budding and incredibly talented reporter walks up to a rustic cabin surrounded by rustic folks field-dressing moose and saluting the flag as only rustic people can do. He knocks on the door and Sarah Palin answers.

ME: Ms. Palin, I want to thank you for your time. I know that, being an ex-governor, you probably have tons of it, but still, holla. [Fist bumps galore here.]

SARAH PALIN: “That’s not entirely true.” (87)

ME: And you’re not entirely Ms. Frontier Woman of the New Millenium either, so let’s call it even.

They enter Palin’s living room.

ME: Okay. Let’s start with the basics. Now, I read Going Rogue, and I checked out your Facebook page…

SP: “Isn’t Facebook a terrific illustration of the power of American ingenuity?” (400)

ME: And by the way, your Mafia Wars score is un-frickin’-believable. But I think we ought to begin at the beginning. Start fresh. So. Tell me how you got to where you are today?

SP: “’Before I became governor…I was mayor of my hometown. I guess a small-town mayor is sort of like a ‘community organizer,’ except that you have actual responsibilities.’” (242)

ME: Ha ha! Take that, Martin Luther King, Jr.!

SP: “[An] individual’s commitment to his or her own business and family—that is significantly more important than any community leadership role.” (243)

ME: And take that, Jesus Christ!

SP: “[Government] experience doesn’t necessarily count for much.” (84)

ME: Well that leaves you in the clear all right. Now, you had a lot of people telling you you couldn’t be a mom and run for office, right?

SP: [Alaska Governor] Mukowski [when interviewing me for a Senate seat] …launched into a soliloquy on how tough it was on a family to serve in the Senate. It seemed to me that though he thought me competent enough to make his short list, the father in him felt compelled to protect me from the storm that is national politics.” (98)

ME: That sucks. Hell, you can prioritize, right? But then why didn’t you go for the Senate later, in 2006?

SP: “[Who would] be [my son’s] hockey manager?”

ME: But I thought you said…

SP: At that point in [my son Track’s] life, having an involved mom was more important to him—and to me—than having a mom with a powerful position in Washington, D.C.” (341)

ME: So a mom can do it, except when a mom can’t. Now, I understand these non-qualification qualifications didn’t really get the attention you felt they deserved? Particularly with the Katie Couric interview?

SP: “There was so much I could and should have said [to Katie Couric regarding foreign policy]…For instance that Alaska’s geographic position makes our relations with Pacific Rom countries of great strategic import, and that we’re the air crossroads of the world…

ME: Well, she was asking about experience, right? Not just situations, but your actual actions and decisions.

SP: That Russian bombers often play cat and mouse with our Air Force near Alaska’s airspace…

ME: Did you deal with that directly? What did you actually do?

SP: That I dealt with Canadian officials on a weekly basis and have signed agreements concerning everything from security to salmon fishing…

ME: Okay, you signed stuff. But what did you do?

SP: …and that NAFTA has significantly affected our economy…

ME: That’s what NAFTA does. Not you.

SP: That melting polar sea ice has created new trade routes but has also created security threats to North America…

ME: Look, I don’t think we’re communicating here…

SP: That Alaska takes on Japanese and Russian fishing trawlers that want to ravage the ocean floor…

ME: Goddamnit…

SP: That Chinese and Russian energy companies had both sought access to (and possible control of) our natural gas resources. That these and other countries were staking their own resource claims in Arctic waters while the U.S. sat on its hands.” (275)

ME: [Whining] Come on! In your years as governor, what did you actually do?

SP: “[The Governor’s mansion] came with a personal chef, but I unbudgeted the position. … The chef seemed so darned bored because the kids didn’t want anything fancy to eat.” (133)

ME: Ms. Palin, give me something specific or I’m hitting your baby.

SP: …

ME: Christ. Fine. Why don’t we take a break so people can check your non-rebuttal rebuttal out? And where are those little darlings of yours, anyway?

Click here for Part II of this completely idiotic thing.

From the entertainment wires: Natalie Portman refuses to bare all. The actress recently said she wouldn't do any more nude scenes after her Full Monty in Hotel Chevalier had Internet pervs doing still frame screensaver shots of it and throwing the images all over the Internet. Shame. Uh...anyone got a copy? My PrintScreen key seems to be working just fine...

Comments I returned to my sophomores today after spending agonizing hours reading their final essay exams.

What I Said on the assignment and in person the day I gave them the prompt…
MLA headings go in the top left-hand corner of the first page.
What They Must Have Heard...
“Left, right, what’s the difference? I won’t stand for petty politics in this classroom.”

What I Said
“Put your citations in proper punctuation” (Smith 4550).
What They Must Have Heard...
“Ah, guys, in this postmodern world, who’s to really say who said what? It’s all relative.”

What I Said...
“Can be,” “has been,” etc. is passive. Don’t have done this.
What They Must Have Heard...
“Passive voice rules. Because we all want to ‘pass’ this class, right? Who is with me?” (high fives for all)

What I Said...
If I see a fragment. I will fail you.
What They Must Have Heard...
“When writing an essay, you want to stay in the zone. Complete sentences be damned.”

What I Said...
Check the names and facts. Antigone was not a character in Whale Rider. Beowulf was not an Indian."
What They Must Have Heard...
“Most of the stuff we read was written so long ago, nobody knows anything about who wrote it. Consequently, we can pretty much make up whatever names we want.”

What I Said...
The title of a long work like Antigone or Beowulf is in italics. Shorter works like “Rama and Ravana” are in quotation marks.
What They Must Have Heard...
"Font styles are stupid."

What I Said...
“When you paste in quotations and the format is different” it’s really annoying. Don’t do this."
What They Must Have Heard...
“Fonts are limiting. You can’t encompass true writing in Times Roman. We cannot be boxed in, people. We are free thinkers.”

What I Said...
"A thesis must be an argument."
What They Must Have Heard...
“As long as there are words filling up the page, I’m satisfied.”

What I Said...
"A main idea must help prove that argument."
What They Must Have Heard...
“As long as there are words on the page, I’m satisfied. Keep going! You’re doing great.”

What I Said...
"Your topic sentences are main ideas. Not plot. Not the obvious. They help you prove the thesis."
What They Must Have Heard...
“As long as you have pages, I’m satisfied. Remember that paper comes from trees, people.”

What I Said...
"Your links argue how your evidence proves your main idea. No links=no argument. Please, people. You need to have links. Please. I beg of you. Please."
What They Must Have Heard...
“Arguments are tearing this country apart. I want you all to write like civilized people of the greatest nation in the world, and only state the obvious.”

What I Said...
"Which is better? “I think Dante’s particular brand of Catholicism is extreme compared to Catholicism today,” or “Dante’s particular brand of Catholicism is extreme compared to Catholicism today”? Nobody cares what you think. We care about what is said."
What They Must Have Heard...
“How does Dante make you feel like a little miracle? Fill up your essay with that. You can do it! And if you can’t, don’t worry! We’ll figure something out.”

What I Said...
What words should we never “throw” in an essay? What kind of “crap” shouldn’t be in a final exam essay? What “garbage”? What wouldn’t be “cool”? What might be “awesome” to leave out? Or “sweet”?
What They Must Have Heard...
“I think teenaged lingo is going to replace Shakespeare before the end of the decade. Who wants to help me burn your thesaurus?”

What I Said...
Edit and proofread. Or I’ll, you know, have an aneurism.
What They Must Have Heard...
“Bill Gates created Microsoft Word so we’d never have to bother learning spelling. I expect you all to respect his work accordingly.

What I Said...
"Turn it in on time."
What They Must Have Heard...
“You are a wonderful person.”

A Moderate "Engagement Status" suggestion for Facebook

To Whom It May Concern (aka that young jerk who built this site and is worth the price of a small country...)

I have been a Facebook user for about a year now, and I wish to register a complaint. Your "relationship" possibilities are severely limited at best. In truth, they stink. You have "single," "married," "in a relationship with," and "bitterly divorced from." In my current situation, this will not do, as I am planning a wedding with a woman who hates the terms "engaged," "fiancee," and "willing to be seen with him in public."

I have compiled a list of possible relationship statuses I might be able to use, as opposed to the ones you already have. Please consider them as friendly suggestions and not irritable rejoinders to an otherwise shoddy social networking site.

"...is chained in impending matrimony to ..."
This would work well, as "chained in" seems to me a more accurate verbal phrase, connoting duty, fidelity and, yes, the mandatory.

"... is successful in boozing up and weakening the marriage-related resistance of ..."
As it happens, I had to pour about two gallons of Thunderbird down her throat before she would even agree to sit quietly while I spelled out a life together. After that, all she required was mimosas.

"... is temporarily insane regarding legal commitment to ...
What was I thinking? Dear God in Heaven, what was I thinking? I already got her to pick up the tab for dinner; I don't need that again!

"... is pushing his luck concerning commitment with ..."
As she never fails to remind me. Which reminds me. I'm pushing my luck.

Bullets in Madison Emotes at the Empty Bottle

Special to the Flannel Diaries

It's about seven-thirty on a Tuesday night and I'm being dropped off at the Empty Bottle on Western Avenue on the beautiful West Side of Chicago. My girlfriend, the Woman who Holds the Bottle Opener to the Beer That Is My Heart, has an annoyed, peeved look on her face. I get that look a lot. It's a masquerade for true love. Especially for when I make her drive me around the city.

"So...have a good time," she intones, checking her watch and thinking about cookies. "Enjoy the show. Don't stay out too late."

"Decidedly."

"Tell the band I'm sorry I couldn't make it, but I had to, you know, whatever."

"Assuredly."

"And be sure to take out the garbage and walk the dogs when you get home."

"Abso....wait. What?"

Before I can protest that I surely will get back late, that I won't enjoy the show, and that I have no plans to be in any condition to do anything productive upon my return, she speeds away, still holding the keys to the car that I realize, belatedly, I'm supposed to drive home that night. Screams after her are unheeded. Frantic calls to her cell phone remain unanswered.

This sort of shit always happens to me when I'm sent to review a Bullets in Madison concert. Of course, none of it is their fault. I mean, it sort of is when you figure that if they didn't play these dives at these ridiculous hours, and if they would only spring for a press limo to take the reporters like me home...actually, it is all their fault. Bastards. I will make them rue the day they even formed a band. I have that power.

I am a music reviewer. I review music.

And occasionally, I listen to it.

**************************************************

I stalked into the Empty Bottle surly and mean. The place looked like the kind of joint BiM loves to headline: walls and a ceiling. I sidled up to the bar and growled at the guy behind the counter, "Gimmee a whiskey. Double. Leave the bottle."

He casts an eye over me, measuring me for manliness and ability to control strong drink. "I think you might want a nice Lemon Wedge," he offered. "They're tasty and nutritious, and there's nothing like--"

"Whiskey," I growled again. John Wayne doesn't have shit on me, I tell you. "The bottle."

"You're going to be on the floor in twenty minutes."

I ignored him, and eventually he went off to fetch it. It's at this point that somebody comes up to me. "Hey, man. Nice to see you again."

I cast a bleary eye in his direction. "Who the hell are you?"

"Brendan. Brendan Losch."

"Oh, great. But I already ordered my drink, so..." I made hand motions indicating that he could leave me alone.

"No, I'm the guitarist. For the band? We've spoken before. You've interviewed me like twenty times."

"Oh, Bren-DAN Losch. I thought you said BREN-dan." I made a face that I hoped looked friendly. "So. Uh, what are you doing here?"

Brendan made an effort to be patient. "We're doing a show tonight. You're reviewing it, right?"

"Right. Right." I made a mental note to do just that. "But you can't get me free drinks, right?"

Brendan stared at me. "No."

"Oh. Well...good. Got to support the economy, right?"

He eventually stalked off, looking pissed. Man, musicians and their big heads. I made another mental note to make a comment in my review about his shoes or something. However, before I could compose a pithy bon mot, I was interrupted by the bartender, who returned with my whiskey. I downed it in one gulp, just like they do in the tough-guy movies. Blech. It tasted like paint thinner.

"That's bad for you," the bartender remonstrated. "You're going to have the megrims."

I ignored him.

"Sure you don't want that Lemon Wedge?" the bartender offered.

"Go away," I muttered.

Three or four more whiskeys later, the house lights came on and the crowd started cheering. The show was apparently starting. And I was ready to review the show. After all, I am a Music Reviewer, right? It's what I came here to do, yes? So here's the body of my article, compiled straight from my painstaking notes during the performance:

Bullets in Madison rocked the joint. They really did. We Became Your Family When You Died is one hell of an album, I tell you. Full of...meaning and...vibrancy...junk like that. Man, my head is killing me...That trumpet thing they do? Woo. Powerful stuff...Don't know about all the bugs on the wall, though...This band, they've got rhythm...they've got music...who could ask for anything more? Ha. What is with the moving walls, though? Now they're moving and they've got bugs on them. Crap. Why didn't that jackass bartender just give me a Lemon Wedge? I hear those are good. Well...oh, man, I love this song! "Wiiiild thing...You make my heart..." ...wait...that's the jukebox...show must be over. What did I miss? Damnit. Oh well. I'll get some stuff about them from Wikipedia or something. Maybe I can go get some after-show interviews right now...Ugh. Floor won't stay steady.

Unfortunately, before I could corral any of them for additional comments, the band had sped off in a hired limo, champagne and caviar practically flying out the windows, Losch tossing a few oyster crackers in my direction and laughing as I scrabbled on the pavement for something to eat.

After a moment, they were gone, the last remnants of their esoteric performance ringing in my ears.

I was alone in Chicago. No review written. No car. No money. And a seventy dollar bar tab with a smug bartender waiting for me inside.

The perfect setting for a closing paragraph:

In a top single from their new album, "Sarah is a State of Mind," vocalist John Morton sings, "You slam the door shut to break it through / No one hears you." That may apply to Sarah, whoever she is. But BiM has slammed the door shut, doublebolted it, and set fire to it, which makes their breaking through it all the more impressive. Not to mention the fact that it is impossible not to hear them.

WBYFWYD is an album that pulses with a heartbeat never heard before in the Chicago indy rock scene, and a melody that grabs you by the lapels and throws you off your seat. The more BiM tours and gets this music out there, the better.

There. That should do it.

Now...where's a hotel?

This new phone is a total time suck. I waste more time on stupid crap than I ever did and I'm reading less than ever in my life. However, the voice blogging is pretty cool.

MY GOLDEN APPLE MOMENTS OF 2009

These accounts are not invented. They are written here verbatim. Especially #3301.
These are my students.
I am their teacher.
We are all so screwed.

Teaching Moment #1826

ME: Okay, open your books to page 23.
KID: What page?
ME: Twenty-three.
OTHER KID: Okay. Wait, what page?
ME: I quit.

Teaching Moment #1827

ME: Some of you forgot to put title pages on your papers.
KID: You didn’t tell us to.
ME: It says so right there on the assignment.
KID: But you didn’t read the directions to us.
ME: So I need to type up the directions and read them to you?
KID: We’d definitely do better.
ME: I quit.

Teaching Moment #1894

ME: You understand that the transition in this paragraph doesn’t apply to--
KID: Doorknob!
ME: What?
KID: What? I didn’t say anything.
ME: I think you just said…doorknob.
KID: (sarcastically) Sorry!
ME: That’s it. I quit.

Teaching Moment #2002

KID: Is it true Shakespeare was a fag?
ME: I quit.

Teaching Moment #2003

ME: All right, let’s open our books to—
KID: Is it true you’re a fag?

Teaching Moment #2157

ME: Now, for film criticism. We have to be analytic. So what did you guys think of the film Zombieland that just came out?
KID: It sucked!
ME: (writes “It sucked” on board) What else?
KID: You fucking suck!
ME: I couldn’t have been as bad as Zombieland. Let’s not say things we can’t take back.
KID: Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.

Teaching Moment #2897

KID: I’m sorry, but I just don’t like cops.
ME: Why not?
KID: They hassle you. Even when you’re not doing anything wrong.
ME: So you’re basing your opinion of an entire group on the actions of a few? Sounds to me like what racists say about blacks.
KID: Yeah…Yeah, you know what? I think I changed my mind. I don’t hate cops.
ME: Good for you.
KID: What?
ME: Kid, it’s a beautiful thing to be able to change your mind. As the poet Taylor Mali once said, “changing your mind is one of the best ways of finding out whether or not you still have one.”
KID: Mali? He’s a fag.
ME: That’s it. This time, I really quit.

Teaching Moment #3010

ME: Movies don't deliver as much info as texts. In fact...
STUDENT: Yeah they do. I was watching Dodgeball, and--
ME: No. No no no. You did not just deputize a Ben Stiller movie into your argument.
STUDENT: It rocked. And it had a deus ex machina in it.
ME: So what is a deus ex machina?
STUDENT: The deus ex machina, man! It was…it…
ME: Yes?
STUDENT: Forget it. I quit.

Teaching Moment #3194

KID IN HALL: (to friend) Hey there, bitch.
ME: Ahem.
KID: Oh…sorry…I meant, ‘Hey there, ho.’
ME: I quit.

Teaching Moment #3209

Kid: What are we doing today?
Me: It’s on the syllabus. And the board.
Kid: Man, you always say that!
Me: And it’s always true, right?
Kid: But still!
Me: Yes? You have some further point to make?
Kid: That’s it. I quit.
Me: No no…I’ll race you to the door.

Teaching Moment #3301

ME: So in the Ninth Circle, Satan is gnawing on the heads of the three worst sinners in existence, right?
HONORS CLASS: Yeah, yeah…(writes this down in notes)
ME: And what might Dante be implying with this particular choice of sinners?
HONORS KID: He’s telling us…it’s wrong…to eat people?
HONORS CLASS: Yeah, yeah…(writes this down in notes)

Teaching Moment #3307

KID: What’s this word supposed to mean?
ME: “Anecdotal,” right? It means hearsay.
KID: What’s hearsay?
ME: You heard it through someone else’s account.
KID: What’s an account?
ME: It’s a telling of…wait a minute, why are you not looking this up yourself?
KID: Look it up where?
ME: …
KID: You just quit again, right?
ME: Shut up.

Ode to Jackson, MI

Overture

The night is wrapped like a woolen blanket
About a pair of irritated feet.
Three a.m.
The women in doorways beckon to their men,
One hand behind the back
While shoving them through the door.
I have seen them all before
In some dimly lit, half-forgotten place.
I have heard the story
Of forgotten glory
And a newly remembered face,
But this is a book I couldn't complete
Before its return-by date
And a movie I couldn't finish
Because it was a school night
And I couldn't stay up that late.

Doug, from MTV's "The State." True teenaged angst.

The State - MTV Shows

Andrew Hicks is back! Check out the reposted A Year in the Life of a Nerd. He's no Jay Pinkerton, but he's good for a chuckle.

Dinner at John's

SOUTH SIDE, CHICAGO--John had the nerve to complain that I don't write enough in here. So, here goes:

I'm at John's place now. And guess what? The service here is terrible. I waited ten minutes for a slice of pizza and had to bring my own beer. Babies crying all over the place. Moms crying about their lot in life being married to John. DCFS constantly popping by for "social visits." Please. You people make me sick.

Or, to explain it in verse:

The cries of the innocent fill this house
But the cries of the parents outweigh them
First- and second-born children dumped in my lap
Like a bag of laundry, except the laundry is washed
Occasionally.
With plaintive voice and outstretched hands they protest their innocence to the world
But the world knows better

How you like them apples, John?

It had to happen sooner or later.

I caved in. I sold out.

I went against my values and beliefs. Oh, the "right" path is not always easy, but there are times when it's at least clearly defined. Discernible. At one's feet.

And I turned my back on it. Because it was convenient. Because of the cheap thrill.

God, I feel dirty. Cheap. Hypocritical. I'm not who I'd planned on being in my adult life after all.

I did it and I have to admit it. Or it'll eat me up inside.

I got an iPhone.

I'm typing this lying on my back.

I downloaded chess and history trivia apps like a junkie haunts a street corner.

I downloaded a library of pics of my dogs and threw together ring tones featuring The Black Keys.

It's all so trite and stupid. Normally I'd be reading or grading. Not looking for free movie clips. Dumb. Dumb.

But it feels so @right.@

Famous Tweets in History

"Jury done deliberating. Should be out in no time. Having a cool refreshing drink of…wait…oh shit."

From Sock-rock-tes at 5:32 p.m. 399 B.C.

Socrates

"Wait'll my dad hears about what this Pilate guy pulled. He's gonna *crucify* him."

From NumberOneSon at 7: 41 p.m. April 3 CE 40.

JChrist

"Totally lost. Better name this place Hispaniola and rape all the women or school children five hundred years from now won't get a day off."

From CC_Globetrotter_3 at 3:01 p.m. Oct 12 1492.

ChrisColumbus

"Suck It @King George: Don't Fucking Tread On Me!"

Colonizzy#17 at 5:00 a.m. July 4 1776.

JohnHancock

"Hey @Johnny, thanks for taking care of those urder-may arges-chay. Barbeque tonight?"

From BigDog at 8:15 p.m. Oct 3 1995.

OrenthoJamesSimpson

"Are you shitting me? U'd better be shitting me."

From GoreGalore_2000 at 11:14 p.m. Nov 29 2000

"Are you shitting me? U'd better be fucking shitting me."

From JohnMcCainforPrez at 11:14 p.m. Nov. 4 2008

JohnMcCain

"Just take a short trip, they said. The judge'll have forgotten *all* about it, they said. Pricks."

From romanpolan at 10:01 p.m. September 29.

RPolanksi

"This is stupid. It'll never catch on."

From diggerblue at 2:45 p.m. September 12 2007

He whose opinion matters most here

My Most Inspirational Teacher Nomination from Last Year

He didn't get it. But he should have. For posterity:

My most inspirational teacher was

…Gustaf Van Cromphout. I had him for Early American and Romantic Literature. He spoke five languages. Threw gobbets around the way I would Simpsons quotes. Could trace a word’s etymology two millennia back without breaking a sweat. But all of this was secondary to his real tool: passion. He made you care. And he cared about his students. He remembered me almost a decade after I had him as an undergraduate. Van Cromphout died three years ago, but before he did, he’d made it clear that death was the only thing that would keep him from teaching.

From today's paper

The History of the Death Panels. Ought to be required reading for town hall and tea party idiot protesters.

Teachers Sell Lesson Plans. Personally, I don't see it for myself (I can't even give mine away sometimes), but if we're going to be held accountable like people who work "real jobs," then we ought to be able to sink our thumbs into the free market like, say, investment bankers, mortgage brokers and the like.

Megan Fox talks about being an actress. For some reason, the people offscreen aren't laughing hysterically. P.S. Take your top off, Ms. Fox.

TV Pilot Script: The D.C. Guys

A co-worker and I whipped this up last spring in a desperate attempt to cash in on the addled tastes of whoever picks shows for television and escape our humdrum jobs, not to mention avoid work. So...yeah. We avoided work, all right. For about ten minutes.

VOICEOVER: In 2009, a couple of disgruntled, possibly-loaded-on-the-job high school teachers packed up and went to Washington, D.C. Their mission: to expose any elements remaining of the evils of the Bush administration, and to get a cushy job in Legislative Affairs. Whatever the hell that is.

Today, they're living on the fringe in the nation's capital, watching, investigating, and racking up debt. They're currently wanted by a government that refuses to acknowledge their existence, and their savings are almost gone. If you have a problem, and no one else can help, and if you can find them...maybe you should hire...the D.C. Guys.

OPENING MONTAGE: Magnum PI ripoff music. Scenic shots of D.C. The Capitol Building. The White House. The Lincoln Memorial. A homeless guy pissing in a dumpster.

CHARACTERS:GREGG STUDLYBUFF, tall, ripped, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and two days' worth of beard. And sunglasses! Mirrored, aviator sunglasses. He leaps out the door of his Potomac-bank trailer wearing his mirrored, aviator sunglasses and spends an exciting minute and a half parallel parking his Dodge.

ADAM ACHIN', medium build, conservatively dressed, smoking a cigarette and staring arrogantly out the window of his swank, three-bedroom apartment. Behind him, a trio of Senegalese men implore him to come back to bed. Adam resolutely ignores them.

Gregg finally gets his car parallel parked. He steps out. Through the reflection of his bitchin' aviator mirrored sunglasses, we see the Capitol Building. Gregg smirks confidently, pulls out a cell phone and calls Achin'.

CUT TO: ACHIN'S SWANK APARTMENT. Achin answers the phone.

ACHIN: "Yeah."

SENEGALESE MAN/BOY #2 (from the bed): "Revenu au lit, le grand homme. Les heures sont peu."

ACHIN: "Quiet, lover. Daddy's working."

GREGG: "Achin'. I'm at the Capitol."

ACHIN: "And?"

GREGG: "Uh, they still won't let me in. The restraining order paperwork went through."

ACHIN': "Damn."

GREGG: "Yeah. So, what do you want for lunch?"

PREVIEW NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE: Club sandwich special! And a quick trip to the doctor's office for penicillin.

ROLL CREDITS

Fox News Isn't Even Pretending Any More [to be objective], from Salon.com.

How I Dealt With a Crazy Pregnazoid This Morning.

Truth be told, I work with a lot of women. There are men in my department, I don't deny it, but I see little of them. Whether that's because they're too busy doing their jobs or shaking down hallway toughs for soda machine change is a speculation I will absent myself from for the moment. At any rate, their illegal shenanigans leave me plenty of time to listen to complaints from my female coworkers instead.

Not all of them. Not even half of them. Most of the women I work with are just that: women I work with. They do their jobs and then some. And then they disappear into the vastness of whatever lives they've managed to carve out for themselves: with husbands, volleyball teams, Peace Corps volunteering or taking care of elderly family members. They smile and say hi in the hallways; they occasionally vent, while I provide a shoulder to cry on or a convenient hand with which to spank their pilate-toned asses. I'm nothing if not sympathetic.

No, my spleen is reserved today for the more vocal women in my department. There's about two or three of these harpies, and they have their Greatest Hits of complaints, which all boil down to one of a few possibilities:

1) They're pregnant.
2) They have kids to take care of.
3) They're pregnant and have kids to take care of.

And that's pretty much it. These are trump cards, the likes of which an unattached, freewheeling suburban playboy like myself cannot possibly hope to contend with. If I so much as hint that I'm tired from an evening of misbehavior, I'm immediately reminded that, well, it must be fun to be able to leave the house without carrying diapers and toys for the infant. Or it must be nice to not worry about little Jimmy's soccer practice. Or whatever. Confronted with such assaults on my lack of responsibilities, I usually slink off to some remote corner to work, ruminating on the unfairness of a world where they have to drive kids to the mall and I get to watch reruns of Baywatch instead.

I know, right? I've got it made.

Consider Emily's ambush this morning, after a curriculum meeting (Emily, by the way, is bursting-at-the-scenes, shit-crazy pregnant, and her husband, who works in the building next door, seems to find lots of places to be besides at her side)

EMILY: How are you this morning?
ME: Oh, you know. I'm hanging in there.
EMILY: Yeah. Try being pregnant some time.
ME: ...

And for the record, no, I am not exaggerating that conversation. Word. For fucking. Word.

Well, I don't need Miss Manners to tell me, Relax, she's hormonal, she's going through chemical spikes that would put twelve monkeys on anyone's backs for life. Besides, what possible responses do I have, anyway?

#1
EMILY: Try being pregnant some time.
ME: I'm really sorry to hear it's been tough. It'll be better soon. Trust me.

That would work. But this conversation happened at 6:45 a.m., when I'm legally stupid. Besides, come on, if I'm going to be that diplomatic, I'd better be getting a piece of tail afterwards. And since these particular gardens have already been seeded, and are about to yield their harvest, there's not much incentive for me to plant a shovel in there...yeah, you get the idea. So:

#2
EMILY: Try being pregnant some time.
ME: That's a biological impossibility for me, Emily. But maybe in my next life, I'll be able to experience the miracle of birth like you.

Eh. It would work, provided I could say it in a tone completely free of sarcasm. So we'd better stick to likely possibilities.

#3
EMILY: Try being pregnant some time.
ME: Fuck off.

That one's probably the most realistic. As long as it's muttered under the breath. Which I would forget to do.

Let it rest, I tell myself. Emily will come around. We're old friends. Okay, we're friends. Okay, we're vague acquaintances, but we'll be capable of neutral discourse again some time. Your ire will subside. You'll forget about it in a year or two, and when she's got her kids actually on her hands, you can laugh at her and text pictures of the bottles of beer you'll have consumed instead of chasing after diapered maniacs and watching reruns of Elmo.

These remonstrations work for a while. Until I round the hall...and meet Crazy Pregnant Lady #2! Immediately, my mind goes preemptive and my Sensitivity Valve is turned to Full Blast!

MARTHA: How's it going for you?
ME: Oh, you know. I'm hanging in there. But at least I'm not pregnant, right? Ha ha!
MARTHA: Ha ha ha! Good one, Gregg!
ME and MARTHA: Ha ha ha!

And suddenly I'm in the sun again. I am a Man Who Understands. I Put On No Airs. I'm a Good Catch for Aspiring Mothers (or would be, if these nice young pregnant ladies weren't already married--except for Cassandra in Accounting, that filthy whore). And all I had to do was totally debase myself. Which is still sticking in my craw, even these many hours later.

Look, for the record, I don't want to be a woman. Ever. I can't believe the shit they put up with, not excepting assholes like me. And childbirth...blech. I can't even survive an episode of NOVA if there's a hint they're going to show the baby enter the world. So I've got nothing to complain about.

But Emily, really. You're pregnant. You're not exactly carrying a cross to Golgotha.

And besides, admit it: it was fun getting that thing in there, right?

Anyway, you'll have to excuse me. I have to go and not be pregnant andy busy with kids.

Pages Ripped from my Old Notebooks: Spring Break 1996

Setting: Cumberland Island, Georgia, on a weeklong camping trip

Todd had been missing for two days, and when we finally found him, he was huddled next to a tree, covering himself with mulch to stay warm. “You could have just slept in the tent last night, you know,” Tso told him.

“Yeah, you’d like that,” Todd hissed through shivering teeth. “I don’t trust you. You’re too handsey when it’s dark. Now get me back to camp before I freeze to death.”

“Fine,” said Tso, pouting over the prospect of a sleeping bag alone. “But now you’re on kitchen duty for the rest of the trip.”

Todd cursed and tried to crawl away so he could freeze to death peacefully instead, but Tso hoisted him up on his back and carried him back. Todd fought valiantly, but when he realized he was stuck doing pots and pans, he gave up and wept bitterly.

I myself had managed to put together a rather impressive still in the woods, and after we imbibed a few pints of my home brew (made from rubbing alcohol, toadstools and flavored lemonade stolen from the trip leaders), I proposed a hiking trip through the wetlands. For much of the journey, I amused myself pummeling Tso in the back of the head with rocks I'd picked up along the way. Tso rolled cigarettes, and Todd smoked and rolled more cigarettes. I threw rocks. Tso threatened me, which hurt my feelings, so I cried and threw more rocks at him. Ah, sweet bird of youth. Nothing like your early friendships.

Ten minutes down the path, we spotted an alligator lying ahead of us. Todd immediately squealed like a six-year-old told she just got free tickets to a Hanson concert and jumped into Tso’s arms. Tso tried not to look pleased at this.

“Maybe we should go around it,” Tso said. “You don't mess with those things.”

I laughed at him since he was an idiot and continued pelting him with rocks. “Nah, if we throw something sharp at it and yell in its ear, the dumb thing will run away and leave us alone. Just watch where you step around him.”

“No kidding, genius,” snarled Todd, stomping off, tripping over the alligator’s tail and breaking three of his teeth. Tso, upon seeing the great beast lift its head, shrieked like a six-year-old girl finding out that the Hanson concert had actually been cancelled because they’d all married a seven-year-old rival, sprawled to the ground and began covering himself with leaves.

(Meanwhile, 1,114 miles away, Dale Carlson sat up on his couch, watching illegally downloaded pornography. “I’m getting a feeling my friends are in danger,” he said to himself. “Like they’re going to get eaten ... Eating. That reminds me. I'm hungry.”)

Having the Sex Talk with Your Kids

A How-to Guide

Have you had the talk with your kids yet? Dr. Digger Blue (PhD, University of Phoenix Online) explains why it's more important than ever to start a conversation about sex with your kids.

From The Oprah Winfrey Show, "How to Talk to Your Kids About Sex with a complete stranger and Oprah Winfrey."



When your child asks where babies come from, do you break a sweat and blame it on the stork? When your kid wants to know what a rim job is, do you immediately turn them to a back copy of “Car and Driver”? Dr. Blue, a trained family therapist certified through hours of watching “Full House” and "Family Matters" in his teens, says not to bring it up yourself is a big mistake.

“This is the information age we live in,” he said. “Your kids are two clicks away from finding out all about the Kama Sutra. If you don’t act first, you’re at a large disadvantage, and God knows, if you’re an average parent these days, you’ve got just about all the disadvantages you can stand: laziness, average intelligence, bad eating habits, kleptomania and that nagging gambling problem you haven’t had the moxy to tell the wife about.”

In his new book, “Let’s Talk About Sex, Not Baseball: A Modern Parent’s Guide to Raising Screwed-Up Children,” you get a few tips on how to prepare your child for the inevitable Next Sexual Revolution:

Make them listen to you. Don’t take no for an answer. Have your daughter put away the Barbi dolls; have your son ditch the baseball glove. Or vice versa. No time like the present: dive right into the subject. What’s your kid doing right now, for example? Playing with his friends? Mom, nothing will bring you closer to that kid right now than sticking your head out the window and yelling, “Hey Jimmy, we need to talk about genital hygiene.” Go ahead. Try it.

Euphemisms can work. Not so much for the kid: they’ve heard it all on the playground. But you might need to take baby steps in this direction, which is absolutely fine as long as you get the phrases straight and consistent. Appendix III of my book has a lexicon you can feel free to adapt for any purpose whatsoever. Just make sure to keep the noun-forms and verb-forms parallel with each other; I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is to say “Uff her from the bow-wow, son, but remember that the hoo-hah won’t go through without a little slick-juice” without including a proper direct object.

Dramatizations and demonstrations can work! Who cares what Freud thought? Or the AMA, or APA, or any of those Philistine tongue-cluckers! Why, with just a few action figures and the proper sound effects--Free excerpt ends here

Want more? Up yours: buy it here and bring me some moola!