METRA FARE HIKES

Posted on February 2, 2012 at 3:34 am by with Leave a Comment

Metra passenger train leaving Chicago

Today Chicagoans and Chicagoers woke up to 30% fare increases for Metra rides.  People previously paying $90 a month are now paying $120.  The reasons for the Metra fare hikes are familiar:  tighter budgets, growing deficits, less money, whatever you want to call it.

It all sounds reasonable no matter how painful.  The problem is that it’s not true.  Or at least, it doesn’t get at the root cause of the fare hikes.  And the root cause of the Metra fare hikes is not tighter budgets, but that too many rich people are still using public transit.

When rich people ride public transit they demand too many luxuries.  Like seating, security, and safety.  Those luxuries cost money to provide.  Think how much money the Metra could save in fuel costs if it implemented rolling stops.  It can be done people!  I’ve watched enough black & white movies to conclude that even a woman can get on a moving train once she removes her heels.

I will admit, most of the people in those movies were pretty thin.  And given the growing waistlines of Americans, particularly the poor, many would argue that some people can barely get on now, never mind when you add motion.  But I say this is exactly the kind of incentive the poor need to get back in shape and shed those extra pounds. 

That isn’t the only residual benefit rolling stops provide.  Rolling stops also lead to less time spent at railway crossings waiting for the train to pass.  In other words:  greater flow of traffic for the rich.

What really makes my ideas appealing is the residual benefits that trickle up to the rich.  Such as:  (1) less time spent in the company of the poor and (2) less pressure put on them to pay their fair share of the taxes.  It’s Win-Tie for both parties.

At this point some of you may accuse me of stealing my ideas from the Fox News Network.  Maybe, but that doesn’t mean they won’t work.  The fact is there are more poor people out there than rich people, and the gap is widening.  Thus the Metra cannot afford to cater to a declining market segment.  It must find a way to get rich people off the train rather than poor people, which is the exact opposite of what this rate hike accomplishes.

And one other thing; once the rich stop riding the train you can get rid of sanitation as well.  Cross that, that one has been accomplished.

 

 

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WHERE ARE THE NAKED ZOMBIES?

Posted on January 25, 2012 at 5:27 am by with Leave a Comment

I’ve come to enjoy a good zombie movie.   Some of my favourites include Shaun of the Dead and 28 days Later.  I also enjoy the AMC series Walking Dead based on the only comic books series I ever read as an adult.   In coming to enjoy this genre I’ve also come to realize you shouldn’t ever expect things to make sense.  To enjoy a zombie flick you just have to roll with it.   

So pardon me for asking a silly question but, how come you never see any naked zombies?   Surely somebody had to be naked when the zombie apocalypse hit.  Just think about how many people are naked right now.  Maybe they’re filming a dirty movie, or taking a shower because they just finished filming one.  

Come to think of it, not only have I not seen a naked zombie, I haven’t even seen a half naked zombie.  You ever walked by a burning building?  There’s at least one guy standing on the street in his underwear.  Maybe he lives in that building, maybe he doesn’t.

Remember, not all zombies come from the grave.  Many are turned into zombies during an attack.  And I’m pretty sure naked people would be the first to go because they’ve got to worry about two things:  (1) getting dressed, (2) avoiding the chasing zombie(s).   And if you’re in the shower you’re really screwed.   That’s the last place I’d want to be during an attack.  Think of all the things working against you…

  1. You’re in an enclosed area.
  2. Your vision is impaired by steam and possibly soap.
  3. Your sense of hearing is impaired by the ventilation fan and shower
  4. You’re probably singing which not only further impairs hearing but also attracts zombies.
  5. Your feet are wet reducing traction
  6. You have nothing defend yourself save for soap, washcloth, and a back scrubber.
  7. And finally you’ve had a hard day and you’re probably crying thereby lowering your self esteem and ultimately your will to fight back.

…in other words, you are toast with a brain marmalade spread.

Consider also that nobody fights well when they’re naked, except for the Greeks.  For those of you who don’t know that’s how the ancient Greeks wrestled – in the nude.  In fact the entire Olympic Games used to be nude.  The athletes also covered themselves in olive oil.  In the summer!  In Greece!!   Now add bad decision making to the list of naked handicaps.

There should be hordes of naked zombies!   Not all in the same pack, but inter dispersed.  Like, “look there’s a zombie in construction clothes, there’s one in a police uniform, there’s a biker, a sailor, a cowboy, and holy crap there’s a zombie with no clothes on, and I think he might be an Indian. 

Even if you weren’t naked during the zombie apocalypse doesn’t mean you wouldn’t at some point become naked due to normal wear and tear.   Or more specifically – zombie wear and tear.  And once naked, zombies don’t change their clothes or replace a towel that was once fastened to their naked, wet body.  Zombies are like nude streakers free from societal constrictions surrounding public decency.

Clearly I’m not a zombie and therefore I can’t imagine what goes through one’s head.  But I am pretty sure that if I were a zombie the last thing I’d care about is whether I had any clothes on.  It’s barely a concern now.

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Costa Concordia and The Titanic

Posted on January 18, 2012 at 12:10 am by with Leave a Comment

For me, the most poignant scene of the movie Titanic was the shot of the captain standing behind the wheel of his ship as it plunged into the icy waters of the Atlantic.  It was a sad moment, but also a joyful one because you felt a sense of honor restored to a man clearly at the center of fault in this tragedy.   Instead of getting into an argument about historical accuracy and whether or not things went down like that, let’s just assume that they did.  Bravery and honor aside, the captain of the Titanic would have been aware that many of his passengers were not going to survive and rightfully acknowledged that he had no right to fight for something so many would not have a chance at. 

So what was different about this Cruise Line Captain?  Why didn’t he go down with his ship, or at least list with it?  Did his character get in the way, or did other circumstances conspire against him?  Was it a bit of both??

There have been already ample stories suggesting his character was at fault.  I heard recently that the captain was a favourite… of the ladies.  Pretty hard to steer a ship when you’re cruising women.  I also heard that one of the cooks said the captain was still trying to order food for one of his lady friends half an hour after the incident!  Wow!  Didn’t the captain realize the kitchen staff needed to get off that ship too?  Clearly in the mind of this captain the employees of that ship are like Egyptian slaves.  As their supreme ruler’s destiny goes, so does there’s.

The recently released conversation between the captain and the coast guard doesn’t do him any favors either.  Or does it?  After hearing it a handful of times played on the radio, seeing it on television and reading it on the internet I’ve come to understand something more about the situation.  And that is, the captain is not the only one not doing his job.

I take issue with the tone of the Coast Guard and the threats he lobs at the captain.  “Hey listen you, I’m recording this and I will make you look very bad”.  I find threats are never a good idea in these situations because they put people on the defensive.  Now the captain is being forced to think about himself and that never helps when others require help. 

He already was thinking about himself that’s why he left the ship!!!  I agree, but panic is contagious.  And in my own life I’ve found myself walking towards the thing that scared me most after first running from it.   Further, at this point we don’t know for sure what the captain was aware of.  He does seem surprised and dismayed when the coast guard informs him there are casualties.

In my experience what works better in these situations are appeals for help.  Such as, “Captain we need your help, we have strong evidence to suggest more people on board.  I realize it is dangerous, but could you return to the ship and check to see if there are still people on board.”   Save your criticism for the investigation and trial.  But unless there is more tape we haven’t heard, threatening the captain is the only tactic employed. 

In examination of this whole catastrophe I feel it is important to remember that it was not only the captain’s duty to rescue people, but the coast guard as well.  But Instead of putting his emotions aside, the coast guard gets into a heated argument with the captain which only diverts energy and resources from the task at hand – saving lives.   Why?  What is the purpose?  Are not precious seconds ticking away as the two argue whether or not the captain should get back on board, whether he can get on board, etc., etc. etc.?

The captain may very well be guilty of many things including dereliction of his duties.  And people should get angry because of it, but there is a time and place for that.  And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t in the middle of the rescue.

The moment it becomes clear that the captain has abandoned the ship and more importantly refuses to re-board, it should have become obvious to the coast guard that this man was no longer of any help.  What’s more, if the assumption in the coast guard’s mind is that the captain is in dereliction of duty and thus a man lacking courage, which seems to be the case judging by his tone, then why would you want to employ the efforts of this man any further in this important mission?  Perhaps there was more than one person in that conversation who didn’t want to be aboard that ship.

The more I listen to the conversation the more unclear I am of what is going on and who is at fault.  I prefer movies.  They’re always more clear about these things.  Probably because you never hear people arguing over whose job it is to be a hero.  Somebody just grabs the wheel.

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BATHROOM SIGNS

Posted on April 22, 2011 at 1:38 pm by with Leave a Comment
I see a lot of signs during the day.  I think they’re everywhere, and therefore I ignore them.  However there’s one sign I just can’t ignore and the strange thing is… it’s not even meant for me.  I’m speaking of those signs in restaurant bathrooms, “Employees must wash hands before returning to work.”  First of all, shouldn’t everyone be reminded to wash their hands?   My hands get dirty too.  And I touch a lot of things, like doorknobs, plates, other people’s cutlery when they’re not looking.   
Another problem I have with these signs is their location.  Most often they’re placed right above the restroom sink.  This means you have to be actually washing your hands in order to see the reminder.   Hey, how about another sign that reads, “Look in mirror to see reflection.”  That would be helpful too.
I guess I’m skeptical that such a sign actually works.  I’d like to see a study done.  I’d bet they lead to less hand washing.  Think about it, what’s the one the thing minimum wage employees hate more than working for minimum wage?  I’ll bet it is being told what to do. If I were having a bad day, and I’m sure many restaurants workers do, and I saw that sign I’d be like, “Screw you, I ain’t washing my hands for nobody and I’ve got urine all over them, ha-ha!
Some of you may be thinking I’m anti bathroom signs.  I’m not.  Some signs are helpful like the one reminding women not to flush their feminine napkin down a toilet.   They’re helpful because they let me know when I’ve walked into the wrong washroom.   Have you ever tried deciphering the symbols they use on some of these washroom doors?   In my opinion, a chicken looks a lot like a rooster after 7 tequila shots.
Some of you may also be thinking that I’m a hypocrite, because in my bathroom I have a sign that reads “All guests must wash their hands before returning to the dining table.”  But that’s there clearly as a joke.  I don’t care if they wash their hands or not.  I’m pretty sure I’m the only one touching other people’s cutlery.
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GOOSE PATROL

Posted on April 15, 2011 at 12:52 pm by with Leave a Comment
It was Sunday morning, my favorite morning of the week.  I lay in bed drifting in and out of sleep blissfully aware of the soft pillows and eiderdown that kept me safe from all that was bad in the world.  The first rays of sunshine entered the room like diplomats bearing gifts from a foreign land.  I am want for nothing else in this world I thought.  And then… “Honka! Honka!”
The cry of Canada Geese outside my first floor bedroom window was like a cold bucket of water on my face.  “Somebody shut those things up,” I heard my wife mumble.  That somebody was not going to be me.  My last encounter with one of these animals didn’t go well.  Basically, I’d been chased a hundred yards by one angry momma!   In my defense, those two little yellow chicks were the cutest things I’d ever seen. 
Canada Geese have become a bit of an infestation in Illinois.  In fact, when we moved to an apartment complex in the suburbs of Chicago we were informed by management that one of the services offered was Goose Patrol.  “Goose Patrol… what do you mean,” I asked.
Brenda, the assistant manager, explained that because of the large courtyard, a lot of geese collected there.  Apparently, if you didn’t chase them away, it could get pretty messy out there.  Therefore, to ensure residents could enjoy the splendor of the courtyard, a goose patrol service was provided. 
“How does the Goose Patrol work?” my wife asked.  Brenda explained that a white van showed up with a dog.  And this dog would chase away the geese.  “Does it chase anything else,” my wife continued.  She was concerned about our two Siamese cats:   Sushi and Tofu. 
“No just geese I believe,” Brenda didn’t sound too sure and my wife and I gave each other uneasy looks.  Honestly, we were more concerned about a potential rogue dog deciding to chase other things dogs normally chase, the only difference being that this dog would be even better at it.  I’d already lost one cat this way.  I didn’t want to lose any more.  I was curious to know the nature of this dog. Hopefully it was of the smaller variety known more for its bark than its bite.
Over the past two years that we’ve resided at the complex, my curiosity about this dog has slowly built.  I have seen the van labeled Goose Patrol many times, but never have I seen the dog!  My frustration built each time I saw the van drive away.  I really wanted to see this dog.  What did it look like?  Was it young and enthusiastic or was it old and weathered?  What was its strategy:  Did it stalk or hunt them?  Was it measured or reckless?   Was it like a missile or tornado of destruction potentially harming anything between it and its target?  Suddenly I imagined the doors of the van flying open and the Tazmanian Devil popping out.  “Grrrrlfflrrarrugulgraggflarar, Canada Geese very tasty!”
However, on this once peaceful Sunday morning the only question I had regarding the dog was, “Where the fuck was it?”  We were supposed to have this service!   If only there was some sort of alarm I could pull or number I could dial…
911:  “Hello this is 911, what’s your emergency?”
Me:  “I can’t sleeeeeep!” (sound of wife crying in background.)
After 20 minutes my wife snapped.  She jumped out of bed, and ran out into the courtyard still in her silk grey pajamas!  Even stranger than that, she had grabbed a red towel before exiting.   What was that for?  Did she think she was a matador?  If so, this was one “bull fight” I was not going to miss!
I got up from bed and watched safely from behind our bedroom window.  I considered the 50 or so other apartments facing the courtyard.  I wondered how many other people might be watching.  I shuddered to think how many of them might have cell phone video cameras.
My wife’s approach was definitely measured like you’d expect from a Spanish bull fighter.  Her shoulders lifted and her neck sunk.  She seized up her opponent, walking carefully towards it, her towel dragging on the ground.  That’s gonna leave grass stains I thought.  Then without warning my wife quickly darted towards it, but stopped short a couple of yards, as though she were taunting it.   The lone goose walked away, it’s back to my wife.  It looked like the goose might be drawing my wife into an ambush.  I wanted to yell, but I couldn’t.  My wife crept softly onward and again darted forwards.  This time though the goose turned to face my wife and cocked its head.  Not a good sign I thought.  I was pretty sure that meant, “You have messed with the wrong goose lady!”  You got the sense that this animal was descended from a long line of fierce meat eaters.  I’m sure had my wife been standing on this same ground 1 million years earlier she wouldn’t have thought twice about addressing the honking.  However, the year was 2011 AD and my wife was not intimated.  My wife inched forward.  Now, the goose started hissing.  Had I been standing in my wife’s furry, red, ankle-high slippers I would have bolted like a gazelle.  Instead my wife cocked her head!   I knew what was coming.  I’d been on the other side of my wife’s head cocking many times.  Suddenly my wife ran full barrel towards her opponent swinging the red towel above her head.  She was no longer a matador but a half-crazed hillbilly drunk on moonshine.  “Hiyah,” my wife yelled!  Clearly this goose was no stranger to the lands further south from where it looked like my wife might have migrated from.  Or maybe it had watched Deliverance recently.  Either way, the bird of prey took flight. 
M wife came back into the bedroom and flopped back into bed as though this were something she did every morning, like watering the plants or starting a fire in the wood stove.  I was definitely impressed.  I lay back down in bed, my heart still thumping.   
Later that day in parking lot of our complex I spotted the van marked Goose Patrol Service, but no sign of any dog.    This time I was as determined as ever to spot it.  I walked all over the compound in search of the elusive hunter.  After making a complete loop I noticed the van driving away.  I dropped my shoulders in defeat.  And it was at that moment that it hit me like a ton of feathers.   There is no dog, there never was…… “My wife is Goose Patrol,” I whispered.
Cut to Black.  Cue the creepy music.  Roll credits.
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LOST IN RENOVATION

Posted on April 11, 2011 at 1:33 pm by with Leave a Comment
For the last week I have been renovating a house my wife and I bought.  We’ve hired some contractors recommended by the in-laws.  We also agreed that it would be a good idea if I hung around and helped them while keeping a close eye on progress.  It’s a sound idea.  The only problem is they’re Polish and I don’t understand them.
The guy I communicate most with is Richard.  His English is the best of the three.  We can figure out most things, but when things get really bad I call his wife Teresa to act as a translator.  Her English is better, but I wouldn’t dictate my will to her.  Finally if that fails, I call my mother-in-law.  She’s not Polish, she’s German.  Somehow through sheer intensity she is able to get the message across to Teresa, who is then able to get the message across to Richard, who then communicates to the rest of the crew.  Not surprisingly a lot gets lost in translation and the three Poles end up doing what they want to do.  Fortunately this isn’t always a bad thing since they seem to know what they’re doing.  In fact I’d say they are pretty awesome!
I work beside them doing the simpler tasks:  cleaning, fastening new handles to kitchen cupboards, pulling up carpet, and other stuff that won’t totally expose my utter lack of incompetency in home renovation.  Although, I’m sure they’re well aware of how relatively useless I am.  
For the most part it’s a happy-go-lucky affair.  They have a radio that’s tuned to a polish station.  There’s a lot of polka and classical music.  Occasionally the news comes on and I’m able to discern a few words:  Libya, boycott, Madonna.  At one point I hear a song I’m more familiar with from Lady Gaga.  Except it’s not coming from the radio, it’s coming from one of the worker’s cell phones.  I imagined what I’d say if I were on stage… probably nothing.  You can’t top a 55 five year old Polish carpenter with “Let’s Play a Love Game” as a ring tone.
The most uncomfortable moments occur when the others are deep into conversation.  I try to figure out what they’re talking about because more often than not it sounds heated.  Problem is I don’t know if it has to do with the renovations or last night’s Europa Cup Soccer Match.  Either Henri just said, “You’re crazy, that tool will never fix the hole in the wall,” or he said, “You don’t know anything, Braga will never beat Dynamo Kyiv!”
 Sometimes I seem to be the subject of their conversation and that causes me even more angst.  For example, yesterday I suggested I carry some of the waste material from demolition out to the garage.  It was a task I was confident I was qualified for.   I said, “Richard, I take garbage to garage yah?”  I try to emulate their broken English when I speak to them.  I hope they’re not offended.  I figure if I use less words and boil down sentences it will be easier for them to understand.
Richard nods his head and agrees this is a good idea.  But as I’m collecting the waste I hear what sounds like, “Smockle verilata mishgallata GARAGE,” followed by laughter from all three workers.  Ah, okay, what was that all about?  Are they making fun of me?  And if yes, what possibly could I have done to elicit some mocking?   I consider a bit longer and then realize I’m making some assumptions here.  For all I know they could have been laughing over an inside joke that had occurred between them on a previous project. “Hey remember the time Henri got stuck for three hours in that old garage?”
 The task I am most qualified for, however, is paying for things.  I’ve worked it out with them that I will pay directly for materials to help me better control costs, rather than have them bill me for it all later.  They seem to agree this is a good idea.  “Less headache yah!”
On the latest mission I’m asked to make a run to Home Depot to get various items including sand paper belts, wood flooring, glue, etc.  Richard begins to write down the list for me and already I’m starting to sweat.  They notice and then decide that Henri will accompany me – awesome idea.
The trip is 10 minutes to Home Depot.  But when you’re riding with someone who doesn’t speak your language or work in the same field as you, the trip lasts a lot longer.  Both of us try to make small talk.  I ask questions which I think are easy to understand.  “So Henri, how old are you?” 
“Sorry, what hole?” 
I point to myself.  “I am 40.   What you?”
This he gets.  “Oh!  Me 55,” he says, then he gives me a surprised look.  “You 40!  No way!” 
That’s the typical response.  Usually what happens at this point is a discussion ensues on my tips for looking young and healthy.  However in this instance a surprised look and some head shaking is as far it goes.
We struggle through a few more topics.  I find out that Henri has been in America for 18 years.  And he has worked non-stop for most of that time.  He tells me that in one two-year span he worked every day, except for two days.  Either that or he worked only two days in a two-year span.  I’m pretty sure it’s the former, however, because from what I’ve seen so far this guy is pretty good.
Still there are many moments of prolonged silence and this upsets Henri more than it upsets me.  At one point he turns to me while shrugging his shoulders and says, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak English.”  I shrug my shoulders and say, “I don’t speak Polish.”  This makes him laugh.
We finally get to Home Depot.  Henri finds a large cart.  I make a move to push it for him but he waves me off.  As we enter Home Depot I look like the spoiled son who won’t help his father.
We find all the items we need:  sand paper, wood flooring, glue, fasteners, and a few items I won’t bother trying to explain because I don’t know what they are.  I hope ‘metallic’ will suffice.  The total rings up to $345.00.  I reach into my pocket where my wallet should be and pull out some lint which doesn’t even come close to covering the cost.  I pat down my body frantically like I’m checking for bullet wounds after a drive-by.   “I can’t find   my wallet,” I say.  I know I didn’t forget it at home because I just used it to pay for the rental of a machine in the contractor section of Home Depot.  My bug-eyed look seems to get the message across to Henri.  He looks concerned.    I consider my zig zag, helter skelter journey through this massive store and wonder where to head first.  I groan audibly.  I can’t even handle the simplest of tasks I think to myself.
Just as I’m about bolt towards the lumber section the cashier turns to her co-worker, “Lashandra?  What was the name in that wallet we found?”  My panic starts to fade.  Miraculously, Lashandra produces my brown wallet from a drawer.   She holds up in the air.  “I ain’t telling you.  I want to hear it from the man.” 
“Derick Lengwenus,” I blurt out. 
“Oh so that’s how you pronounce it.”  Lashandra saunters towards me slowly in the way people do when they know they have something you want desperately.
I discover that my wallet was found on the floor over in the tool rental area.  Now it was being returned to me safely with credit cards, money, and green card still inside.  Henri mimes wiping his hand across his forehead in relief.  I feel embarrassed, but I look on the bright side, I won’t have to guess what the workers will be talking about today.
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WILL DUMPING RADIOACTIVE WASTE INTO THE OCEAN LEAD TO TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES?

Posted on April 4, 2011 at 4:43 pm by with Leave a Comment
Last year’s BP oil spill looks more and more like it may have been just an opening act for this year’s environmental crisis, the Fukushima melt down.  Today we’ve learned that tons of radioactive waste is being dumped into the ocean.  And as we all know, in addition to killing and deforming, radiation also produces super human powers.  The question I have is:  Does it also produce super animal powers?
I’m going to assume it does and that’s bad news for anyone who lives, plays, or works in the oceans. I’m obviously not worried about all of the ocean’s creatures.  I think I’m alright with radioactive turtles.  Michelangelo, Donatello, and the rest of those Teenage Mutant Ninja’s seemed like decent amphibians.  I’m also going to predict that we will have nothing to fear from penguins, although I know fans of Batman comics will disagree. 
But you can’t tell me mutant sharks are a good thing.  Sharks are dangerous enough, can you imagine a tiger shark with actual claws.  And heaven forbid that these mutant sharks should grow legs as well!  Get ready for a whole new set of yellow diamond street signs.
But while sharks typically get most of our attention when it comes to the ocean’s most fearful creatures, they are likely not to be our greatest concern.  I think our worst threats will come from Octopi and Giant Squids.  Oil tanker captains will look back on the Somali Pirate Era as ye good ole days.  Scottish tour guides will find they have a hard time raising the hair on our neck with their tales of the Loch Ness Monster.  Suffice it to say, they’re going to have to come up with a less grainy picture.
And finally, I don’t even want to think about what might become of the ocean’s largest animal, the blue whale.  All I can say is – get ready to piss your wet suit.  And while I’m on the topic of urine, don’t expect it to cure your radioactive jelly fish sting.  But I’m not exactly saying you shouldn’t let somebody try it either.  
So if you do plan on going out on the ocean in the near future, make sure you’re well prepared.  Don’t expect ninja turtles to come to the rescue.  Still, having lots of pizza aboard is never a bad idea.
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FLY PAPER

Posted on April 4, 2011 at 4:05 am by with 2 Comments
Two weeks ago, just before the airstrikes began in Libya my wife asked: “Why is everybody worked up about this No Fly Zone?  Don’t planes get delayed all the time anyway?”  Clearly my wife didn’t understand what a No Fly Zone was.  She thought it was simply a zone with no flying allowed, adhered to reluctantly by airline gate attendants.   “Attention passengers of Libya Airlines Flight 257 to Cairo…ummm, there’s going be a slight delay . . . on account of a nasty hail storm.” 
So I explained it to her in patented Derick Lengwenus style.  For those of you who haven’t experienced one of my detailed explanations, there’s a lot of information provided and almost all of it is repeated several times during the course of the lecture.  Usually while I’m in the middle of it there’s a voice inside me saying: “I really do know a lot.”
My wife, however, is an expert in dealing with me when I get started on one my I-know-so-much-more-about-this-topic-than-you-could-ever-imagine rants.  “So, can you fly a kite in a no fly zone,” she asks.  I stare at her blankly.  Suddenly I imagine my childhood shark face kite in a standoff with an Apache Attack Helicopter at 200 feet.  An uneasy amount of time elapses.  Just as my kite is about to break left the warship’s guns ignite.  Talk about zero tolerance!
I decide that flying a kite would be allowed.   “What about a crop duster,” she continues.  I’m starting to get a little flustered.  “I…don’t think they use pesticides in Libya,” I answer.  “Well what about a hot air balloon?  Can you fly one of those?  And don’t tell me they don’t have hot air balloons in Libya?”
“I don’t know,” I concede. 
“Well, what do you know?” My wife is now sticking her tongue out at me.  
This is my wife at her best.  She knows how to get me off my high horse and hopefully squeeze a laugh out of me in the process.  And I did laugh.  But the question stuck with me:  ‘What do I know?’
Two weeks later I think I may have an answer:  I know that a No Fly Zone is a great way to sneak war past a public that doesn’t want it any more than the people who are caught in the middle of it.  I know that had the agents of war said, “Hey, is it okay if we go drop some bombs, launch some missiles, maybe get involved in a prolonged battle that could result in many more civilian and military casualties?”  Many of us would have said “No way!”
My wife’s initial ignorance of a No Fly Zone was no accident.  A No Fly Zone is another one of War’s clever euphemisms.  And once again I missed it.  I got sucked in like so many other people into a casual acceptance of this latest military action without realizing what really was about to happen.  Now I’ve got a question:  “How many more times am I going to fall for this?”
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THE ZUCKERBERG EFFECT

Posted on March 30, 2011 at 1:16 pm by with 3 Comments
Today I discovered that I’d lost a Facebook friend.  I’ve suspected this happening before, but was never a 100% sure.  But today I am.  This morning I was definitely at 966.  Now I’m down to 965!
I probably shouldn’t give it too much thought.  After all, I am a comedian, and it’s not unusual for us to have a high percentage of friends we’ve barely met.  Yet, I can’t shake the question:  Why would someone defriend me?  I’ve defriended someone only once.  It was because I was receiving far too many event messages, and I couldn’t take it anymore.  I mean c’mon, there’s a limit.  Unless you’re inviting me to your wedding and I’m the ring bearer, I see no reason for daily reminders of your stupid event.   
Anyway, I clearly don’t send that many event messages.  I’m a once a month kind of comedian.  So what else could it be?  I can definitely rule out:  (iv) committed a serious crime and am now the source of a nationwide man-hunt.  Not that that would get you defriended by me.  On the contrary, I would try and use Facebook to bring you in.  I would at least post on your wall: “Dude, WTF!”
I realize the possibilities are limitless as to why I might have been defriended:  didn’t respond to an instant message, forgot a b-day, perhaps I’m a casualty of someone’s decision to reduce Facebook overload by eliminating non-essential friends, perhaps I hadn’t turned out to be the Facebook friend they’d hoped I’d become and wasn’t posting on their wall at least once a month.     
Wait a minute, that’s it!  It was one of my own wall posts.  Someone must have gotten offended.   I quickly reviewed the latest one:  “I’ve been consuming chocolate eggs for over a month now.  I am so done with Easter.”  8 likes, yes, but how many dislikes?!?!  Why can’t you be more like Youtube, Facebook! 
At this point many of you are asking, “Why even let this bother you?”  I don’t know, perhaps it’s the true nature of a self-confessed narcissist.   Or perhaps it’s what happens when you become an artist.  I can think of the hundreds of times I’ve been in front of an audience of 966 people and only 965 were laughing.  That one person sitting there with their arms folded always bothered me.
Maybe it’s not the ‘why’ that bothers me.  Maybe it’s the ‘who’.  Who gone done defriended me? Facebook doesn’t give you this info.  They’re probably right not to.    If they did, then the person you would have never remembered would suddenly become the person you definitely remember.  And who knows, maybe a true friendship would result from a decision to contact that person and find out what their problem was.
I’ve thought about all the times I hesitated to accept a Facebook request.  All the times I asked myself: “do I really know this person?”  All the times I waited two weeks before accepting their request as if to say, “Oh, alright.  I’ll add you as a friend.  Just know what this lengthy delay really means.”  Maybe this was one of those people who’d clearly “gotten the message” and was now exacting their torturous revenge.  
Anyway, the time for contemplation is over.  It’s action time.  I’ve decided to institute Operation Infinite Friendship.  Basically it means I will be choosing 10 random Facebook friends per day and performing a Facebook Action on them such as poking, liking, commenting, or sending them a gift (not a real one).   I’m pretty confident this will work and prevent any further attrition.  If it doesn’t work I will then move into Defcon 4 where I systematically begin defriending everyone on Facebook.   The military calls it a preemptive strike.  Not sure how often they do it to friends.
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GAS STATIONS ARE TAKING US TO THE CLEANERS

Posted on March 29, 2011 at 10:22 pm by with Leave a Comment

So I’m driving by a gas station the other day and I notice the sign displaying the cost of gas.  At the top it reads: $4.05 a gallon.  While definitely high, it was still cheaper than what I’d seen on my drive thus far. And so I get into the turn lane.  But, just as I’m about to pull into the gas station I notice underneath the price in smaller letters: with a car wash.  The actual price per gallon (without a car wash) is listed below where the price for premium gas usually is.  My bad!  I guess I should have spent more time reading that tricky sign while travelling at 40 miles per hour in three lanes of traffic.
    Yet I still feel compelled to ask – does anyone really care what the price is with a car wash?  
    I don’t know about you, but I don’t wash my car every time I buy gas.  Or every other time I buy gas.  Or every other, other, other, other time.  I’m sure it would be different if some oil executive came out to shake my hand every time I filled up.  Then I’d be like yah I’ll wash my car, just strap me to the hood first because now I’ve got something I need to wash off too.
    You would think with the stress that consumers are under they would have a sign that says $4.05 a gallon, with a FREE car wash!  But no, instead they want to see if they can sucker us into overpaying for two different services at the same time!
    I’m sure gas stations want to sell their car wash service.  That’s why they have it.  I get that.  But I feel like this is a form of bait and switch for drivers who, for reasons of safety, can’t read the whole sign.  There’s a time to read fine print, and it’s not when you’re driving!
    If you really wanted to sell me on your car wash, ask me while I’m standing at the pump.  Have a sexy voice come through the fancy speakers, “Hey, is your car dirty?  Well then, maybe you should drive it into my hot, wet, body…shop.”  Sold!  Just strap me to the hood first.

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