Miami Bound Machine - Part 1

I mentioned recently that my Cold-EEZE video won the contest it was in. And my prize for that was a mystery vacation. The details of my vaycay were recently revealed to me. I will be going on an all expenses paid trip to MIAMI!

Awooohooo!

The itinerary for the trip was posted on the website.

It is going to be epic. I am beyond excited. I knew it was going to be someplace warm and awesome and Miami is both of those things.

But then I started thinking.

This is Miami. This is where, at least according to Will Smith, there is a party in the city and the heat is on.

Miami is like the Las Vegas of the East Coast without all the hookers and the gambling (I’m guessing).  Nobody ever comes back from Miami with a story like

“Yea it was OK, I mean, it was kind of quiet, real low key, we just kind of hung around and ate chips.”

No, every time I talk to anybody who has come back from Miami it’s always like:

“Oh my god the beaches were so hot and everyone looked amazing and buff and then we went to the craziest club at night, and danced in an upside down anti gravity chamber of awesome. And then we drank champagne out of David Caruso’s wallet!”

Miami is the city of players, and playas, and la playa, and probably papaya. This is a city of bespoke linen suits, and bottle service, and the sexiest humans on the planet.

Well, in 3 weeks it will be home to the sexiest humans on the planet and this guy;

This just will not do. I can’t roll up to Miami looking all hokey and foolish... ya know, like myself. There will be about 100 very cool people getting on this plane to go down there for this party. And I just keep having visions of myself walking onto the plane and hearing:

GO HOME DORK

As a tiny empty vodka bottle and a honey roasted peanut hit me in the side of the face.

No, I have to get my act together. The way I see it there are 3 parts of my life I need to get in order before I make my way down on a plane full of trendy, sexy, party animals. And the first part of it is my wardrobe.

Even though I think I look OK when I go out in New York, it is always different when you go to another city. Like last year when I shot down to D.C. for the 4^th of July and my friends and I went out at night. I thought I would look good in my New York staple black. Imagine my surprise when I showed up at a bar full of people who looked like they were on an Easter egg hunt.

I realize now that certain cities require certain style.

Now I have had some interesting outfit choices over the course of my life. In fact it wasn’t until a couple years ago that I actually started understanding how to buy and wear clothes.

Up until then it was a lot of hit and miss with many more misses than hits.

Like back in 8^th grade when I so badly wanted to dress cool and look like the other cool people. At this time there was a popular accessory in my school. It was a belt made out of a seat belt.

I didn’t have such an accessory, and I really wanted one. And this feeling hit me about an hour before the 8^th grade dance when I was visited by the pants muse. And suddenly I fancied myself a designer, a pant closure genius if you will.

So I tried to invent my own belt. I went into my father’s closet and got out one of his old leather belts and cut off the metal clasp. Then I poked a hole in both ends. And then I took, get ready for this, a combination lock, and hooked it through the hole on one end, and then the other and then I CLOSED THE LOCK.

I walked over and took a look in the mirror. Sweet! I looked awesome. This would totally make other people think I was cool.

Have you seen Rich’s awesome combination lock belt?

Man, Rich has the coolest belt ever!

It’s a belt, it’s a lock, it’s both!

Satisfied with my invention I went to open it and realized a crucial fault in my design. It was still a combination lock. And now I had to put in the combination, on an upside down lock, which was secured tightly to my pelvis.

And that’s when I started to panic. I was having trouble opening it and starting to sweat. And then I realized I had to go to the bathroom. I was like a crappy Houdini. Except I didn’t have any magical abilities and I wasn’t trying to do a magic trick, I just had to pee!

Since then I have avoided the trends. I have stuck with basics, things that worked, and things that did not require the training and expertise of a locksmith. I imagine most people would say I have a pretty clear style, nothing too crazy or outlandish.

But this is Miami! This is the place where ya know… stuff happens.

(I would be more specific here but I have never been to Miami and therefore have no idea what actually goes on)

I want to make a statement so that when we all go out to the clurb to get our drink on and dance on, people will say, hey who is THAT guy?! And not just because I managed to get Pina Colada in my hair, but because I look good!

This thought process led me to an investment reserved for a certain class of people, those either playing shuffleboard in Boca Raton or those people named Ricky Martin. This led me to an investment I never thought I’d make.

I bought white pants.

Now the actual ramifications of this decision remain to be seen. I am not sure when or where I will display these pants. But they are coming with me. I am going to rock them. I am going to show the world my confidence… or lack thereof.

But most importantly, when the time comes to go to the bathroom… I will be able to do so.

To Be Continued…

Pore Decision

The funny thing about a bad idea is it doesn’t always immediately seem like a bad idea. On the contrary, it is not until you are in the middle of implementing that idea that you realize… this is an awful idea.

I started a new job this week. It’s a whole new position in a completely different industry. I was looking to feel refreshed and rejuvenated so I didn’t roll into my first day of work looking like this:

Yikes.

I didn’t have time for a vacation or a getaway. So I thought if I couldn’t actually feel refreshed and renewed, I might as well appear so. I will get a facial!

And yes I am aware this can be added to the least manly things I have done in my life. But hey, celebrities get facials and I am planning to be really ridiculously successful so this is basically just planning ahead.

Way ahead.

I heard it might be a little rough and there might be some discomfort but I could handle it. After all I had been to the dentist earlier that morning. I had dealt with my pain threshold for the day.

The place I chose was bustling with many eastern European women with dazzling skin, escorting (mostly but not all) female clients in and out of tiny rooms in a large labyrinth of facial care.

I checked in and was escorted by one blonde eastern European woman to a tiny room 6 feet wide and 12 feet long with an accordion door. She looked at me and said:

Is this your first time here?

Yes

Top off, robe on, and make yourself comfortable.

And she slid the door closed and left.

The confusion immediately set in. Robe? What robe? I looked around the room and noticed a full massage table and what appeared to be a dry cleaning steamer.

Why did I need to take my top off? What were they going to do to me? Did every man’s facial come with a complementary chest wax? I did not want a complementary chest wax… I did not want ANY chest wax. I tried to ignore this thought as I spotted a large green silky robe hanging on the wall and traded my shirt for it.

Fact: Dressing like a Hogwarts Professor is not my idea of “getting comfortable.” I was reminded of my time at the dermatologist, but comforted by the fact that this time I got to keep my pants on.

I sat down on the bed, and then decided to lie down and fold my hands over my chest to try to appear as nonchalant as possible. (Read: Not very nonchalant at all) Eventually a tall eastern European woman with dark hair and large dark spectacles entered the room. In her thick accent she introduced herself.

My name is Madonna and I will be your aesthetician.

But what she SHOULD have said, was,

My name is Madonna and I am about to squeeze the shit out of your face.

I asked her how my skin looked thinking I did a good job of face maintenance.

It’s a little dry and a little clogged.

Dry and clogged? So the face that I was proud of had the exact same qualities as a dorm toilet. Awesome.

I’m not sure why my skin was clogged. Perhaps I had spent 1 too many nights pretending I was a dirty pirate.

Who knows? As she was getting herself setup she also said to me:

We put on hat gloves.

Hat gloves? I tried to imagine what a hat glove looked like? Was she going to put a winter hat on each of my hands? Or was I going to have to put my hands inside of a hat on my head (which she had already wrapped in some sort of shower cap/ turban combo).

She must have seen the look of confusion on my face because she repeated.

We put on hot gloves.

Ohhh hot gloves ok, sure. I’m not sure what this has to do with a facial, but sure.

She then coated my hands in a lotion, covered them in tissues and slipped them into a pair of plastic/aluminum oven mitts that were plugged into the wall.

I was a bit concerned about being PLUGGED INTO A WALL like a toaster. This is something I try to avoid. She said:

If they are too hot, just take them off.

I had no idea how that would be possible, considering I was bound and plugged into the wall like some kind of electric mental patient. But luckily I was quickly distracted by something else.

She began rubbing lotion on my face and covered my eyes with a wet towel. I then felt the sensation of a dry cleaning steamer on my face. I started to feel claustrophobic. I think she noticed because she pulled it back before she left me me lying on the table to... steam?

After about 10 minutes she came back in.

How was that?

Good, very relaxing.

This part won't be. (Small laugh) Now I clean out your pores. Let me know if it is too hard.

I thought this was just a courtesy, a way of making me feel comfortable.

No, she was serious.

Madonna went to town. I'm not sure if she was using her nails, or actual carpentry nails, but I think she was mad at my face. Like, really mad. So mad that she was trying to ruin it. I was not prepared for this amount of pain. I was wincing and wondering why I didn’t hear screams coming from the other rooms? If other people were experiencing this much pain shouldn’t I be hearing swear words and blood curdling screaming? Because I tell you, that was my inclination. Was I just a wuss?

I must be bleeding I thought. There is no way I am not bleeding. SURELY she can see the blood coming out of my face right? Why does she continue to squeeze if I have a bloody face? Just because her name was Madonna didn’t mean she had to turn this into the Passion of My Face.

She finally finished and it was all I could do to not actually scream out praise for the actual mother of God.

Then she said,

Do you see the light?

And I really panicked. Oh shit I am dead. I died. I knew it! The mother Madonna is here to escort me into heaven after squeezing my face into an early grave.

As it turns out, what she actually said was

Are you alright?

I mumbled yes as she took the towel off my eyes.

And that is when I felt the tears spill out and roll down the sides of my face. The pain had been so great that I hadn’t noticed my eyes welling up.

She had finally managed to unclog my face, and I managed to moisturize it myself.

She did give me a bit of advice as well.

Next time, shave.

Ha! Like there’s gonna be a next time.

My Obsession

I have a problem; I am addicted to video contests.

Like most of the things wrong with me, I blame my mother.

It all started last spring when my mom sent me a gChat (yes my mom gChats, isn’t she hip?) that said “This is the perfect job for you” and enclosed a link to a contest website.

She was right; it was the perfect job for me.

Well, kind of. It was an amazing job. Six months living on a vineyard in Northern California getting paid 10 grand a month to keep a written and video blog of wine tastings and picnic spots. Sweet!

How could one acquire such a job? Well the first round was determined by a video submission entry. This was my video:

There were nearly 2,000 videos entered and mine was selected to be part of the top 50. And then there was a phone interview to narrow it down even more. I did the interview and my heart was beating so fast I couldn’t even pay attention to what I was saying. I may or may not have done the whole interview in German. Who knows?

Needless to say I didn’t make it to the next round.

I did get a sweet wine opener and a set of Liar’s Dice though.

I didn’t do a contest for the rest of the year, though I did write a couple of plays.

But I didn’t do any kind of video project. I hadn’t even really thought about one until a couple months ago when I got an email. It was some commercial email and in it was an advertisement for the Cold-Eeze video contest. I told everybody and their mother about it. In case you are a Fraggle, here is that video:

And do you know what happened with that contest? I WON IT! I know right? And do you know what I won? A mystery vacation! I have no idea where or when. But I do know that I am going with like 100 strangers. The best, right?

But even before I had one that contest, the process itself had me hooked like a drug addiction. That set off a seemingly ceaseless creation process that had me and my friends enter 7 different video contests in 8 weeks.

Yea I know, I get kind of obsessive.

In this process I coerced 6 different friends to play roles in these ridiculous videos that dealt with everything from a commercial for going green:

To a commercial for Bar-B-Q sauce:

WHICH I DIDN’T WIN even though the other commercials didn’t make any sense and the narrative structure of the videos didn’t equally relate to the…. Deep breath.

Sorry, sometimes I get indignant when I don’t win enough free meat to feed a Roman army.

Anyway, I realized something. I was doing better in contests where the public didn’t vote. So I said to myself, “Self, No more public votes. We are only doing panel judging from now on.”

And immediately after I came to that conclusion something else happened. I came across a contest where the winner would get 2 business class tickets to anywhere Air Pacific flies. So essentially… Fiji.

And then I had a really good idea for it.

But I had already sworn off public voting videos. What was I to do?

Seeing as I have an iron clad will and fortitude unmatched throughout the land I did what I always do… I caved.

I shot the video.

And I uploaded it hoping that the gods of the contest world would choose it as a finalist…

And they did!

So here it is. I am one of the top 3. The voting only goes until Monday the 10^th. There is no registering. Just click the button for “Video 1” and click “Vote.” There is no personal information, no pets’ names, and no nonsense. It is easy peasy! And please, forward this to as many people as you can. I really want to win this one.

And I promise this will be the last one…

http://www.fijiwater.com/blog/2010/05/vote-two-tickets-paradise-air-pacific-video-contest/

For a while anyway.

Gel Hath No Fury

Hello, my name is Richard Boehmcke and I used to be addicted to hair gel.

Wow, that was tough.

It wasn’t always this way.

I mean, I was addicted to hair spray first. And hair spray will always be my first love. But when it comes to Gel, no addiction in my life was harder for me to kick.

My hair is kind of like a classroom of ADD 8 year olds on top of my head. It is confusing, nobody follows directions, and everybody is looking in a different direction.

But up until 5^th grade I wasn’t aware that my hair was capable of such epic ridiculousity. My beautiful ignorance was still firmly in place courtesy of my mother. Always wanting her son to appear handsome, she combed my hair for the early part of my life, and she did it the same way my father did his; parted on the side.

But unlike my father who only used a couple of spritzes of hairspray to hold his hair in place, my hair required quite a few more something like 25 sprays of hair spray to get the hair to behave.

Looking back now I realize that between my mother, father, and sister we were probably responsible for most of the hairspray purchased in New York between 1987 and 1995.

It was around 6^th grade that I branched out and started learning how to do my own hair, truly a momentous occasion in my life. This was also around the time of puberty where my face looked like a battlefield; my voice sounded like a broken cello, and when I walked it kind of looked like I was trying to roller-skate… on ice.

So with my life seemingly out of control my subconscious quickly latched on to the idea that if I couldn’t control what I sounded like, or what people thought of me, or how popular I was, I was going to do my damndest to make my hair look perfect.

This meant the end of hair spray and a rather unfortunate reinvention and subsequent love affair with hair gel. Seeing as I grew up on Long Island this was pretty much my birthright.

It is challenging to grow up in a place (Long Island) where hair gel is revered as though it had come straight from the hands of Jesus himself. Like in his most famous of stories Jesus hadn’t turned water into wine, but rather hair gel. So that none of his disciples would have to suffer from dry, lifeless hair, which was rumored to affect all of the apostles except Judas ironically.

I familiarized myself with all the myriad types of Dep. This fantastic manufacturer of hair product measured its different kinds of hair gel on a scale from 1 to 5. The first level I guess meaning “I don’t really care how I look,” to level 5 meaning, “I need to stand in a wind tunnel for my job.”

Later on Dep created levels 5 through 10. Now for the life of me I have not been able to distinguish sufficient differences between levels 1 and 10 but you can bet there IS a population using level 10. Those are my brethren from Long Island, those individuals who are fans of the hairstyle known as “The Blowout.”

The Blowout, for those of you unfamiliar, and I really don’t know how you could be, is a haircut where the owner appears to have exploded a large quantity of dynamite in the morning and then decided to leave the house without touching the hair.

I don’t know how this started, but I pray to god that it will one day stop. I don’t know how the first person that walked into the barbershop described this haircut.

“Hey yo, Barber man, you check this out. I want like, a haircut, but don’t like, don’t cut too much offs, ya know, and then take like, all the hair gels you got and make it look like I’m being sucked into the sky by like, a spaceship or some shit. Word?”

But while I never engaged in any hair gelling that made my noggin look like the wrong end of a turnip, I did use more than my share of hair gel.

In fact my love of hair gel was so profound that one year for Easter my mother bought me a VAT of hair gel. I’m not sure what the corollary was between Jesus rising from the dead and a “strong hold and lustrous shine” but I will gladly admit that having that much gel was completely unnecessary.

It was no less than 64 houses of bright yellow goo. It was the kind of jar you might have reached for had you been looking for some industrial coolant.

There was no spout, no nozzle, just a lid, which unscrewed allowing me to put my entire hand into and scoop out as much yellow confidence builder as I needed.

Never one for moderation, this made this activity the equivalent applying a glob of axle grease to lube up a jet turbine.

And my head may resemble many things, but “jet turbine” is one I have readily tried to avoid.

I think my mother and I can agree that was a mistake on both of our parts.

But can you really blame me?

I mean how else was I supposed to make people like me? A good personality? Kindness? Please, everyone knows those things don’t work in your teen years.

But alas these days I keep the amount of hair product I use to a minimum. And I anticipate it staying like that. Unless of course I come across a Bible with a new take on Easter. Something like:

"On the third day Jesus rose from the dead… and his hair looked FABULOUS!"

You're In Trouble

It was a routine day at B3 for me. I was in the cleaning materials department looking for some supplies to maintain the impeccable level of sanitation I prefer in my apartment. I was holding a bottle of tile cleaner when I saw it.

I almost didn’t believe it at first as I caught it out of the corner of my eye. But I did a double take and there it was.

A bottle of Urine Gone.

But it wasn’t just a single solitary bottle of Urine Gone. No, there was a stock of Urine Gone. As to say not 1 but many people have the need to get rid of a large quantity of urine on a regular basis.

My mind instantly went into overload trying to rationalize the existence of this product on our planet. Surely it couldn’t be for human pee… right? I mean this has to be for animal owners… right? For a while I thought the “Beyond” in Bed Bath and Beyond stood for beyond good. Now I realized it stood for “Beyond human comprehension.”

Of all the places I would expect to find a 24 oz bottle of Urine gone, B3 was not on the list. For me, the B3 is a place of fluffy towels, spatula sets and electric toothbrushes, not… pee removal.

If anything I would expect to find a bottle of this product in a place like a gas station, the same place you can buy the malt liquor, red Solo cups, and ping pong balls that would cause one to get drunk enough to pee on a… well... anything.

And let’s also consider, outside of the bathroom, the bed is the place you are most likely to find pee. But that you can clean up immediately by just tossing your sheets and mattress pad in the washing machine.

So this product must be for removing pee from OTHER surfaces and locations.

I had questions that needed answers. Most pressing was this:

What human had decided there was an untapped need in the market for pee removal?

It did make sense that the product was housed on the bottom shelf where you have to kind of surreptitiously stoop down to get it. I can’t believe anybody would want to proudly display this product in his or her cart.

Hey, everybody! Look what I got!

Which also makes me think just what an awful moment it must be at the register when the associate has to ring you up. Even if they were ignoring you, you would think curiosity would get the better of them as they wondered who could need such a product.

I know there are some things that I have been embarrassed to buy, My Ped Egg to name one. And usually I can play it off with a silly comment or self-deprecating joke. But Urine Gone? What the hell are you supposed to say if somebody gives you a look?

Boy did I have a hell of a weekend!

And if you are buying it, it is probably not an emergency because you would have used whatever you had on hand to get rid of that stain ASAP. So that means you have an OLD urine stain you need to get rid of, OR you are anticipating an awful series of events in the near future. Either way, I don’t envy you. Not even a wee bit.

Ha-ha, get it? Wee? Ahh.

I was so dumbfounded when I came across Urine Gone that I forgot to read the label, but upon returning home my curiosity eventually got the better of me and I googled it.

Here is what I found.

Urine Gone effectively removes new or old stains and odors from carpets, mattresses, and furniture. Urine Gone works on just about any washable surface or fabric! Just darken the room and use the Urine Gone "stain detector" black light…

Wait a minute.

Stain detector? STAIN DETECTOR?

Here’s the thing, if you KNOW there is urine in your home, but you don’t know where, you don’t need Urine Gone. You need a home security system complete with motion sensors, HD cameras and a barbed wire fence.

Who is peeing in undisclosed locations in houses? Are there criminals regularly breaking into houses to deface the home and then leaving, doing the old “Pee and Flee?”

If you are using a black light you are no longer a regular person, you are a detective. You are a forensic scientist tracking down human detritus. You are the star of the new hit show P.S.I.

The description continues:

For Pet or People Accidents Non-Toxic Safe for Carpet Litter Boxes Wood & Tile Bathrooms Sofas & Beds...

So there is proof it is not just for pets, but people too. There are people with pee accidents in their home. Many people. PEEple.

I’m not sure what would cause such an accident. Perhaps you have white carpet in your home and you recently brought home an Eskimo child who immediately set about to write his name.

If you go on the Urine Gone site they say:

 If you loved the 24 ounce urine gone, you might like… the urine gone refill.

48 FRIGGING OUNCES OF URINE GONE!

Also on the website, in the “Product features” part, there is this great tidbit.

Don’t leave your house smelling like a litter box… Get Urine Gone.

Hmm OK. So what you are saying is, when faced with the choice of cleaning up pee or just leaving it, most people choose to just leave it? Is that the reason for the arrival of this product on the market? Laziness?

The only thing I found more outrageous were the actual customer reviews on the site.

Mind you these are actual reviews.

I have ten cats, and one of the former-ferals sometimes sprays in the house…

I’m not even going to show the rest of that review because it doesn’t get any better. Ya know what helps get rid of the smell of 10 cats? Not having 10 cats.

I have literally bought dozens of urine removers on the market…

Really? If you have bought DOZENS of urine removers, don’t you think it’s time for a lifestyle change? If you cannot get your animals to stop relieving themselves around the house shouldn’t you be thinking of getting a barn or something? I mean jeez at least buy a tarp.

I have 9 cats and 8 dogs in my house and somebody is always doing something somewhere that they shouldn’t!

17 animals? I’m not even, I mean I just… I can’t…

I think my favorite part of the product is how they don’t specifically advertise but more subtly mention that this can be used in the removal of feces as well. I really think it’s only a matter of time before Urine Gone gets a companion product called, “Damn it, Go Away Poop.”

And I bet you won’t need a black light to find that mess.

The Second Rant

Again, my document of things I want to write about is growing at a rate faster than I can possibly handle. So, much like I did in The First Rant, I have compiled a short list of topics that don’t require their own post but (in my scientific opinion) are still worth mentioning.  What follows are things that have been marinating in my brain for better or for worse.

Bagels

Living in New York I am very particular about my Bagels. As I am about my pizza as well. There are many bagels I enjoy. The sesame is a fine bagel, as is the pumpernickel, the cinnamon raisin and several others but there is one bagel I don’t get;

The Everything Bagel.

Pass.

I am opposed to this bagel on so many levels. The first being that, for whatever reason, the Everything Bagel is always cooked next to my most favorite of the bagelino family, the egg bagel, which has no seasoning. You’d think they would cook the everything bagel next to the salt bagel or maybe… in its own oven in a different store… in another city.


Its like a plague on other bagels. A bagel plague... a plaguel.

I mean it’s barely a bagel, it looks more like an art project.

And ya know what if you like the everything bagel, I don’t judge you, but can we get some kind of restriction on what is in this bagel? Everything is not an ingredient list. What the hell is in an Everything Bagel? Garlic? Cheetos? Bleach?

It’s like knocking the spice rack over into the mixer.

Is there anything more uninspired than the ingredient list for an everything bagel? I can only imagine the originators of this recipe.

Bagel Maker 1:  What should we put in it?

Bagel Maker 2:  Umm everything.

Bagel Maker 1: What do you mean everything?!

Bagel Maker 2: I mean everything!

Bagel Maker 1: You are gross, I hate you.

Solicitation Emails

Now I don’t condone solicitation emails. You know the ones I am talking about, those emails that say you stand to gain a 40,000,000 Euros if you will just help this dethroned king from Zimbabwe transfer his funds to the Chase Bank in your neighborhood.

The scams take good money out of the pockets of decent humans every year. But the people writing these emails are idiots! I mean they are written in such crap English. You’d think they would hire a decent English-speaking criminal and say

Hey, we are looking to rip off some of the Americans, would you mind rewriting this scam email so it sounds legit?

I think some American criminals could really clean up by consulting for these international hooligans by just suggesting they stop starting out their emails with “Dear Honorable Sirs.” Stop talking to me like I am Nobleman from the 14^th century, unless of course you meant to send this email to a Renaissance village, in which case you have other problems.

Airplane Charges

I was on an airplane recently that had those need little TV screens in the back of the seat in front of you. My first thought was “yippee, free movie time.” But no, I was wrong. There was a rental fee. Do you know how much the fee was? 8 dollars. EIGHT FRIGGING DOLLARS! How the hell does that make any sense?

At the movie theater I pay 13 dollars to sit in a good quality seat and watch movies on a screen that is roughly 80 feet.

I can order a movie on TV for like 4 bucks that I can watch from the comfort of my couch (in my underwear no less…. Don’t judge) and eat the food in my fridge.

And yet to sit in a too small tin and pleather shit seat on a noisy plane next to some inflated troglodyte with seemingly 7 elbows and watch a 5-inch screen? 8 dollars!

I can’t even sit back in my seat with a screen that size. I need to lean forward so my face is almost touching the screen. And god forbid the person in front of me puts their seat back while I’m watching, they’ll shatter my nose like a Ivan Drogo. Because nobody ever just gently puts their seat back, they thrust it back like they just hit Mach 12 in their Jet fighter.

Is it too much to ask to use the same care in backing your seat up as when you back up your car? Just take a peak over your shoulder to see if there is anybody directly behind you before you punch the gas like you’re in a chase scene in the Bourne Identity.

Fitness

I pulled a muscle stretching the other day. I think that’s a good sign I’ve hit rock bottom in terms of physical activity.

Wine

There are millions of wines in the world. The odds that your local restaurant is going to have your exact favorite is usually pretty slim. I was tending bar recently when a guy came in and ordered a blush.

A blush? Do people still order blush? What is this, Sephora?

Another customer said to me, “Do you got Moscatto?”

No, I replied.

“You don’t got no pink wine? Damn you don’t got none of the wines I like.”

Mmm indeed.  You have my sincerest apologies. And by the way, thank you for bringing your brand of class to our fine establishment. Leave me your name and number and I will also let you know when we have added Twinkies and Jerky to our menu.

Cologne

I regularly rant against the funkiness of stinky people. But mind you stink is a broad spectrum of which the atrocities are many.

While I used to enjoy the odoriferous benefits of Polo Sport, I think it is important that you don’t smell like you DRANK a bottle of it before you left the house.

And as long as we are talking what people shouldn’t smell like I would like to mention a perfume for Women called Moon Sparkle.

Moon sparkle? I cannot imagine an audience for this product that doesn’t also regularly discuss the pros and cons of Unicorn ownership and spend their days attaching ribbons to the back bumper of their cars.

Moon Sparkle sounds like the name of Rainbow Bright’s horse.

Saddle up Moon Sparkle, we’re going on an adventure!

Somebody brought it to my attention recently that now they make Moon Sparkle for men. I have GOT to believe that the audience buying this product is limited at best. I’m not the manliest of men but I get the feeling if you buy moon sparkle it would come with a free purse and subscription to Cosmo Girl.

But if it came right down to it I’d rather smell like Moon Sparkle than an everything Bagel… but just barely.

How Stupid Do You Think I Am?

Ok don’t answer that.

I am aware that I don’t always make the best impression on people. It could be the reflection off my skin or the way I like to pretend strangers are my long time friends. I’m not sure what it is but I am used to getting a stare that says, “Are you stupid?”

But sometimes people have actually followed up with a question by actually asking,

“Are you stupid?”

OK, OK those things I can handle. But that’s just me. I think we as a society, and more specifically the people who are in control, are starting to think everybody else is stupid. And not just a little bit stupid… a lot bit stupid.

It’s not an aggressive assumption of stupidity; it’s a bit more subversive. You really only notice it if you are paying attention. And if you are stupid, you probably don’t pay attention, so you probably don’t realize that the people that think you are stupid are… well… thinking you are stupid!

The first time I noticed this was a couple of weeks ago when I had some friends stay with me. My friend was brushing her hair with a fine piece of hair management equipment.

I was quite impressed with it and picked it up to take a closer look when I noticed the handle was extremely squishy. It was quite a nice feeling. I am not one to brush my hair really, but this was a brush I would make an excuse to use so I could feel the squishiness of the handle. I took a closer look at the handle and noticed this:

Plasmium gel? What the hell is plasmium gel? I don’t even know if I am supposed to capitalize it, and in fact Microsoft Word is underlining it in red right now to let me know it too, has never heard of it.

Plasmium Gel? It sounds like something Astronauts rub on themselves so they don’t get a space rash.

Jim: Hey Connor my feet are itchy as hell, do you have space rash too?

Connor: Nope, I put 2 scoops of plasmium gel in my boots this morning.

Jim: You are so wise.

It’s not like hair brushes come wrapped in air tight containers where you can’t touch and feel what they are made of. The advancements in hairbrush technology have been quite limited over its lifespan. You don’t really need to oversell a hairbrush, which perhaps explains the ridiculousness of this marketing.

I have to wonder what kind of clientele they were expecting to lasso with that bit of marketing. It’s a hairbrush… not a rocket ship.

They could have just written “Feel Good Squishy” and that would probably have been enough. I don’t know what plasmium gel is so I’m not sure I would want to touch it, but feel good squishy? Oh yea. Give it here.

Recently I was down visiting my parents in South Carolina and I was hanging out at the pool. I have already detailed some questionable poolside activities here before, but I was not expecting to run into it again.

I was lounging in a chair and soaking up the sun and trying to not burn my lily white skin to an unrecognizable crisp. I decided it was about time to cool off. So I sauntered over to the edge of the pool.

Now this particular pool had a graduated entrance. So basically there was a dry ramp for about 15 feet before the water started and then it went down slowly to about 5 feet.

I was just about to make my way down the ramp when I saw this sign.

Wow.

Who the hell is diving into no feet of no water? That doesn’t even qualify as a pool. I mean is this a risk that people face daily? Are there people around the world just jumping headfirst into pavement?

I mean, by that assumption we should start putting “no diving” signs in parking lots, grocery stores, and car dealerships.

I can even understand the no diving sign in the 1 foot of water because OK maybe your eyesight is bad and you think it is deeper than it looks. But 0 feet of water. I mean if you can’t tell there is no water there you either don’t understand the concept of swimming or you are blind. And if this sign were in fact intended for blind people, it would have been in Braille, but it was NOT in Braille. I checked.

So I was left with the conclusion that either somebody had dove headfirst into the no water before, or the management did not think the swimming public could be trusted to not dive into the no water.

Shortly thereafter I was about to open up a new toothbrush (yes I know, I enjoy good dental hygiene) and not really paying any specific attention to the packaging. It was a normal toothbrush. In fact I even took a picture of it.

I was struggling to open it (sometimes I have issues) when I noticed a tiny, tiny bit of writing in red right near the base of the toothbrush. And do you know what it said?

It said, in tiny nearly unreadable red lettering: “toothbrush.”

Ohhhhh OK. Thanks for that.

What idiot is turning this over in their hand wondering what it could be? Who is this writing for? Aliens? Distant tribes who just happen to speak English but don’t recognize toothbrushes? I can only imagine the conversation taking place in the grocery store.

Jeb: Hey ma, I wanna buy this here thing.

Ma: What all you got there?

Jeb: It’s like a stick, but it’s got like some bristly things at the end.

Ma: A bristly ended stick? Sounds like the devil’s work. Does it say anything on it?

Jeb: Don’t know, I can’t read good.

Ma: Give it here. OH OK, see here at the bottom it says, Toothbrush.

Jeb: Ohhhh… does it have a plasmium handle?

Or something like that.