Tongue-In-Cheek

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2011-02-03T15:53:00.001-08:00

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Advertising 101 with Sketchy McSleazeball

2011-01-15T11:54:00.000-08:00

Do not listen to late-night sports radio.

Especially the commercials.

A stern, authoritatively-deep voice warned me last night that a prominent financial expert who predicted the 2008 financial industry crash was also foretelling a much more devastating “major event” in 2011 that would result in drastic changes to our way of life, possibly even threatening the speed of drive-thru service.

I found this ad intriguing, having long believed that we Americans will have to pay the piper someday for our reckless borrowing, needless consumption, and sloppy penmanship.

The voice insisted that I watch a “video” at the website “endofamerica36.com.”

That’s right. End of America. 36. Dot com.

Sketchy.

Of course I had to see for myself.

The “video” is simply a “financial expert” named Porter Stansberry reading aloud words that appear on the screen, explaining a bunch of stuff about the dollar.

After 90 minutes with Mr. Stansberry, my eyes were sore, but I began to feel convinced that the dollar was on its way into the toilet, and that I should put all my money into gold, silver, euros, grenades, and “modern art” made from Styrofoam and dried rat feces.

Stansberry kept alluding to a secret commodity, used by the wealthy throughout history to shield themselves from imploding economies, that could save my family from the impending crisis if I owned enough of it.

But he wouldn’t tell me what it was. Gasoline? Real estate? Slaves? Pictures of frolicking puppies? I could only guess.

Finally, he offered to tell me the secret if I bought a $50 “trial” subscription to his newsletter.

The whole thing was just disgusting. It reminded me of those letters I keep getting from car dealerships, the one with the return address of “Department Of Financial Reimbursement and Distribution of Entitlements,” or some such official-government-looking verbiage, containing what looks like a check. It’s actually a “voucher” that “guarantees” that I will win either $20,000 cash or an instant scratch ticket.

Gasp! Which will it be? I can’t take the suspense.

So I didn’t bite on Stanberry’s sleazy sales pitch. But I have to admit that his argument seems plausible. At some point, other countries are going to get sick of those cocky Americans and their gargantuan debt, and will reject the dollar as the standard of global currency. Then our government will no longer be able to pay off debt by printing more money or whoring out the Vice President.

I wanted to get to the woods and start canning beets and knitting sweaters from my armpit hair, as it seems all these skills will be necessary quite soon.

Then I remembered Google.

It turns out Mr. Stansberry and his company, then called “Pirate Investor, LLC” (seriously), had to pay more than $1.5 million in restitution in 2007 after being convicted of scamming potential investors with misleading stock tips marketed through email SPAM.

Stansberry maintained that anyone buying stock tips from a company named “Pirate Investor, LLC” deserved to lose everything they had.

No, just kidding. He claimed his erroneous stock tips were an honest mistake. But after a few minutes at endofamerica36.com, it’s hard for me to associate the word “honest” with him at all.

If you want any credibility, come up with a web address that does not have random numbers in it, does not have the production value of a hastily-contrived middle school role play, and does not make me feel the intense need for a shower after only 20 seconds of viewing.

And, for God’s sake, don’t air your ad on sports talk radio at 12:30 a.m.

Shoes Your Weapon

2011-01-08T19:57:00.001-08:00

For no good reason, my feet have declared war on me.

If you talk to them (I don’t recommend it, but go ahead, if you insist), they will say it’s all my fault, because I’m 30 pounds overweight and inherited this dramatic clomping motion in my gait, like I’m constantly trying to kill spiders.

True as this may be, I don’t actually walk very often. My primary recreational outlets include swimming, yelling at teenagers, and strenuous nose-picking. None of these require my feet, except occasionally the last one (only when I’m typing).

So my feet have no excuse for aching all the time.

I retaliate by wrenching them into every manner of experimental footwear I can get my hands on, trying to find something that will finally make them shut up.

Recently, I began to think I’d have to give up on shoes and try to only walk on heavily padded surfaces for the rest of my life.

This idea might not be completely crazy, according to Liberty University biology professor Daniel Howell. Interviewed on the Today Show last month, Dr. Howell said, “90 percent of our foot problems can be traced back to the shoe.” He himself goes around barefoot nearly all the time, a choice made easier by the fact that he tends to avoid public restrooms, anyway.

What about cold weather? “Your feet will adapt,” he said, as long as the ground is dry. Sounds like he won’t be visiting Maine anytime soon.

Anyway, Dr. Howell failed to convince me to eschew my shoes. For one thing, walking surfaces are often very poky. Furthermore, you don’t see too many podiatrists walking around barefoot.

So I knew there must be a shoe compromise out there someplace. A few days ago, I finally found it.

If you stray down to the Maine Mall in South Portland, you will probably wind up leaving with something weird. This time, I wound up with a pair of those newfangled round-bottomed shoes.

Go ahead and laugh, but you won’t be laughing nearly as hard when these damn things cause me to trip over your front door threshold and test the limits of your liability insurance.

Sure, from a style standpoint, three-inch soles in the shape of a half-moon do not earn many points. They call to mind a plaster cast, with less allowance for creativity -- a fabulous choice for a mythical creature from a Tolkein novel, perhaps, but not for a sophisticated man about town such as myself.

But they promise to improve your posture, tone your muscles, erase your wrinkles, enlarge your genetalia, reduce your tax liability, and cause you to burn more calories when walking.

More importantly, these half-moon soles seem to distribute my weight more to my arches, meaning they have the potential to cure my plantar fascism, or whatever the hell it is.

Anyway, after I picked up these “toner shoes,” a 20-year-old sales clerk had me stand on this machine that detected which parts of my feet felt the most pressure. The giant computer screen attached to this wondrous device showed that most of my weight rests on the heels and balls of my feet. This amazing revelation enabled the clerk to determine which set of $70 “orthopedic” insoles she would recommend.

Did I buy them? Of course I did. This is war, after all. I need every technological edge I can get.

And some really, really thick carpeting wouldn’t hurt, either.

LePage: Can He Possibly Be Any Worse?

2011-01-07T19:47:00.000-08:00

The headline in the Bangor Daily News served up endless inspiration: “LePage Slow to Fill Cabinet.”

Easy pickings for a smart-alecky pundit.

“Maybe he ran out of relatives” - Hmm... too obvious.

“That’s not what his wife said!” - Ugh... better not.

I think I’ll go with: “That’s because no sensible human being would want to have to clean up the colossal pile of bat guano the Baldacci administration is leaving behind.”

Yeah, that should do it.

In its Dec. 31 editorial, the BDN struggled to not gush with admiration over the Italian Scallion. It praised him for everything from school consolidation to shrinking state government, pushing weatherization, and having pellet furnaces installed in state buildings.

Grasping at straws much?

“The hard job of fine-tuning and improving those initiatives falls to the next administration.” Yes, no wonder nobody wants to work for Mr. LePage; he has to deal with those pellet furnaces.

In its adolescent crush-like fawning, the BDN found fault only in Baldacci’s failure to advocate more strongly for all his super-dreamy ideas.

Ahem. Yes, well... while the state’s largest newspaper basks in Baldacci afterglow, allow me to point out that virtually everything he attempted either set us back 30 years or fizzled into a giant waste of time.

Consolidation? No need to beat that horse any more. If you have any doubt, go ask your local school board if they’ve saved any money from consolidation. I dare you.

Meanwhile, high schools across the state continue to waste millions of hours in productivity trying to wrench their curricula into the confines of the PSAT and SAT. While The College Board collects a tidy $50 a year for every 10th and 11th grader in Maine, kids who would rather not go to college, or who lack the skills for college, are left to wonder, even more than they already did, if anybody really cares about them.

Baldacci’s “principled stand” on gay marriage didn’t amount to much after he made virtually no effort to help the new law survive a referendum. He bought the law a nice ring, but then left it at the altar.

Then there’s the Department of Human Services, a steady source of debacles for the last ten years. Time and again he has cut funding for outpatient mental health services, which adds strain to exponentially more expensive jails, psychiatric hospitals, and emergency rooms.

Pennywise and pound foolish, yet again. You can take your car in for regular brake maintenance, or you can wait and let the wrecking company, police, ambulance, insurance companies, newspaper photographers, coroners, and impound lot deal with it later. Time and again, our bald-headed Mr. Nice Guy chose the latter.

Dirigo Health, once championed as an innovative compromise, languishes in near-irrelevance due to underfunding. Baldacci was not able to combat corporate interests to prevent soda tax foes and insurance companies from all but scuttling the program.

Mix it all together and you can start to see why the state still faces a budget crisis even after shedding 1000 employees in the last eight years.

So, no high-priced captains of industry will ever take a pay cut to deal with any of that mess. Who could blame them?

While I wait for my call to become the next Secretary of Innuendo, I’ll be watching closely to see what kind of Marden’s Special-type candidates he can find to salvage some respectability in the state government.

2010: You Couldn’t Have Made Any Of It Up

2010-12-24T10:24:00.000-08:00

January: One of the deadliest earthquakes in recorded history levels Port Au Prince, Haiti; I would imagine things are pretty much back to normal down there by now.

February: Olympic organizers plan well for a lack of snow in the Vancouver area by having it trucked in from 160 miles away; pleased with how well everything turned out, the IOC then awards the 2022 Winter Games to Houston, Texas... A magnitude 8.8 earthquake kills nearly 500 people in Chile; Americans complain that if you give one third-world country $100 million in earthquake relief, pretty soon all the other third-world countries want to have their own earthquakes.

March: For our anniversary, my wife and I decide to go on our third real “date” since we became parents five years ago; we end up napping through half of it.

April: An eruption of the Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajokull (I think my spell check just exploded) spews ash all across Western Europe, grounding a lot of airplanes and prompting everyone to wonder why the Earth seems so darn mad at us lately... The Deepwater Horizon oil platform explodes in the Gulf of Mexico, BP assured the public that they’ll have everything tidied up right quick, nothing to see here.

May: President Obama nominates Elena Kagan to the Supreme Court, prompting a whole lot of really creative and forward-thinking people to make fun of her appearance and question her sexuality... A horse named “Super Saver” wins the Kentucky Derby, no doubt starting a new tradition of thoroughbreds being named after corporate sponsors (my money is on Sears Auto Center in the next Preakness).

June: As it becomes apparent that no one knows how to stop the Gulf Oil Spill, which has the potential to become the worst environmental disaster in human history, with potentially apocalyptic ramifications for ecology, climate, and the economy, Americans decide to “do their part” by making sure their tires are properly inflated.

July: The Obama Administration sues to block Arizona’s new immigration law, arguing that corrupt and inefficient border patrol is the federal government’s job, thank you very much.

August: Russia bans grain exports after the worst heat wave in 130 years destroys enough crops to cause a major food crisis; Fox News declares climate change a hoax... President Obama announces the end of combat operations in Iraq, though continued U.S. support and involvement will be necessary for a smooth transition; Americans decide to “do their part” by turning down thermostats one degree.

September: Government lexicographers discover there is no word in the English language for the back of one’s knee... The Gulf Oil Spill Disaster finally ends as BP engineers manage to cap the well and declare it “effectively dead;” I’m sure things are pretty much back to normal down there by now.

October: The 33 miners trapped 2300 feet underground in Chile become national heroes after rescue workers pull them one by one through a precariously winding, narrow shaft to be greeted by their loving families and by President Sebastian Pinera, who instructed them to get the hell back to work... 200 million gallons of toxic sludge spill from an aluminum plant in Hungary; the plant manager who ignored warnings about the weakening reservoir is immediately chosen as the new director of FEMA.

November: A human stampede at a water festival in Cambodia kills 347 people, despite being dwarfed in size and intensity by the line outside Wal-Mart on Black Friday.

December: The world ends at midnight on the 31st.

Let’s hope I’m kidding.

We’re Not Racist, Just Brutally Insensitive

2010-12-17T07:45:00.000-08:00

So they’re still going after those Indian mascots. This time, “they” are the Maine Indian Tribal State Commission, a group of stuffed shirts in Augusta who apparently have nothing better to do than try to expose and eliminate tacit and subconscious racism.

As usual, my highly advanced brain has dreamed up a perfect compromise to satisfy everyone. But first, some background:

Those who object to nicknames like “Indians,” “Warriors,” and “Redskins” say they are offensive, unnecessary references to racial stereotypes.

They seriously need to get over it. So what if genocide wiped out 99% of your ancestors, and the dominant culture sees your once-proud heritage as a blur of drumming circles and slot machines? You don’t have to be so sensitive. You should be happy that white people want to “honor” your disappearing heritage by naming a high school team after a slang term for your scalped great-grandfather.

Those who want to keep the nicknames understand that any sort of change - even changes to arbitrary pretend nicknames that no one will remember or care about in 20 years - is a threat to the very fabric of our society.

The Lincoln County News quoted Wiscasset resident Ginny Cooper’s objection to getting rid of the “Redskin” moniker at her local high school:: “[We need] to have sense of humor about these things," she said. "Blacks are now negroes, Japs aren't yellow anymore, and I'm sick of it."

Bingo! You see, it’s not that we’re racist; we just don’t care how non-white people feel about our funny names for them.

Look, we don’t need to put honest, hardworking, community-minded Mainers through the agony of having to abandon allegiance to one cartoon character in favor of another. The only torture I can imagine that would be worse than that is... hm, I don’t know... maybe watching your entire village get slaughtered and burned by invaders from another continent.

A couple of years ago, Old Town High School switched from the “Indians” to the “Coyotes.” I’ve been to Old Town a couple of times since then, and nothing is the same. For one thing, they moved the City Hall down to Main Street, and the Old Town Canoe outlet store is way the hell out on Route 43. It’s as if a pestilence of depression has settled over the whole area.

And don’t even get me started on the ridiculous names that replace the discarded Indian names. Can anyone from Scarborough please tell me: what the hell is a “Red Storm?” There is no such thing. How does one dress up as a “Red Storm?”

Anyway, these pinko, politically-correct types are not going away, so let’s implement this brilliant compromise: Terms like “Indians” and “Warriors” do not have to refer to Native Americans. Why not keep the nicknames, and just change the logo?

Teams named “Warriors” should change their colors to green and black camouflage to honor veterans and soldiers. Their mascots should become uniformed Marines. Don’t for a second think this would somehow cheapen or dishonor the sacrifices of our troops, not if you’re unwilling to think the same thing of Native Americans.

Schools with “Indian” nicknames should change their mascots to yogis or telemarketers. You know, people who don’t mind being called “Indians” because they’re actually from India.

If you cling to the “Redskin” name, you might as well abandon all pretense and rename your teams “The Lynchmob.”

There. Problem solved. In the words of comedian John Hodgman, “you’re welcome.”

Yum... Wikileeks

2010-12-11T08:45:00.000-08:00

Last week, I presented low-stress solutions on how to chintz out of this gift-giving season without feeling like a complete, low-class schmuck.

I’d like to take back everything I said, and instead recommend that you buy the book “In Defense of Food” for all your friends and relatives. Spend the $6.99 per copy at Amazon if you have to.

Author Michael Pollan insists that we are supposed to enjoy eating, and guides you into some basic principles that would result in a fully healthy and satisfying diet if you weren’t too lazy to change your habits.

So never mind.

But the book also details how the U.S. government twisted already-flawed science to appease industry, resulting in all sorts of dietary nastiness among the general population.

You see, back in the 1970s, scientists were noticing that people who ate a lot of animal products often wound up dead. Because death is one of those Undesirable Outcomes to be Avoided at All Cost, a federal advisory board wrote a report recommending that people eat less meat and cheese.

Predictably, the meat and dairy industries had a cow (ha!), and the panel whipped up some revisions, instead telling America to “choose meat, poultry, and fish that will reduce saturated fat intake.”

At the time, we all thought saturated fat was the evil substance causing all our problems. Lots of us switched to margarine and other replacements, only to learn later that they were loaded with trans-fats, which are way more hideous.

For some reason, people listen to the federal government about food, even though the government is clearly controlled either by whimsical overreactions to incomplete science or by corporations peddling “edible food-like substances.”

Pollan recounts how the FDA declared Frito Lay chips offer health benefits because (get ready for this) every moment you spend stuffing your mouth with polyunsaturated fats is a moment you’re not stuffing them with saturated fats.

In other words, the government would be happy to have me drinking soda and coffee all day, because, at least then, I wouldn’t be drinking used motor oil.

The most irritating part of all this how little the public knows/knew about it.

Did we see a NBC News “Fleecing of America” Expose on Frito Lay and the FDA? No way.

Where was Wikileaks when we needed them, when all those ranchers and dairy farmers lobbied to make sure they could keep making a living at the expense of public health?

If you’ve been following the news, you know that Wikileaks founder Julian Assange is the world’s foremost persona non grata at the moment, having published thousands of classified documents purported to compromise security interests and political relationships for no clear benefit to mankind.

Yes, we found out that our government has some secret deal with some place called Yemen, wherein we kill off a bunch of people and they take the blame for it. And, it turns out, we actually do have military forces “engaged in combat operations” (why can’t we just say “fighting” anymore?) in Pakistan.

Assange’s wildly radical theory is that governments keeping secrets is generally a bad thing.

But now that these secrets have been exposed, do we really expect contrition? Promise never to do it again, cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my document shredder?

Or are we going to keep wringing our hands over health care costs while lobbyists infest the backrooms of bureaucracy to write our nutrition guidelines and labeling regulations to suit their profit margins, and we just fill our stomachs with whatever the hell they feel like making?

Have Yourself a Very Little Christmas

2010-12-03T21:09:00.000-08:00

If you’re like me, your idea of “Working Out” means bringing your briefcase to Tim Horton’s.

If you’re like me, you have found yourself stranded in a blizzard because your Honda Civic, which has power windows, locks, steering, braking, and hundreds of other convenient bits of power, inexplicably lacks any sort of warning chime or buzzer or siren to alert you that you’ve left your headlights on.

But you are most like me if you find the Holiday Season a gauntlet of stressful brainstorming sessions and last-minute shopping excursions, followed by an unsatisfying letdown that results from feeling like maybe your brother-in-law doesn’t appreciate the meat grinder as you thought he would, given that he’s a vegetarian.

Well, this year, you won’t have that problem.

I have devised a perfect three-step system to rescue you from the normal December doldrums.

1. Give until it feels good. You might have heard the phrase “give until it hurts.” Less popular is the phrase “give until it feels good.”

Abandon all reason in favor of that sweet euphoria that can only come from prioritizing someone else without any consideration for yourself, flinging fistfuls of $20 bills at random strangers until you’re flat broke.

If you don’t choose that third level, you might as well Bah-Humbug yourself back up that mountain above Whoville, or whatever.

But that still begs the question: what to give?

2. Give something that matters. You know, actually matters. Notice I didn’t say “matters to the recipient” or “matters to you.” As long as it matters to someone, somewhere on the globe, you can always say, “It’s the thought that counts.”

That relative who seems to have everything, who is impossible to buy for, deserves a $25 donation made in their name to the charity of their choice (even if it is some depraved cause like the Church of Scientology or Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation).

Think about it: if your house is already full of plastic crap imported from China, and you are living comfortably enough to buy whatever would be in a gift-giver’s budget anyway, what would feel better than knowing you inspired someone to help the less fortunate?

You can also go retro by giving something that took time, creativity, or ingenuity to make. This year I’m going to make soap. Nothing sends the perfect message to your filthy relatives than a box of soap on Christmas morning.

I also want to make cinnamon applesauce ornaments decorated with glitter glue and bits of ribbon, which will delight the whole family until your three-year-old niece eats one off the tree and has to be rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.

What epitomizes the spirit of family giving this holiday season more than offering to drive someone to the emergency room?

No need for giant piles of expensive gifts to create cherished holiday memories. Keep it simple, that’s what I say.

3. Sing modified carols to keep your spirits up. Example:

Have Yourself a Very Little Christmas.

Let Your Cart be Light.

From Now On Your Expenses Won’t be Out of Sight!

Have Yourself a Very Little Christmas.

So Your Nerves Don’t Fray.

From Now On Our Stresses Will Be Miles Away!

Here We Are as in Olden Days,

Crappy Gift Parades, Ignore.

Faithful Friends Who are Dear To Us

Don’t Want Your Wal-Mart Crap Any More.

Through the Years

We All Will Be Together,

If the Streets Are Plowed.

Hang a Homemade Ornament On the Highest Bough!

And Have Yourself a Very Little Christmas Now.

Only Voltron Can Save Us Now

2010-11-26T21:05:00.000-08:00

The electric car has finally arrived.

In the next few months you’ll start seeing commercials for the Nissan Leaf, a vehicle whose future owners better damn well remember to plug in their cars at night, lest they be stranded when they get up the next morning.

The Leaf rolls on for 100 miles or so without needing gasoline. But then you’re done. It has no internal combustion back-up, and, therefore, virtually no chance of competing with the Chevy Volt, even though it will be about $7000 cheaper.

The Volt has a back-up gasoline engine, which the EPA expects to get a not-too-shabby 37 mpg on the highway. This is helpful, since the battery will only last about 40 miles. I’ve seen driveways longer than that.

But if you’re looking for measurable progress toward curing our “addiction to oil,” you have to feel encouraged. Even skeptics estimate that, based on today’s electricity and fuel prices, not having to buy gasoline will offset the higher sticker prices for these cars.

In other words, we’ve finally reached the point when an electric car costs about the same as an equivalent gasoline car, barring unforeseen engineering setbacks, such as battery explosions that could be seen from the moon.

Marketing remains the only remaining obstacle. All hope for consumer demand and future innovations in this area revolve around people actually wanting these two cars.

We’re not off to a great start here. The names do not exactly inspire confidence.

Cars represent freedom, power, and status. This is why the mini-van, and eventually the SUV, replaced the station wagon, even though the station wagon is way safer and more functional for the vast majority of consumers. But a station wagon isn’t going to climb some remote mesa in Utah, which Americans must do at least once a week, judging by Jeep commercials.

The “Leaf?” Come on.

Do we want a car that gets eaten by caterpillars? That some seven-year-old girl is pressing in a book for an art project? That is covering some Biblical character’s genitals?

No. We want a car like Chuck Norris, only less mechanical.

The Leaf is not this car. It looks like a Prius with love handles and a saggy rear end.

The name “Volt,” on the other hand, invokes power and coolness, as if you cannot possibly drive the car without wearing sunglasses. Its sharp and sporty design follows suit.

The name also reminds me of the cartoon “Voltron: Defender of the Universe,” which I used to watch when I was a wee lad. I barely remember it, but I know it involved five robotic lions from the planet Arus. The lions. each piloted by a brave and helpfully stereotyped “space explorer,” would fuse together, always at just at the right moment, to form a giant mega-robot named Voltron that would fight evil and stuff.

Wouldn’t you want to drive a car that could become the left ankle of a force of justice for the entire galaxy? I know I’d pay an extra few thousand on a down payment for that, especially considering today’s gas prices.

The only problem with the name “Volt” is that it has the word “Chevrolet” in front of it. The public has about as much confidence in GM’s ability to make a decent car as it has in Sarah Palin’s ability to reach the “Tournament of Champions” on Jeopardy.

So there you have it. The next major step in curbing greenhouse gases and reducing our dependence on foreign oil rests in the hands of a company so incompetent the government had to buy it out.

Bicycle, anyone?

How to Save Money on Groceries

2010-11-19T11:59:00.000-08:00

People in my life keep complaining that food is getting more and more expensive.

Granted, these are people with no actual information -- people who would no sooner research the pattern of beef and corn prices relative to inflation over the last 50 years than they would perform an unwarranted tonsillectomy on a gerbil -- are experts on how the average family suffers from an increasingly unreasonable grocery bill.

Yet as much as 50% of the food produced in this country goes to waste; we throw half of it away after it’s prepared, reports the New York Times.

When you add in the food we eat that we probably don’t need to eat (yeah, I’m talking to you, Mr. Second Helping), that figure is probably closer to 90%.

A Cornell University study found that 93% of us admit to buying food we never use.

Yeah, we’re suffering, all right.

I checked the government’s Consumer Price Index, and discovered this shocking fact: what you spend depends on what you’re eating. Beef and dairy products did get more expensive last month. On the other hand, fruits, vegetables, and egg salad sandwiches dipped with root beer spilled on them have gotten cheaper.

Overall, food prices in the United States have increased 1.4 percent in the past year - a much slower rate of increase than energy (5.9 percent) or medical care (3.6 percent). Costs for clothing have actually decreased 1.2 percent, which explains why Lady Gaga’s meat dress is actually a status-grab.

Our sustenance comes to us more cheaply than anywhere else in the world. The average American spends about 10 percent of his or her income on food, compared to upwards of 75 percent for impoverished residents of certain Third-World countries, according to the Financial Times.

In other words, while you’re ordering that cheese-steak with ice cream for dessert, and complaining about the bill, some 13-year-old in Sri Lanka is spearing a pigeon for his only meal of the week.

If that perspective does not ease your querulous lamenting, I do have a few tips for saving money on groceries:

1. Whenever you go to the grocery store, buy 29 gallons of milk.

Milk is always the first thing we run out of. It is the barometer of our grocery-buying habits. As long as we have milk, we don’t need groceries yet. And when we run out of milk, we go to the store.

The problem is, every time we go to the store, we spend $135, regardless of when we were last there and what may or may not be in the pantry at home.

So don’t let yourself run out of milk until you’ve run out of a lot of other stuff first. Freeze it, if necessary, so you don’t have any reason to go shopping for food until you’re desperate enough to eat some of your smaller household insects.

2. Start a garden. Rumor has it you can make food appear out of the dirt. (Weird, huh?) Find out how.

3. Eat at restaurants all the time. Watch your grocery expenses plummet!

4. Hawk coupons online. Gone are the days when you buy two extra copies of the Sunday paper so you can clip enough coupons to save the amount you spent on extra copies of the Sunday paper. Now, coupon aggregators, retailers, and manufacturers make it easy for old ladies like you to feel technologically savvy.

5. It would not surprise me of gerbil tonsils are considered a delicacy in certain parts of Sri Lanka.

Eschew the Cruise

2010-11-12T20:43:00.000-08:00

You might have heard of the so-called “Nightmare Cruise,” Carnival’s 1,000-foot boat “Splendor” that drifted helpless in the Pacific Ocean last week after an engine fire. Power failed, toilets backed up, helicopters dropped emergency supplies of Pop Tarts and Spam, and, according to one passenger, “a lot of people were getting smashed off warm beer.”

Sounds like a typical week at my house, really. What’s the big deal?

After six tug boats towed the ship to San Diego, it became clear that this would become one of the most amusing and surreal mainstream news stories to appear in quite some time. Here are two actual quotes the Associated Press got from disembarking passengers:

“It was nothing like it was advertised in the brochure.” Hmmm... You don’t say?

“This could be the only cruise where people lost weight instead of gaining weight.” Sign me up!

A 42-year-old man was one of the first of the 4500 vacationers let off the ship because it was his birthday. So much for women and children first.

What kind of sociopathic twit looks around at their fellow passengers, including old ladies who had not been able to get their own food for days because elevators weren’t working, and says, “Can I go first? I’m turning 42 today.”

I have never been on a cruise. And I probably couldn’t go if I wanted to, either, because my wife can’t deal with feeling even remotely trapped. This is a woman who suffered a panic attack at Disney’s “Spaceship Earth” a mere 20 yards from the start of the ride because she thought there would be no way to get out if something went wrong. This was after we had already passed four clearly marked emergency exits.

So I can’t speak from experience regarding cruises. But I have seen “The Love Boat,” and I have watched a video on Youtube called “Pacific Sun Cruise Liner in Heavy Seas” (necessary viewing), which qualifies me as an authority on all maritime matters.

On a cruise, you’re isolated in the middle of nowhere with a few thousand other people who mainly want to get drunk. In other words, it’s just like living in rural Maine. You might as well just stay home and save money.

Oh, sure, cruises have swimming pools and live entertainment. So does Las Vegas, or even Boston. The advantage of those places is you can leave if something goes wrong, and the chances of drowning or being eaten by a shark are relatively small.

Granted, cruises are usually “all-inclusive.” Unlike visiting a major city, there is no need to figure out meals or transportation. Paying strangers to take care of all your basic needs appeals to a lot of people who apparently also can’t wait until they’re old and feeble enough to be admitted at an “Assisted Living” facility.

Cruise ships do occasionally stop at exotic ports, which are usually named “St. John.” But nobody dares disembark for fear that they’ll not have enough money to bribe the crack-dealing cab driver to not leave you with the sex traffickers.

So take it from me. Avoid any vacation that you cannot run from.

In fact, why don’t you come stay for a few days at my house. I’ve got Spam!

I'm Lovin' Immortality

2010-11-06T07:19:00.000-07:00

The liberal assault on American Values and our Sacred Traditions continues.

First they came for the traditional gender roles. I didn’t say anything because I hadn’t been born yet.

Then they came for school prayer. I didn’t say anything because I was in school, busy saying the Pledge of Allegiance every morning.

Then they came for marriage. I didn’t say anything because I suspected that even if they did away with marriage, this woman would still be around every day to make sure I knew how clueless I was about everything; I just wouldn’t be able to call her my “wife.”

Now they’ve come for the Happy Meal, and that’s where I draw the line.

Growing up, the Happy Meal was the Holy Grail.

Its cheap plastic toy, usually broken or tossed aside within minutes of being opened, produced unparalleled thrills of anticipation.

There were always three or four different ones at a time, clearly displayed during my Saturday morning cartoons. Which one would it be? To get the same toy you received in your last Happy Meal was considered a complete rip-off.

This experience has united generations across the socio-economic, political, and racial spectra. It is more American than Apple Pie, given that most children have probably eaten way more Happy Meals than apple pies, unless you count those harmonica-styled ones McDonald’s sells in those little cardboard boxes, full of a disgusting, sticky goo that you can’t eat for 45 minutes because it was heated on the surface of the sun.

But now, the City of San Francisco, always at the forefront of chipping away at personal liberty and family values, is threatening to prohibit McDonald’s from putting toys in Happy Meals, at least until the food gets healthier.

The proposed law would prevent any restaurant from giving a toy with a meal that contains more than 600 calories and 640 milligrams of sodium. No more than 35% of the calories could come from fat.

Not surprisingly, this completely unreasonable idea makes the the folks at McDonald’s Grimace.

According to nutrition information provided at their corporate website, a cheeseburger Happy Meal with a carton of 1% milk provides about 600 calories (35% from fat).

In other words, the City of San Francisco is asking McDonald’s to keep their Happy Meals pretty much the same, at least in terms of caloric intake.

But then there’s the sodium. The Happy Meal described above carries 1000 grams, which is about 80% of the recommended daily amount for a five-year-old.

San Francisco officials want McDonald’s to cut way cut back on the salt. But where will all those Bay Area children get their sodium then? From peanuts? Please.

McDonald’s franchise owner Scott Rodrick said it best when he told the San Francisco Chronicle that the city’s Board of Supervisors, “just took the happy out of Happy Meal.”

Not to mention the preservatives. As numerous people (like Morgan Spurlock, maker of the film “SuperSize Me”) have shown, a Happy Meal can last at least a year in open air at room temperature without decomposing.

McDonald’s food does not go bad. Besides being a tremendous advantage for the corporation’s storage and delivery system, it means, as one Internet pundit noted, that I should have the parental right to give my children everlasting life by feeding them Happy Meals every single day.

Who can argue with that?

The Important Lesson of Exploding Underwear

2010-10-29T20:10:00.000-07:00

It feels good to get the last of my firewood split and stacked before October’s chilly breeze turns to November’s biting frost.

But that dog turd has other ideas.

As my splitting maul careens down toward that first unfortunate log, I slip on an ill-placed pile of poop.

My legs split. The log does not.

What should happen next is a drastic groin injury that leaves me whimpering on the ground until my wife comes out to check on me. I would tolerate her amused ridicule as long as she is prepared to deal with the firewood until I recover from surgery.

Instead, I manage to land on one knee to avoid serious injury. I was lucky.

My wood splitting area is a known dog defecation zone. I should have checked. I just was not using my noggin.

Such embarrassing moments keep us humble. I can accept their necessity.

But what if your underwear explodes?

I read about a woman in the early 1950s who bought a new netted underskirt made with nitrocellulose, a basic ingredient in gunpowder. She wore it to a New Year’s Eve party. One casual flick of a cigarette, and BOOM! She suddenly became the center of attention.

Oh, sure. It’s funny now. The woman, in her highly charred state, did not find it quite so amusing. Hers was one of several incidents that sparked (heh, heh) the Flammable Fabrics Act of 1953.

That’s right: the government had to step in and make it illegal to sell highly combustible clothing.

After a series of lethal and disfiguring incidents.

It’s easy to look back now and see how stupid that was. Unthinkable nowadays, right?

If you believe that, I’ve got a yard full of dog turds to show you.

Remember in 2007, when a bunch of Thomas the Train toys were recalled because they contained lead? People who sent their trains back received an extra toy train as a complimentary gift.

How thoughtful of the distributor, RC2 Corp. Too bad the new toy train also contained lead.

You can’t possibly fire enough people to make up for such epic incompetence.

I read about all this stuff in a book called “Slow Death By Rubber Duck,” by Rick Smith and Bruce Lourie. It describes “The Secret Danger of Everyday Things;” how toxic chemicals ubiquitously and invisibly inhabit just about everything in your house.

“From the time we get up from a good night’s sleep under our wrinkle-resistant sheets (treated with the known carcinogen formaldehyde) to the time we go to bed after a snack of microwave popcorn (the interior of the bag coated with an indestructible chemical that builds up in our bodies), pollution surrounds us.”

The authors experimented on themselves, exposing their own bodies to mercury, phthalates, bromine, BPA, and bunches of other toxins widely available at the supermarket, proving that the human body does absorb this stuff - not just in massive, unrealistic quantities, but through normal use of common products.

They enumerate some steps you can take to protect yourself, but stress that public awareness and better regulation are the only long-term solutions.

Maybe 50 years from now, people will look back on how we dressed our kids in pajamas coated with poisonous flame-retardants and stored our food in chemical-leeching plastic containers, and wonder what the hell we were thinking.

Sometimes I wonder if we’ll make it that far. Our scientific knowledge and technological advancements truly are remarkable. But we don’t really know that much.

We know just enough to be dangerous.

Polishing the Dull Cutlery

2010-10-22T12:48:00.000-07:00

After the Bangor Daily News endorsed Eliot Cutler, I got an impolite mailing from the Democratic Party. It painted Cutler as an Earth-raping tree pillager in bed with the oil companies.

I don’t know if this is true, but I do know it was a pretty weak attempt at a campaign flier.

To start with, they used a picture of Cutler smiling harmlessly. Granted, they darkened the picture, trying to make him look grainy and foreboding, but they failed to create the impression of a villain eager to spread black viscous slime all over our pristine coastline.

Most campaign attack ads use rather unflattering photos of the target. They dig around for a picture of him yelling maniacally, picking his nose, or at least frowning. You mean to tell me the Democrats could not find a single picture of Eliot Cutler frowning?

I saw Cutler at the Common Ground Fair. He was frowning all over the place. He frowned his way from the political action tent all the way over to the lamb-ka-bobs. Where was the Donkey photo sniper?

I tried to remain close to see if Cutler would notice that a likely voter was standing a few feet away, waiting to be persuaded. But he just kept frowning along, surrounded by a group of young supporters in white Cutler tee-shirts. The supporters were smiling, albeit nervously. I’m not sure they’d ever seen hippies before.

At any rate, the Democrats don’t really need to worry about the BDN endorsement. Cutler has the campaigning skills of a sea urchin.

Plus, in a different editorial, the BDN endorsed a moderate, rational approach to politics, and you can see how influential that was.

It is true; running a government is complicated and requires nuance and careful thought, rather than knee-jerk angry reactivity. But talk to the average voter about any divisive issue, and you’ll see that even the ones who think they’re rational are really just controlled by vague impulses and subconscious fear.

People are all wound up about Cutler working as a lobbyist for Chinese corporations, as if Chinese wealth is grown by exploitation, but ours is not. Meanwhile, they flock to Wal-Mart and fill their carts with stuff that was Made in China.

Hypocrisy springs eternal.

Then we have a recent CBS News poll showing that 61% of Americans think illegal immigration is a “very serious” problem. Republicans and Tea-Baggers lead the charge to close our borders.

They have no sense of irony. Illegal immigrant labor reduces the costs of goods and services in the U.S. by an average of 5%, according to the non-partisan National Research Council.

If someone proposed a 5% sales tax increase on everything sold in the United States, Republicans would have a fit the size of Great Britain. They’d raise a valiant defense against this assault on small business and corporate stockholders.

But I guess we can afford the extra expense if it means fewer people with brown skin hanging around.

Maybe the BDN is correct in noting that we should vote for someone who actually knows what’s going on, and that Cutler is the only candidate with an actual detailed plan to solve Maine’s fiscal problems.

But he’s still going to lose. And so will Mitchell. They do not have LePage’s edge, the proper outrage and intensity we look for in a candidate we expect to Change Everything.

Democrats: Stop putting out cheesy fliers. Save your money for 2012 and 2014.

And hire some more photo snipers.

Take This Halloween Costume Advice and Shove It

2010-10-15T11:23:00.000-07:00

When your kid reaches age five, is already smarter than you, an awkward mix of pride and shame antagonizes the ego. You could show a terrier a fire hydrant made of steak and he’d be less confused.

As a child, my Halloween costumes were a series of comic mishaps worthy of a much larger audience. If reality TV had existed back then, I might have been rich and famous.

My parents, God love them, were happy to oblige whatever crazy costume idea I came up with each year. This was exceedingly educational. Read on to partake of my wisdom.

Once I was a mummy. They wrapped me in about $60 worth of toilet paper, only to find that whenever I moved any limb at an angle of five degrees or more, the paper ripped. By the time I got to the car (we lived in the woods and had to drive to the suburbs for Trick-or-Treating) I had inadvertently
shredded the costume.

DO NOT DRESS YOUR CHILD AS A MUMMY FOR HALLOWEEN.

Then I went through a series of box-oriented costumes. One year I was a robot, the next, a birthday present. There might have been a jack-in-the-box mixed in there somewhere, as well; I’m not sure.

At any rate, my mother slaved for hours elaborately decorating large cardboard boxes in colored paper and tin foil, only to discover on Halloween night that the costume would not fit into our undersized Subaru station wagon.

You’d think we would have realized somewhere along the way that the whole box thing was a poor idea.

DO NOT MAKE A BOX COSTUME FOR YOUR CHILD unless you’re absolutely certain you won’t have to drive him or her anywhere for a while.

I vaguely remember my mother pressuring me to be a pirate one year. I must have been just a little tyke, but the idea of wearing an earring scared me to bits, partially because I imagined searing pain in my earlobe, and partially because boys did not wear earrings in those days unless they wanted to be picked on relentlessly.

It’s too bad that I felt the need, as a six-year-old with big plastic glasses, to assure everyone how manly I was by not wearing an earring. I might have had more fun.

At any rate, needless to say, DO NOT PRESSURE YOUR CHILD INTO CROSS-DRESSING.

Another year, when I was closer to adolescence, I got the idea of dressing as Johnny Paycheck, who sung the famous tune “Take This Job and Shove It.” Instead of saying “Trick or Treat” at every house, I wanted to say, “Take this Halloween Candy and Shove It.” Thankfully, I was talked out of that idea.

No matter how original and avant garde your child may feel, DO NOT PERMIT HIM TO DRESS AS A DISGRUNTLED COUNTRY MUSIC STAR. (But a gruntled country music star would be fine.)

Also, please resist the temptation to dress your child as a politician. Every year I see shorties running around in Regan masks and Bush masks and it makes me wonder if there’s been a robbery at Midget National Bank or something.

I admit, though, a Paul LePage costume would be pretty scary, but you’d have to instruct your child to curse at people after saying “Trick or Treat.” Then, if they don’t give the exact candy he wants, he should storm angrily away from the house.

My daughter, wiser than I ever was, is a bumblebee this year. If my ego can recover from the sting we’ll have a great time.

Sink Your Teeth into Referendumb 2010

2010-10-08T12:28:00.000-07:00

Teeth are not that important.

Unless you’re having a root canal. Sure, as some sadistic guy in a white coat is jamming sharp pieces of metal into our gums, we all promise to take our dental health much more seriously from now on.

But once the procedure is over, and the pain subsides, and the bills are paid, you are free to go back to basically ignoring your teeth. And most of us do.

Eventually they all fall out anyway and you need dentures. It is the way of our ancestors. Why should we think we’re any better?

No one’s teeth are worth $5 million, which is why I’m urging you to vote NO on Question 2 November 2.

What, you didn’t realize there was a Question 2? There’s always a Question 2. It’s the resentful younger sibling of Question 1, always getting less attention and respect.

“Damn, you Question 2,” says the Secretary of State when he’s had too much to drink. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”

Sexy Question 1 is about a casino (again) this year, this time somewhere in Oxford County. In several different votes, the People of Maine have made themselves clear how they feel about casinos: As long as they’re run by white people, we don’t mind.

This time around, it’s a “group of investors” who think they can make some money, not just some tribe trying to recover a little dignity and financial viability. I guess if the people in Oxford County are willing to put up with it, who are we to say no?

Casinos are seedy, unhealthy, addictive, and depressing. But so is McDonald’s, and we don’t seem to mind building those every 500 yards or so. Follow the money.

Speaking of money, don’t forget those bond issues that always pop up further down the ballot, trying to drive this state into (further) financial ruin, urging us to borrow incomprehensible sums for stupid things that don’t matter, like teeth.

Question 2 proposes greater access to dental care and funding for dental schools.

Obviously, the public would benefit from this. It would also benefit from weekly yoga and massage therapy for every citizen. Imagine everyone strolling through life in waves of relaxed bliss!

But we can’t mortgage away the future for luxuries like being happy or not having to use dentures.

Meanwhile, Question 3 lurks at the bottom of the page asking for almost $10 million to conserve land and state parks. Again, a nice gesture, ensuring that future generations have places to enjoy nature besides what manages to grow between cracks in the sidewalk, but is it really worth mortgaging our financial future?

Actually, when you look at the whole picture, it’s worth the money. The only reason people from away drop their filthy money in Maine is because of our pristine outdoor spaces (well, that and the casinos). They’re certainly not here for the night life, and they’re definitely not here to see thousands of acres of clear-cuts.

Every dime of interest we spend on the Question 3 bond will come back to us through the tourism industry. And it will buy the priceless satisfaction and security of knowing that future generations will always be able to put food on the table self-sufficiently by hunting and fishing.

That is, if they’re able to chew anything besides soup and yogurt.

Where is My Damn Column?

2010-10-03T18:36:00.000-07:00

Folks, I'm sorry to say I didn't have a chance to write a column this week. My wife has been pretty sick, which means I have extra parenting and worrying to do. Feel free to peruse the archives if you miss me, and take comfort in knowing I'll resume providing mediocre entertainment next weekend.

Bring Out The Best

2010-09-25T18:11:00.000-07:00

It has become fashionable to blame lazy, incompetent teachers, and the unions that protect them, for all the ills of public education.

As a lazy, incompetent teacher, I’m offended. Here’s why.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that you have a job in the food service industry. It doesn’t pay that well, but it’s steady work, you like the schedule, and it sure beats your last gig as Libby Mitchell’s campaign manager.

Your employer offers you a $15,000 bonus if you increase your productivity this year. You’d be willing to work a little harder for that, right? And maybe try some new ideas that might make you more efficient? Of course!

But how is your “productivity” going to be measured? Suppose your employer decides to base this awesome bonus on how well you can keep five tons of mayonnaise from going bad over the next 12 months.

As pallets full of economy-size jars of Miracle Whip begin to appear on the loading dock, you know there are obviously things you can do to keep the gooey white stuff as fresh as possible. Some fit nice and snug in your freezer. A few are loaded with special NASA chemical preservatives, and therefore would not go bad if you neglected them completely for ten years.

But plenty of others appear to have already been left out in the sun for a few days, and there are hundreds more whose history is unknown. You struggle all year, trying new ideas and doing the best you can, but at some point, no matter what, your workplace is going to smell worse than a dead skunk in a landfill.

(Feel free to stop here and go make yourself a tuna sandwich if you want. I’ll wait.)

Malaise sets in as you realize that keeping mayonnaise fresh has very little to do with your actual job, which is to keep customers happy. Condiment freshness is part of that, but there’s a lot more that goes into it, such as having a good memory, working quickly, and resisting the temptation to bring a sidearm to work.

And then you find out that Miracle Whip isn’t even mayonnaise. It’s “salad dressing.”

If you’re wondering where I’m going with all this, you’re not alone. Please bear with me.

Researchers at Vanderbilt University just released a study that shows offering teachers extra pay if their students’ test scores improve has absolutely no impact.

For three years, half the teachers in the study were given $5000 to $15,000 per year in bonuses if their students’ scores improved. The other half continued to work under the normal pay scale, without any opportunity for bonuses.

In the end, there was no difference between the two groups’ test scores.

This tells us one of two things: A) That teachers are already so loaded with cash that it will take a lot more dough than that to motivate them; or B) They’re all using the same mayonnaise.

Does this mean merit pay is a dumb idea? Maybe. But the study mostly illustrates a different problem: standardized tests do not give a complete measure of teaching and learning. They’re just one small part of the system of figuring out how well a teacher teaches and a student learns. If you’re going to track down “lazy” and “incompetent” teachers, do it with a system that actually works, and accounts for all the nuances and complexities of the job.

In other words, by all means, “Bring out the Hellman’s.” But if that’s all you feed people, you won’t be in business for very long.

How to Make Recycling More Festive

2010-09-18T21:10:00.000-07:00

Do you ever wonder what happens to all your garbage once you’ve watched the nice humanoids on the truck remove it from the curb?

Me, neither. I’ve got better things to think about than the fate of my used sandwich baggies and blood-stained towels.

But then I went to the American Folk Festival. Sure, the singing and dancing were soul-stretching, the food was fabulous, and the children’s area occupied my five-year-old for a whopping ten minutes, but easily the greatest attraction of the whole weekend was the Zero-Sort Recycling Bag of Fail.

You remember the one I’m talking about, if you went to the festival. It was right at the end of the food court. Some engineering genius figured out that you don’t need an entire bin to throw recyclables into; you just need a flimsy aluminum frame from which you can hang a clear plastic bag.

Well, no one told the wind about this wonderful plan, so this contraption spent most of the weekend collapsing like a central African government, only to be hoisted up time after time by a good-hearted volunteer.

I watched for hours. I really wanted to see this sad sack conquer the elements, so as not to give Zero-Sort (also called, “Single Stream,” which connotes either urine or the movie “Ghostbusters,” so I’ll stick with “Zero-Sort”) a bad name.

I’d love to not have to sort my recyclables anymore. For one thing, it would save time and space. For another thing, I would not have to deal with the Recycling Police at my local transfer station.

You see, curbside pickup in my town ends about 30 yards from my house. So every weekend, I dutifully load up my vehicle with refuse and haul it to the transfer station (formerly known as “the dump”), where a fellow in coveralls greets me as though I’m bringing him a radioactive chihuahua with poor bladder control.

I don’t know what it’s like to work at a transfer station, but this dude is way too stressed out.

He scurries over to make sure I’m not throwing any used condoms in with the tin cans, or whatever other shenanigans he thinks I might try and pull.

“What have you got?” he asks.

“Mixed paper,” I answer.

He says “Jesus” in a tone of voice that means he really regrets coming to work on a day when some idiot would try to recycle a bunch of paper.

I stand there for a minute, wondering if he’s going to break down and cry or tell me it’s okay to do what I came to do. Eventually I get permission to proceed, and invariably he spots Something That Should Not Be In There.

“That’s garbage,” he says, pointing to a plastic yogurt container I attempted to add to the “colored plastic containers” bin.

Great. Now he’s caught me trying to make more work for him, and I feel like a complete jerk.

It turns out that only plastics labeled with a number 2 are accepted at this particular Recycling Center of Needless Anxiety. I’ll never be able to show my face there again.

All of this could be avoided if Zero-Sort recycling was the norm. It’s already gaining traction in Bangor and Brewer; the rest of us should jump on board right away.

Because, as it stands now, I have to wait until next year’s Folk Festival to get rid of all my recyclables.

Lifestyles of the Sick and Pudgy

2010-09-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

The United States is no longer the most totally awesome nation in the world, according to the World Economic Forum’s new Global Competitiveness index.

In fact, we’ve fallen to 4th on the list, which is designed to quantify long-term economic viability, fiscal health, and overall coolness.

It tends to reflect each country’s overall quality of life by measuring strength of infrastructure (our pristine roadways), commitment to innovation (new iPhone apps that mimic lava lamps), and public confidence in government institutions (let’s not go there).

Just two years ago, we were sitting pretty at Number One. Everyone wanted to be us.

What the hell happened?

I’ll tell you what happened. They stacked this whole ranking system against us.

According to WEF analysts, we declined because of increased debt. In case you weren’t paying attention, our government just went and borrowed an asinine amount of money to sidestep a “depression” in favor of an “economic downturn” (a less alarming euphemism for “recession that should end any year now”).

This was on top of the previously asinine amount of money borrowed to fund a pair of wars, along with untold billions of debt accrued to pay for rebuilding doorways for our giant fat arses to fit through.

According to Forbes Magazine, the U.S.A. is the 9th most overweight nation on Earth, with about 74% of us sporting a Body Mass Index more than 25. A BMI of 30 qualifies as “obese.”

The eight nations heavier than us on the fat scale are all tiny Pacific Islands you’ve never heard of, where people survive on leftover SPAM shipped from Australia, and they can’t go jogging because it only takes 45 steps to cross the entire country.

As the fluffiest industrialized nation in the world, we find ourselves at a severe handicap when it comes to competitiveness. Switzerland, which claimed the Number One ranking in global competitiveness, checks in at a svelte 50% of its population overweight, good for 63rd fattest in the world.

In Singapore (3rd most competitive), anyone using a public restroom has their excess body fat trimmed off with invisible lasers.

Aside from discriminating against fatsos, the competitiveness index also favors smaller countries. Most in the top ten have around 5 million people or less; at 310 million, we are easily the biggest country in that range, with more than twice as many people as Japan (8th).

No other large countries even come close. China and its 1.3 billion people ranked 27th, not too far from Iceland, which just saw its entire banking system collapse like a poodle carrying a lawnmower, only faster.

But what is the most glaring flaw in the WEF measurements? They completely ignore the fact that all these other so-called “prosperous” countries are on the way to bankrupting themselves by offering universal healthcare.

The United States is the only nation in the top 30 on this index that does not offer government-paid medical services for all citizens.

Come on. Did these “world-renowned economists” get their diplomas out of a Happy Meal or something? Don’t they see how the U.S.A. is positioning itself for continued world domination by basing a massive chunk of its economy (17.5%) on exploiting the sick and pudgy?

I say we ignore the World Economic Forum and its twisted anti-American agenda. Carry on as normal. If things get really bad, we can always invade Switzerland.

Life’s a Breach... of Communication

2010-09-04T19:48:00.000-07:00

I didn’t feel like going to the beach. My wife didn’t feel like going to the beach. Our five-year-old wasn’t in the mood for it, either.

So how did we all end up speeding down the highway against our will for an afternoon in the sun, sand, and waves?

The idea first came up well after noon. “It’ll be 2:00 by the time we get in the car,” I said. “It’s not worth three hours of driving for so little time to spend there.”

My wife’s response to this highly logical and irrefutable point -- this is the critical part -- was to argue against it.

She started talking abouProxy-Connection: keep-alive
Cache-Control: max-age=0

low tide and finding starfish and this possibly being our last chance to enjoy a sunny day at the beach before fall.

Listening to all that, I stupidly concluded that my wife wanted to go to the beach.

What was actually going on, I found out later, was that she felt ambivalent, and adopted the position opposite mine as a way of trying to figure out what she wanted.

In other words, she was not saying what she felt, just trying stuff out. How bass-ackwards is that?

Anyway, we went back and forth for a while, and eventually I decided that I didn’t care that much, so if she wanted to go to the beach that badly, we might as well go.

So I said, “Alright, let’s go.” She interpreted this to mean that I wanted to go, and decided she might as well go along with what I wanted, since she couldn’t make up her mind.

To be fair, the words “I want to go to the beach” never left her mouth, and I never asked, “Do you really want to go to the beach?” Still, that was small consolation once we were being serenaded with “are we there yet” and “I’m bored” over and over and over.

By now I’ve been married long enough to have more or less forgotten what it was like to be with other women.

So it’s hard for me to know if most women view communication as a tool for experimenting with ideas and torturing their husbands, or it’s just this one woman who agreed to marry me, presumably as an expression of her actual intent. (If you have any insight on this question, please pass it along.)

At any rate, we ended up spending a fabulous couple of hours at Popham Beach, where the image of my daughter delightfully dancing and cartwheeling along in the shallow waves became my most vivid summer memory.

So I can’t really complain.

Especially since the love of my life would be quick to point out some of my own communication flaws. For example, she often complains that I don’t seem to be listening or paying attention to what she’s saying.

I have a simple explanation for this: my genitals.

In the book “A Cultural Approach to Interpersonal Communication,” Daniel Maltz and Ruth Borker explain how how men and women are trained to use conversation cues differently.

For example, when a woman says “yes,” or “um-hmm,” to someone to whom she’s listening, she is likely to mean, “Okay, I’m listening. Please continue.” When a man uses them, he probably means, “Please take off your clothes.”

Ha! Just kidding. They mean “I agree with you.”

The authors say this type of misunderstanding explains why men can never figure out what women are really thinking, and women feel like we’re never listening.

Of course, it could have something to do with a little trip to the beach...

What Happened to Patriotism?

2010-08-27T08:44:00.000-07:00

I was going to write about marriage, and the fact that it is somehow possible to feel completely and happily hinged to another person even though the two of you often communicate as well as schizophrenic earthworms.

Considering how many painful misunderstandings happen between people who love each other, it’s amazing complete strangers on the street can coexist at all.

To illustrate this point, I’ll save my marital insights for another time so I can clarify something I wrote a couple of weeks ago.

I argued that building an Islamist Center two blocks from Ground Zero was neither a “poke in the eye,” nor a “slap in the face,” nor any other Three-Stooges-style assault described by right-wing pundits.

Essentially, I said it was not Islam that attacked America on Sept. 11, 2001, but a group of extremist terrorists who happened to be Muslim. So it makes a lot of sense to ban terrorists from Lower Manhattan, but banning an entire religion seems a little reactionary.

We should take pride in our freedoms, not shirk away from them or resent them because we’re in too much pain to correctly identify our enemies.

When I made this argument, I took for granted that everyone has a basic understanding of what those freedoms are. How silly of me!

Instead, many conservatives, ironically some of the most patriotic, flag-waving people you’ll ever meet, seem to possess only a vague awareness of the Bill of Rights.

(Well, maybe that’s not fair. They have Amendment Number Two down pretty well. But the rest, they’re pretty fuzzy on.)

One reader emailed me to say that we can let a mosque appear at Ground Zero as soon as Muslims let people build churches and synagogues at the Mecca.

What are we, in the fifth grade? “I’m only going to do the right thing if the other guy does it first.”

Or: “Aww, mom! Why do I have to honor other people’s freedoms? Johnny’s mother doesn’t make him honor people’s freedoms.”

Please pay attention to this brief civics lesson: The First Amendment does not apply only to religions you like or people you agree with. We’re stuck with it, regardless of what happens in Saudi Arabia, so you might as well get used to it, young man.

It reminds me of when Dr. Laura Schlessinger went on Larry King to complain that her right to free speech had been violated because so many people voiced anger over her use of a racial slur during her radio broadcast.

Uhm, excuse me, “Dr.” Laura, but the First Amendment does not protect you from being criticized for what you say. Please stop influencing many thousands of Americans who unwittingly seek your advice even though you have the brain of a pygmy marmoset.

Mangling the constitution this way is not just ignorant, it’s dangerous. So you say two blocks from Ground Zero is “too close” for a mosque. What about four blocks? Or a mile? Who’s to say if anywhere in New York City is “too close?” Who gets to decide where we draw the line?

“I think they should build it in the Middle East,” said one Ground Zero protester, quoted by the Associated Press.

Exactly. If we can ban Islam in Manhattan, why can’t we ban it nationwide?

Somewhere in hell’s sewage treatment facility, Adolf Hitler is giggling.

Some Things to Ponder

2010-08-22T06:55:00.000-07:00

Bangor Savings Bank proudly displays this sign at the mall: “Our customers enjoy no ATM fees anywhere, anytime.”

I don’t see why that’s anything to brag about. I don’t enjoy any of the ATM fees my bank charges me, either.

* * *

No visit to the Maine Coast is complete without a stop at Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens in Boothbay.

We borrowed a couple of passes from our local library so we could visit during the last day of their Fairy Festival.

We built Fairy Houses, read Fairy Books, and had Fairy Tea while listening to Fairy Music and eating Fairy Ice Cream sprinkled with Fairy Dust.

We tried to go to the Fairy Dance, but the Fairy Instructor did not adhere to the Fairy Schedule and decided to go home early, probably to drink some Fairy Schnapps and get Fairy Plastered.

As you might expect, the festival was populated by 78% of the pre-teen girls in Maine, many of whom, like my five-year-old daughter, wore various types of wings and tu-tus.

I could not believe how packed the place was.

A handful of young boys, mostly with names like Aden or Hunter, also showed up.

I’ve never met anyone named Hunter who actually hunts, by the way. People who hunt tend to be named Bill or Steve. There ought to be a law about that.

* * *

While I sat poking at this keyboard in a local coffee shop a few weeks ago, a man walked up to me and said, “You must write what has never been written, say what has never been said, and make what has never been made. Otherwise, it’s going in the garbage.”

My response: “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

* * *

I had more or less forgotten about the issue of Vanity Plates until I saw one yesterday that said, “RU Sore.”

Really? You paid an extra $25 to ask other drivers if they’re sore, but then not hear the answer? What the hell is the point of that?

I also saw one that said, "ROCKERZ." I immediately wanted to be just like the person driving the car. He was my idol.

The day before, I noticed one that said, “TP4MYBH.” If you were a teenager in the 1990s you might recognize this “Beavis and Butthead” mantra, with the “BH” standing for one of your private orifices.

If you’re bored sometime, find your way to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles website and try searching some of your favorite words on vanity plates.

Don’t get your hopes up for “GETSOME,” “EATME,” “PSYCHO,” “MUFFDVR,” or “SEXME,” as those are already taken.

So is “FAIRY,” in case you’re wondering.

On the other hand, “MASTRB8” is still up for grabs. I’m not sure what to think about that.

* * *

The owners of an historic home in Chatham, MA have rebuffed municipal restrictions on their renovation plans by having the house painted lime green and bright yellow.

As you can imagine, all the wrinkled up “preserve our history so I don’t feel irrelevant” stick-in-the-mud geezers have their Depends in a twist over this abomination.

History is for museums. It would be one thing if this house was unusually unique or important (“Benjamin Franklin Blew His Nose Here”) in some way unlike dozens of others in self-proclaimed “historic” towns along the New England Coast.

Besides: The house is attracting more tourism to the town.

Huh. Imagine that. Allow a little bit of character and uniqueness to seep in, and people want to come see it.

Now all they need to do is host a Fairy Festival, and they’ll be all set.

Loving Thy Enemy

2010-08-13T11:57:00.000-07:00

"I love Muslims,” says Pam Geller, a notorious right-wing blogger, “but the Ground Zero mosque is an offensive insult and a stab in the eye.”

That’s curious. Glenn Beck, who most likely also loves Muslims, has called the mosque proposal a “slap in the face.”

Which is it?

Beck even said, “Any attempt to describe it as something other than a slap in the face is another slap in the face.”

Did you see that? Pam Gellar slapped Glenn Beck in the face! And all of America, too!

The blasted thing hasn’t even been built yet, and we already look like we’re married to Mel Gibson.

But we still love those Muslims, gosh-darn it! Love them right to death!

A lot of conservatives will twist themselves into knots trying to show that they’re not bigoted. In fact, a simple analysis of recent news shows that they simply don’t know what bigotry is.

Try this thought experiment: Suppose you have a jerk for a neighbor. He plays loud music at all hours, lets his dog poop on your lawn, sets fire to your car, whatever. He also happens to be Mormon.

Fortunately for you, the man’s job gets transferred, and he has to move out of state. But you learn that the person who wants to buy his house, coincidentally, is also Mormon. What is your reaction?

Well, if you’ve got any brains in your head, you know there are lots of Mormons in the world, and most of them are not feces-distributing arsonists. So you shrug it off and hope for the best.

If you don’t apply the same standard to Muslims, and instead trump up reasons to treat them differently, you are a bigot.

Witness Beck, who claimed on his August 4 show that Islam is a religion that “is saying we should blow people up.”

Glenn, buddy: Roughly 1.2 billion people (roughly ¼ of the world population) follow Islam. If even half of them were terrorists, or America-hating terrorist sympathizers, all corners of the globe would have seen an apocalyptic bloodbath long before now.

Or, Witness Gellar, who started the American Freedom Defense Initiative (interesting name, I thought that’s what the military was for):

“There is an Islamic history of building triumphant mosques on conquered lands…. We know the imam in charge of this has been dishonest about the funding. He's tied to terrorism."

That analysis would make sense, except that a blind baboon could find the holes in it:

1. We have not actually been conquered. The stated aim of al-Qaida and the 9/11 hijackers was to destroy our way of life. Though our economy has stumbled a little of late, you can still get 118 different varieties of barbecue sauce at the grocery store, see plenty of porn for free on the Internet, and sue the government for not respecting your Satanist rituals during your incarceration. Way to not even come close to accomplishing your mission, Mr. bin Laden.

2. To say the people behind this mosque are “tied to terrorism” is pretty vague and misleading. You could use the same logic to argue that the members of your local Catholic parish are “tied to child molestation.”

If you’re truly not a bigot, your attitude should be: Let them build a mosque 2 blocks from Ground Zero. So what? It doesn’t prove anything, other than that we are still the greatest and most tolerant nation in the history of the Earth.

Chuck McKay is a Maine freelance writer, teacher, and a Threat to Our Cherished Way of Life. Email him at chuckrates@gmail.com.

Education Is Your Job (If You’re Not Too Busy)

2010-08-06T19:17:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s the middle of August, when the air thickens with humidity and discussions about how the Red Sox are going to tank again (at least this time they have an excuse, and the health insurance bill to prove it’s a valid one).

Then there’s the various annual ads and articles about how best to outfit your child for “back to school,” as if that procedure has changed even slightly in the last 75 years.

Backpack. Binder. Pencils. Lunchbox full of crack cocaine and potato chips. Move on.

While the rest of the world changes rapidly, schools chug along like it’s 1961, and no one except a few consultants and activists seems to notice.

Why?

Well, those who post comments on the Bangor Daily News website seem to know everything. Let’s consult them. Just a moment...

Yup, I knew it: Every single problem with public education can be traced back to the teachers’ unions.

School violence? Blame the union. Decaying buildings? You can bet the NEA fed into it somehow. Fights on the bus? The school board’s hands are tied.

Bad teachers? The Unions won’t let us fire them. Does anyone even know what a “bad teacher” looks like? If so, how many are there, really?

We can’t count them, apparently. Let me guess: it’s because the union won’t let us, right?

You may not like it, but I’m going to inject you with some actual facts:

Massachusetts routinely leads the nation in school performance. Teachers unions are very strong there.

Conversely, unions tend to be weak in Southern states, where test scores tend to lag behind the rest of the country.

Is it any coincidence that Massachusetts is one of the wealthiest states in the country, while people in the South, as I understand from listening to the radio, routinely have to eat something called “Poke Salad” for dinner?

This juxtaposition of obvious and readily available information has been brought to you by Diane Ravitch, former Assistant Secretary of Education under George W. Bush.

In her new book, “The Death and Life of the Great American School System,” Ravitch blasts the No Child Left Behind Act, which she once supported.

Ravitch claims the law puts unfair pressure on educators by not accounting for differences between schools in different regions.

You mean schools in the Bronx are not the same as ones in Skowhegan, and the kids from Skowhegan aren’t even the same as the ones from Kennebunk?

I am in shock.

The real problem with education is that it is run by politicians, who tend to favor lightweight reforms that look good in headlines, but don’t actually accomplish anything substantial.

Politicians answer to people with money, and people with money tend to have done alright for themselves with schools just the way they are.

Conservatives hold aloft the idea of privatizing schools. That’s not going to make anyone more interested in actual reform. Schools will still function the way people with money want them to, keeping kids busy and ranking them for success.

Real reform can only come from one place: Parents educating themselves about how kids learn and what really goes on inside classrooms.

A healthy quantity of informed and involved citizens can still get a politician’s ear, at least at the local level.

That is, if they’re not too busy blaming unions and talking about the Red Sox.

Leaks, LePage, and Leftovers

2010-07-28T20:10:00.000-07:00

“There is NOTHING to eat in here,” I often grumble, even after dutifully sealing a plate of leftovers in a Tupperware container the night before, only for it to sneak behind a bag of celery, lost forever.

When I open the refrigerator, I always expect whatever I’m looking for to position itself front and center. The idea of moving stuff aside to see what might be hiding under or behind that milk carton simply does not penetrate the tiny cluster of nerve cells I call a brain.

As most students of human behavior know, if I really wanted to find something to eat in the refrigerator, I probably could. Deep down inside, I would rather order pizza, or visualize a plate of nachos and meat loaf so it might magically materialize in front of me.

Our political system, in many ways, is like my refrigerator: there’s a lot of stuff in there we’d like to see, but not badly enough to actually look. So we ignore it until it starts to smell.

We can thank WikiLeaks.org, the group responsible for publishing 90,000 classified military documents about the War in Afghanistan, for reminding us that we really should do something about the string bean casserole from last Thanksgiving that still lurks way in back, behind the milk carton.

The documents reveal atrocities galore, but nothing new or surprising. Still, they have value because we live in a society in which it is easy to forget about the realities of war (unless you have a son or a brother or a cousin serving in the military).

Afghanistan has been a problem since the Russians invaded in the ‘80s. Remember that? No? Oh, right – you were ordering pizza. Well, if you think the U.S. just stood on the sidelines and crossed our fingers, hoping the Mujahideen guerrillas would defeat the Soviets without help, I have some yummy green bean casserole I’d like to sell you.

We say we want transparency in government, but when it comes down to it, we’d actually rather not know what’s really going on.

Take the race for governor. Republican Paul LePage recently accused a Democratic party official of inciting talk that LePage would not make a good governor because he is French Catholic.

You have to feel for LePage, because he seems to understand politics about as well as I understand microbiology. Racist comments by bloggers were not a story until he called out the Dem’s. His reaction makes it look like he can’t take the heat.

The best strategy would have been to ignore the fringe racists. If a reporter asks you about it, say, “It’s unfortunate that some people have to resort to ignorant tactics, but that’s politics.”

Instead, LePage attacked the Democrats, and when the media reported his attack, LePage responded by saying he would not longer talk to reporters.

Oy. Welcome to big boy politics, Paul.

We can conclude that if LePage somehow wins, he will pilot the government machinery like a Glaucoma victim at the helm of the Hindenburg. He will get nothing done.

Baldacci, a master politician, got things done. They may have been terrible things, but at least they got done.

Why? If someone insulted Baldacci’s Italian heritage, it’s hard to imagine him saying, “I know just the scumball who’s behind it. His name is So-And-So, and we’ll make sure he sleeps with the fishes tonight.”

LePage’s mistake was impulsively trying to uncover something (fringe nutjob mudslinging) the general public would rather ignore.

He opened that six-week-old leftover tuna salad, and how he has to live with the stink.

And so do we.

A Thoreau Analysis

2010-07-24T11:21:00.001-07:00

Most regular readers of this column -- at least the ones whose anti-psychotic medications are managed properly -- have probably noticed that I try offer a big-picture perspective, like a Renaissance painter, while remaining topical, like an anti-fungal cream.

I might get around to that today, but first I have to tell you about my vacation.

I just got back from camping in Vermont and New Hampshire, where I spent most of my time trying to find an ATM so I could buy a key card that would operate the campground’s laundry machines, thus enabling me to dry my sleeping bag just in time for the next thunderstorm to roll through.

But I enjoyed living simply for a few days. With fewer electronic distractions and life management tasks, I could focus on my family and my insect bites.

President Obama recently vacationed at Acadia National Park, but it’s too bad he did not get the genuine tourist experience there: fighting traffic in Ellsworth, taking the Park Loop Road by mistake and having no way to turn around, nearly running over absent-minded pedestrians in Bar Harbor.

No, he has lackeys and secret service agents to do all that for him, so all he has to do is look at the lighthouses, trying to seem Presidential for photographers while gazing upon Maine’s most cherished phallic symbol.

Come on. Without some degree of stress in getting there, how can you feel like you really earned that view from Cadillac Mountain?

Just like Obama, my getaway was far too short, and I returned home to find all sorts of major problems waiting for me.

First, I had to deal with the pool.

The lethal mystery mix of chemicals we mix in had worn off, so we undertook emergency procedures. We were pool paramedics. We checked vital signs, we shocked, we billed insurance.

I feel awkward even telling you that we have a swimming pool. It feels immodest. When I grew up, they were reserved for the wealthy. I must have been 9 or 10 years old when my grandparents got an above-ground pool; I thought they must be loaded.

(They probably were, just not in the way I imagined.)

Nowadays, you’ll see these “pop-up” pools next to run-down trailers with rust stains on the siding, and no one thinks this is particularly odd.

We paid $75 for our eight-foot “pop-up,” a financial decision I vigorously opposed at first. Perhaps part of me felt subconsciously unprepared to claim pool-worthy status. The other part of me knew that we lived five minutes from a lakefront, making a pool seem unnecessary.

Besides: In Maine, it only gets truly hot about five days out of the year; five days of relief (which could otherwise be obtained from the lake or the shower) did not feel worth an entire summer of pool maintenance.

I’m not the type of person who wants to sit around worrying about the pH level in a vat of water.

On the other hand, I also don’t like worrying about my daughter. Now that we have a pool, she is already a better swimmer, at age 5, than I am.

So I caved, of course, and we got the pool, and now we have to go spend even more money on camping trips so we can feel what it’s like to have a simple life for a little while.

Our lives are full of conveniences that somehow do not make things feel any easier, and products that add a measure of security but don’t enable us to worry any less.

Well, at least my bed is almost always dry.

“Learning About Her World”

2010-07-15T20:45:00.000-07:00

My five-year-old daughter, who shall remain nameless here because I will someday need her to fund my nursing home care, has already developed a frightening interest in certain offensive cable TV programs.

Don’t blame me. I’ve worked very hard to keep the objectionable influences of television out of my home. In fact, we don’t even own a TV. We have friends who think nothing of dropping $900 on a high-def, flat-screen plasma state-of-the-art box that does basically the same thing as my old Philco did 25 years ago.

Our living room, on the other hand, features a wood stove and a globe. The chairs face each other, if you can imagine that.

But I’m no cultural snob. I just don’t see the point of paying for cable or satellite when there are plenty of good shows available on the Internet, shows like “Dora the Explorer” and “Blues Clues.”

We recently started watching “The Jeff Corwin Experience,” in which a crazed biologist tromps through jungles and swamps so he can capture snakes, alligators, and other dangerous creatures. Each capture comes with scary background music, followed by a two-minute lecture about the animal, which is a little awkward. I mean, have you ever been talked about on camera while someone is gripping you firmly by the neck? No wonder the snakes always look so ticked off.

On the other hand, an Indian elephant looked relatively calm while Corwin cured it of constipation, using a method I’d rather not describe, except to say it required him (Corwin) to don a latex glove covering the entire length of his arm.

And you thought our health care system was bad!

Anyway, there are plenty of quality television programs available in my house. “House Hunters: International” is not one of them.

Each episode features a person or couple seeking a new dwelling in some exotic place. Through obviously scripted and staged interactions with a realtor, the potential buyers usually lament their “limited budget,” which typically turns out to be at least double or triple the cost of an average house in my neighborhood.

“House Hunters” offers all the tension and unpredictability of a public radio telethon. They look at three properties, two of which are completely disgusting because they have (gasp!) only five bedrooms or something. At the end they reveal which house they selected, only for the building inspection to reveal a termite infestation and animal carcasses used for attic insulation.

I wish.

(I can’t wait for “House Hunters: Maine,” in which a family of five looks at three different trailers, and eventually picks the one with the tarp on the roof, but only because it already comes with three junk vehicles and two cord of firewood in the dooryard.)

I don’t get it. My daughter could not watch “Elmo In Grouchland” because it was too intense. She still fears unplugging the bathtub because she might get sucked down the drain, and she spends most of her day pretending to be fairies or furry animals or fairies tending to the needs of furry animals. And she keeps asking to watch this real estate show.

What’s going on here?

My wife, who enjoys “House Hunters” but acknowledges that it spews near-criminal levels of materialism and superficiality, thinks I’m getting worked up over nothing.

“She’s learning about her world,” she says.

I guess as long as this “world” includes adventuring with a talking monkey that wears boots and sticking your arm into a pachyderm’s colon with no discernible consequences, I can live with that.

Tale of a Fill-Up

2010-07-09T10:47:00.000-07:00

So I pull up to the gas pump, even though I’ve got a solid quarter-tank left, because I was raised to believe that you never know when you’ll see another gas station, so you might as well fill up now.

Words to live by, no?

Anyway, I then whip out my brand new Discover Card, having decided that it’s worth putting up with customer service that’s as responsive as a coma victim because they want to pay me five cents on the dollar every time I buy gas.

Hey, free money is free money, and the only thing I got for free when buying gas before was a headache from all the fumes.

So I slide the card into the little slot, and then the message flashes, “remove card quickly.” This gives me pause, because “quickly” is a relative term, and I wonder if Irving Corporation knows how many of their customers are geriatrics whose quickness has abandoned them.

I remove the card in what I think is a quick manner, but then I get the “error - try again” message. Not quick enough, apparently. I try again. Still no dice. Maybe too quick. So I try a nice, slow, sensual removal of the card, as if I were using tweezers to pull a splinter from a supermodel’s genitals. Then it cancels my transaction completely.

Okay, my fault for getting fresh. I wait a few minutes, then try again. Because you never know when you’ll have your next chance to get gas.

This time I shove the card in there, and I practically break the sound barrier, pulling it out with blinding speed. Yes, I smashed my knuckles into the car window in the process, but the machine finally accepted my card.

“Remove nozzle.” A necessary step, one I would hope most drivers would not need to be reminded of.

“Select grade.” This part, fortunately, is easy, as there are only three kinds.

Pasta comes in about a thousand different varieties, from Angel Hair to Ziti, and every absurd shape in between, including sea shells and wagon wheels. My underwear drawer contains boxers, briefs, boxer-briefs, bikini briefs, trunks, and (sure, why not) the occasional thong, all with different designs and patterns.

Heck, Discover Card even offered me several dozen different options for my card design (I eventually chose Monet’s “Water Lilies” to honor my five-year-old daughter’s inexplicable interest in that French impressionist).

But when it comes to gasoline, your choices are Regular Unleaded, Unleaded Plus, or Supreme Unleaded. Period.

(At what point are we going to drop the “unleaded,” anyway? Gas with lead in it has been illegal for about 30 years. This is no longer a selling point.)

I select “Regular,” because a friend of mine who worked in the auto industry once told me that there is no reason to buy anything else, unless you drive a high-performance sports car or a military aircraft.

As I’m filling, I notice that this particular station is selling “CLEAN Regular Unleaded,” “CLEAN Unleaded Plus,” and “CLEAN Supreme Unleaded.” Thank goodness I stopped here; otherwise, I might have been filling my 13-year-old truck with 185,000 miles on it with the filthy gasoline from the station down the road!

The idea that any product derived from petroleum could be labeled “clean” was quite curious to me. Next they’ll be selling “clean” bait, “clean” loam, and “clean” gangsta rap.

I resolved to boycott any gas station advertising its fuel as “clean,” presuming any other station will accept my credit card without me tearing a ligament in my elbow.

The Real Problem

2010-07-03T19:09:00.000-07:00

“The last time the oceans endured such a drastic change in chemistry was 65 million years ago, about the same time the dinosaurs went extinct.” -- Dr. Ken Caldeira, Stanford University

The Gulf of Mexico oil disaster has already produced a surface slick larger than Delaware, along with vast plumes of oil of untold size lurking beneath the surface. The spill, when and if BP manages to stop it by drilling relief wells (God, I hope that works), will probably total about 1 percent of the total volume of the Gulf of Mexico, based on current estimates.

We’re talking about a arge problem here, and I started researching for this column with the idea that the media were not covering it to the extent that it deserves. If BP does not manage to stop this leak (and they haven’t proven terribly adept at anything except making asses of themselves so far), there is no telling what irreversible damage could occur.

This could conceivably bubble into a 9/11-scale disaster, but we are not seeing 9/11-type coverage of it in the media, and the government is not showing a 9/11-type response. What gives?

Looking for facts, I stumbled into the above quote from Dr. Caldeira, a leading global ecologist. At first, it seemed to affirm my fears.

But, it turns out, he was not referring to the oil spill.

He was actually referring to ocean acidity. As oceans become more acidic, sea life finds it harder and harder to survive.

Why does this matter? Oceans absorb about 30 percent of all human-produced carbon, making them the largest carbon sink in the world. Microscopic plants called plankton are largely responsible for absorbing carbon and turning it into oxygen, much like land-based vegetation does.

Plankton, along with coral, mollusks, and everything that feeds on them, are vulnerable to increased acidity. The Pacific is already In fact, ocean water may become acidic enough over the next 50 years to corrode sea shells.

What is causing the increased acidity?

You guessed it -- too much carbon.

Too much burning coal and petroleum, in other words.

We’re fortunate to have plankton to clean up that mess for us, but it looks like we’re overloading their capacity. The result: worldwide plankton growth has steadily declined for the past 20 years.

The Gulf of Mexico situation, estimated at 500,000 to 800,000 barrels spewed into the ocean so far, is a colossal disaster. But Americans consume 25 to 50 times that much oil every single day.

Dr. Caldeira appeared on Good Morning America April 22, two days after the Deepwater Horizon explosion, before anybody knew about oil leaking into the Gulf of Mexico. He said, “We’re risking something that will change the way oceans are for the rest of human civilization.”

That seems optimistic. Without healthy oceans, there could be no human civilization.

At some point, the majority of us are going to realize that we depend on the Earth in a lot of ways we haven’t even discovered yet. We survive thanks to a delicate balance of unique circumstances.

Then again, those windmills are kind of an eyesore.

Sexism: More Popular Than Soccer

2010-06-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

If you must send your child alone on a plane trip, you want to make sure he or she does not have to endure the terrifying ordeal of sitting next to a man.

That’s why you should choose British Airways, which, as corporate policy, does not allow men to sit next to unattended children.

Women, as everyone knows, are always benevolent, nurturing souls. They are free to sit next to children, or even on top of them, should they require warmth.

Men, on the other hand, are creatures of violence and ill-intent, almost universally. Evidence: Mr. Rodgers, The Wiggles, and whoever created Barney.

Like most everything else that targets a particular segment of the population, this airline policy does not go far enough.

Statistically, children are much more likely to be victimized by a parent or relative. Airlines should take the next logical step of prohibiting parents from sitting next to their children.

And, since one out of every three women is sexually assaulted at least once in her lifetime, usually by a male, it would make sense to ensure that men don’t sit next to women, either.

Come to think of it, we should keep men off airplanes altogether, I think, since the vast majority of violent acts are perpetrated by men.

You never hear about any female suicide bombers, right?

Of course, some will cry sexism. Sexism is a fact of life. Men and women are not identical. The differences will inevitably result in behavior that is not always fair.

As a teacher, I see my female colleagues frequently call students “honey” and “sweetheart” in a quasi-maternal manner. The day I try this will be the day I earn a harassment lawsuit for my school district.

Then you have your World Cup, an international soccer tournament our sports media spends a lot of time trying to convince us we should enjoy. ESPN even televises some of the games and gets all worked up when there’s controversy.

The French team quit over a coaching kerfuffle, a scandal that spread through the media like herpes in a harem.

And when U.S.A. striker Landon Donovan scored his game-winning goal against – was it Argentina or Algeria? – the whole country erupted in a giant, deafening “huh.”

No one respects soccer, and that will never change, but at least the men’s game gets some hype.

The women’s World Cup (yes, there is one) might as well take place in a cave in Afghanistan, as much as our media pays attention to it.

The last one occurred in 2007 in China. Germany claimed the title, but not before an amazing match in which one of the players… HEY! Wait! Don’t stop reading now! I’ll switch to basketball, okay?

The WNBA offers further evidence of sexism by selling space on team jerseys to corporations. The Phoenix Mercury uniforms do not say “Phoenix” or “Mercury,” but instead feature the logo of Lifelock, an identity theft protection company. They should start calling themselves the Phoenix Lifelock, since Mercury is a stupid name, anyway.

(The ladies certainly don’t help themselves by using team nicknames like Mercury, Fever, Shock, Storm… is this basketball or menopause?)

Though sponsorship on uniforms is common internationally, we don’t do it here, except with nine-year-olds. Not even the National Hockey League does it. Ouch.

So there you have it. We're not identical, and we never will be. Just keep the bad people away from the good ones, and everything will be okay.

A Vote for Me is a Vote for Revolutionary Absurdity

2010-06-19T09:01:00.001-07:00

By engaging in some shameful shenanigans I can't describe here, except to say that I'm glad my hair grows back pretty quickly, I managed to get my hands on the U.S. Department of Labor's predictions of the fastest-growing jobs from now until 2018.

(WARNING: The following information may reduce your faith in the human race to the point where you elect to join a family of lower primates.)

Three of the top five fastest growing jobs will be in the health care industry. Registered nurses and home health aides are number one and two, respectively.

Then we have customer service reps, the single greatest cause of high blood pressure in the modern world.

If you're waiting on hold right now, take comfort in knowing you'll probably get through by 2018.

And if you're waiting on a long line of customers, take comfort in knowing the Internet is not going to replace you, even though it probably should.

The fourth fastest-growing job in the United States (cue drum roll): fast food workers.

Did you catch that? All our new jobs are going to fast food, seething, and health care. We devote our economy to diseasing us and then dealing with the consequences.

Damn.

These are the moments when I want to run for public office, partly as an act of citizenship and trying to contribute positive solutions to our problems instead of just complaining about them, and partly to just become the biggest existential nuisance politics has ever seen.

"Vote McKay for Governor in 2010 - Free Organic Rhubarb Popsicles for Every Working Family."

I realize I haven't collected any signatures or anything, but I don't care. That's just the kind of anti-establishment, lack-of-politics-as-usual administration I could bring to Augusta.

And my first act as governor would be to tax the living snot out of fast food and use the money to pay for health education programs.

Grab your absentee ballot now, before you realize how unrealistic that idea is.

Next, I would pass a law requiring customer service reps to get at least as much sleep as truck drivers. Customers waiting on hold or in line for more than 30 minutes would be entitled to free merchandise.

If an airline can't keep me on the tarmac for more than three hours, why should Frigidaire be able to keep me stuck to the phone for 90 minutes, hoping I give up on getting my warranty honored?

While I'm leading this revolution, I might as well tidy up a few other issues, as well.

Let's change the way referenda are written. If you voted on June 8, you probably remember seeing a series of questions like this:

"Do you want to create jobs, stimulate the economy, reduce our dependence on foreign oil, and save starving children and little furry animals by procuring an incomprehensible amount of money through a process you can't hope to understand?"

No wonder they all passed.

Here's how I would have written them:

"Do you want the state to go further into debt so we can build slightly nicer roads in areas where you probably don't drive?"

"Should the state borrow money to pay for research and development for maybe getting some wind power happening before another oil spill destroys all life on this planet?"

"Do you realize somebody (probably from away) is getting filthy rich off these bond questions?"

That last one is a bit of a cheap shot. Let's face it: Nothing happens in America unless somebody can cash in big time.

For once, let it be the organic rhubarb farmers.

Superstition Links Baseball and Politics

2010-06-12T18:34:00.000-07:00

Frank McCourt, owner of the Los Angeles Dodgers, paid a "healer" from Massachusetts to send "positive energy" toward the team, according to the L.A. Times.

Vladimir Shpunt, 71, performed this service while watching games on television. He said he could not guarantee specific victories for the Dodgers, but thought his efforts perhaps added 10 or 15 wins per season from 2004 through 2008.

It is unclear exactly how much he was paid for this service, but one source says he received a six-figure bonus after the Dodgers won their division two years ago.

I know what you're thinking: An extra 15 victories would make a HUGE difference to the Red Sox in the tough American League East. This guy is right in their backyard. How could they overlook him?

It costs a lot more than six figures for Daisuke Matsuzaka to walk the bases loaded every other inning, or for Mike Lowell to sit in the dugout and look like he's watching his parents have sex.

Get with the program, Red Sox!

What, you're skeptical? Of course you are. But try to keep an open mind. Baseball is full of superstition.

Besides: there may be more empirical science behind this than you think.

From the Times story: "Shpunt said he led a team of Russian scientists that in the 1970s found that heat could travel beneath the skin and through so-called 'gap junctions' between cells, increasing blood flow and promoting healing by directing energy to ill cells without harming healthy ones."

Shpunt eventually discovered that his hands transmitted 10 to 15 times the amount of energy as the average person's, launching him into a second career as a mystical healer.

"In the mid-1980s, he said, he heard a girl complain about hip pain after her legs had been amputated. He said he left her room and thought about how he might help resolve the discomfort, then returned to hear her say the pain had diminished."

It's a miracle!

"That episode, he said, revealed that he could channel that healing energy not just through his hands but over distances."

Exactly. Just like when I was in the 7th grade and I would lie awake every night wishing this girl named Tiffany would develop an interest in me, or at least notice my existence. Finally, at the very end of the school year, I got my wish when she got placed next to me in line for a field day activity. She took a good look at me and said, "Ew! Can I go to a different line?"

Or when I willed Paul LePage to victory in the Republican gubernatorial primary on June 8, knowing his continued candidacy would serve as the only shot Democrats have to retain the Blaine House after Baldacci's eight years of colossal failure.

LePage is General Manager of Marden's, which means he hired that shrill and horrendously annoying woman for their TV ads. As soon as people realize that, he'll have no chance.

Besides, a state that seems happy to elect centrist voices with an independent schtick, LePage's Tea Party-oriented views (for example, he wants creationism taught in public schools and homosexuals denied civil unions) could alienate our vast glut of moderate voters.

Libby Mitchell may also have radical views, but she can hide them behind a record of experience engendering political compromise and grandmotherly wrinkles.

Okay, so LePage has an impressive record, too: he is a successful businessman.

But, then again, so is Frank McCourt.

Outrage All the Rage

2010-06-04T20:43:00.000-07:00

Grab a newspaper, close your eyes, and point to a random spot, and you'll get funny looks from other people in the coffee shop.

But try it anyway. Chances are, your finger will land on some outrage. It seems reporters can't take two steps without bumping into someone who's outraged about something.

Take Referendum Question 1 on the June 8 ballot (I realize you newspaper readers will be reading this after June 8; I would have written something sooner, but the "Yes" campaign only got noticeably stupid just recently).

"Yes" signs have popped up urging us to "Reject New Taxes." Fortunately, this will confuse people who associate "rejection" with the word "no."

A better sign would have said, "Vote Yes if you like to complain."

For the record, a "yes" victory repeals new reforms to our tax structure. The law reduces income taxes and adds new items to the sales tax.

What the "yes" side does not mention is that the law cuts income taxes for most Mainers from 8.5% to 6.5%, according to the Bangor Daily News.

Many of the new sales taxes would primarily impact tourists. People from Massachusetts and New York probably aren't going to quibble over an extra few dollars on their hotel bill when they're spending $945 in gas to get here in the first place.

But if you must preserve your outrage over Mainers being the highest-taxed group of life forms in the entire galaxy, go ahead and sabotage the only legitimate effort we've ever seen to do something about it.

Meanwhile, outrage is fueling calls for more Instant Replay in baseball. What a terrible idea.

Half the entertainment value in baseball comes from umpires getting grief from players and nose-to-nose shouting matches from managers.

The instant-replay reactionaries point to the bad call by umpire Jim Joyce that cost Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga a Perfect Game (no base-runners allowed). With two out in the ninth inning, Joyce called a runner safe at first; slow-motion replays showed the runner was clearly a member of the Cleveland Indians, meaning the game should have been called off after the 7th inning under the Mercy Rule.

I don't understand the fuss. Everyone in the world knows what Galarraga did. Who cares what they print in the stat book? If anything, this gave him a chance to do something even more special - he effectively got 28 straight outs instead of the traditional 27 required for a Perfect Game.

Finally, on another outrageous note, it always amazes me how precious our constitutional freedoms are - until somebody tries to use them.

New York City officials have approved a plan to construct a mosque a couple of blocks from Ground Zero. Reactionary conservatives are freaking out, unaware that there are millions of Muslims around the world who are not terrorists.

Have these people no sense of irony? Yeah, let's eschew religious tolerance because we're angry at people who attacked us for our religious tolerance.

Darn that pesky First Amendment! Whose idea was it to prevent government from discriminating for or against any particular religion? The founding fathers? What did they know, anyway?

A Washington Times editorial pointed out that there are nations in which it is a crime to convert away from Islam. Would you like the same rules to apply here for Christianity?

Meanwhile, Republicans in Congress have argued against paying for health care for 9/11 first responders, because we can't afford it.

But we can afford health care for members of Congress, right? That's not too expensive, is it?

I guess we ran out of outrage.

Accountability: A Quaint Fantasy

2010-05-29T18:20:00.000-07:00

I just got a telephone call asking me if I thought Obama is doing a good job.

"It's not going to matter anyway," I replied, "once the mother ship returns and my Beloved Overlord makes slaves of your entire species."

You can imagine the pollster's response: nothing, since I was being polled by a recording.

Robot calls take the fun out of everything. My grandfather once convinced a telemarketer he could not buy his vacuum cleaner because he had dirt floors.

Ah, the good old days.

Anyways, had I been talking to a live human being, my most honest answer would have been, "How the hell do I know?"

Say what you want about George W. Bush, but at least his incompetence was obvious. He defied common sense in a way everyone could understand.

Going to kill a bunch of innocent people on the other side of the world instead of hunting those who attacked us? I'd rather you didn't.

Giving tax breaks to oil industry cronies? I object.

Taking funding away from schools that don't function well because they're underfunded to begin with? I question your logic, sir.

But with Obama, everything requires outside expertise to form an opinion.

You have your bank bailout. Virtually no one understands economics well enough to know if this was really necessary to avoid a depression.

I wish all the taxpayer money given to banks could have come with more strings attached. At the same time, though, the whole plan seems to have worked. Not only did we avoid a depression, we don't even have a recession. Instead we have an "economic downturn." Phew!

Health care: Everyone agrees it's broken. No one knows how to fix it. Even supporters had to water down their argument to, "some change is better than none."

The oil spill disastrophe -- another shining example of how wonderful things could be if we would only scale back government and let free enterprise do its thing -- is ultimately Obama's fault, right?

To his credit, Obama has shown himself willing to acknowledge the crude on his hands as this ugly situation drags on, and the best minds available work their way through one futile idea after another, like the Keystone Cops trying to stop a bank robbery in progress.

"I take responsibility," the President says, as if preparing to don SCUBA gear and swim down there himself with a giant cork.

You can blame him for the disaster only if you think one person should have his finger on the job performance on every single federal employee.

He's not a subsurface drilling engineer. He hires people who hire people who hire people, and eventually you get down to the federal regulators watched porn and snorted crack on the job, while they were supposed to be making sure drilling platforms followed safety procedures.

Of course, heads are rolling. But that won't solve the real problem. The next heads won't work any better.

The amount of specialized knowledge in the world is growing exponentially. Layer upon layer of bureaucracy is required for government to keep up. Accountability has become a quaint fantasy.

But there's still cause for hope. The Beloved Overlord is on his way.

Do Not Reuse

2010-05-22T19:46:00.000-07:00

Finally.

On June 8, Maine voters will narrow down the field of 6,391 irrelevant candidates for governor to two irrelevant candidates for governor.

I have to admit - I paid almost no attention to this election until I noticed the words "Do Not Reuse" on the side of a bottle of apple juice.

Initially, this burned my briefs. Why can't I reuse a plastic bottle? Is it because the bottling company wants me to buy new beverages instead of refilling from my tap?

Then I wandered onto the Internet and discovered all this talk about toxic chemicals leeching into liquids over time as the plastic ages. While some of the anonymous message board experts said the quantities were too small to worry about, others said "better safe than sorry."

So "Do Not Reuse" started to make sense to me. Then I realized that it would make a fantastic campaign slogan for Les Otten, Republican candidate for governor, who pledges to create jobs.

Think about it. Otten's campaign has been accused of plagiarism over and over again, starting with an Obama-inspired campaign logo, and culminating in a written interview response lifted from the Maine Heritage Policy Center, published at AugustaInsider.us.

No question about it: Otten's thriftiness has leeched toxic chemicals into his electability.

What better way to convince the electorate that you've learned your lesson than to remind them in your ads: "Do Not Reuse"?

As slogans go, it certainly beats the rest of the field, starting with Peter Mills's "It's Time."

What, exactly, is it time for, Peter? Lower taxes? A governor with hair? Ritual sacrifices of the elderly on Cadillac Mountain?

How bad is "It's Time?" Mills, who pledges to create jobs, has it on all his signs, but he won't use it in his TV ads, which instead feature the scintillating line, "I'm Republican Peter Mills, and I'm asking for your vote this June 8."

Oooh, zing!

Steve Abbott checks in with "A Governor for All of Maine." Abbott, who pledges to create jobs, does not specify which parts of Maine his opponents would choose not to govern, but wherever that might be, I'm not sure the people there would consider it such a bad thing.

On the Democratic side, Steve Rowe can't seem to decide on one slogan. His website features four, including (my favorite), "Please make a contribution."

By the way: Rowe would like to see to it that we get some jobs created.

Rosa Scarcelli offers the simple "Rosa For Maine." I like it. Then again, I have a little crush on Rosa Scarcelli, so it's possible I would like her even if she promised to nominate a pigeon for education commissioner (still an improvement, you have to admit).

What can I say? I'm an average voter. I'd like Rosa to come create some jobs in my neck of the woods, if you know what I mean, so she'll probably get my vote.

Libby Mitchell: "She gets things done." Yeah, like presiding over epic ineptitude in both houses of the legislature.

Is she prioritizing jobs? Do you really have to ask?

With all the originality and fresh ideas pulsing through this election already, you have to admit, "Do Not Reuse" would work as well as anything.

I Touched a Nerve

2010-05-14T18:12:00.000-07:00

By Chuck McKay

"You sir, are a fool and an idiot," said the first email.

Hey, at least I'm multitasking.

Another one began, "After reading your column I believe a more appropriate sobriquet might be Head Up Rectum."

Congratulations, Captain Vocabulary. I had to look that one up. "Sobriquet" means "nickname." Of course, you can't say "nickname" because that doesn't sound pompous enough.

This is just a small sample from quite a few messages I received in response to my recent column "Immigration: Ruining America Since 1607," in which I criticized the new Arizona law that allows police to arrest "suspected" illegal immigrants simply for not having ID with them.

I guess I touched a nerve.

Nearly all of those who wrote in attacked me for being a bleeding heart sympathizer of law-breaking scum, which shows that people who are pone to launching angry, insulting emails into cyberspace are not the same people who are adept at close reading. My column focused on the impact of the law on legal immigrants - U.S. citizens who look and sound different from white people, but are not breaking any laws.

Even though race is not supposed to be a factor in deciding who is a "suspected" illegal immigrant, I have a hard time believing this law won't disproportionately impact Latinos. Just a hunch.

One reader suggested that racial profiling is perfectly OK, which is a very logial position to take as long as you're not among the race being profiled.

Captain Vocabulary, on the other hand, would have us live in a country where everyone talks the same, so that we can all get along. "A polyglot society leads to suspicion and estrangement," he said. Then how do you explain all the suspicion and estrangement between two Anglophile white guys in Maine who have never even met in person? It takes more than a language barrier to get people snippy with each other.

Another writer criticized me for not being a lawyer. I guess non-lawyers aren't allowed to have opinions about laws.

My previous column also argued that offering driving tests in lots of different languages is a perfectly reasonable and fair thing to do.

People could not believe I could say such a thing. The best argument against my position came from a man who said other countries, such as Germany, don't make accommodations for immigrants; they expect people to take driving tests in German.

This was a pretty compelling point, except for being absolutely false. Less than five minutes of research about German driving laws revealed that the German government is happy to let you cruise the Autobahn as long as you hold a valid license from pretty much any country.

If you do need to take their driving test, it is offered in lots of different languages, including English.

So, overall, not a great showing from the Tea Party nuts in their attempt to flood my inbox. Do they all live in a Fox News cave of skewed logic and propaganda, or just the ones who have the debate skills and social decorum of a Doberman pinscher?

Is it possible we've blown this problem out of proportion? People have been moving to our country illegally for generations. In spite of this gargantuan injustice, we've certainly done okay as a nation. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try to enforce immigration laws, but you have to wonder how much of this intense reactivity is warranted. Don't we have larger problems?

Crazy Busy

2010-05-08T06:20:00.000-07:00

"The human race will eventually die of civilization."

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

By Chuck McKay

Springtime: the time when a man's fancy turns to thoughts of how insanely fricking busy he is all the time.

Every May, it's the same. All the day planners and appointment calendars belonging to everyone I know fill up like water balloons on a fire hose, until they explode into a colossal overwhelming mess of stress and exhaustion that makes you want to spend the day curled up on the couch, crying.

Check out this example of a to-do list I made recently:

Saturday, May 8:

- Clean out shed

- Cut grass

- Plant garden

- Move giant tree blown into yard by absurd storm

- Write column

- Plan daughter's birthday

- Move messy dishes from counter to sink

- Arrange fantasy baseball line-up

- Play with child

- Acknowledge existence of wife (quick nod)

- Search the aisles of Wal-Mart vainly for magic anti-sleeping potion

And that was only the first page. Yikes!

The busiest people in the world are American middle-class parents of young children. Not only do they have to manage their own affairs, but they're in charge of the increasingly busy lives of their 2.5 children.

And, increasingly, they're doing it all with virtually no outside support.

Granted, my research on this topic consisted of several minutes of intense personal reflection, half-distracted by trying to excavate a booger without anybody noticing. But the logic is sound.

In generations past, old people got feeble and pathetic around age 50. They would move in with their kids, and you'd have several old and people around to help.

Nowadays, you're just hitting your stride at 50. Time to start a business, do some traveling, live for yourself now that the kids are grown. Certainly not time to go back and help somebody else raise their kids.

In generations past, the husband earned money, the wife managed the household. Nowadays, the wife earns money, and the husband lives alone in a shabby apartment and sends child support whenever he remembers to get around to it.

In rare cases in which parents are still married, they're both working, and both exhausted when they get home.

In generations past, two incomes were not necessary, partly because people didn't have to rely on corporations to meet all their needs. They could grow their own food and make or mend their own clothing.

Nowadays, you're lucky to find someone who can make his or her own paper airplane without the aid of a Youtube video.

Our society has structured itself to squeeze productivity out of the working class, children or no children. Pay them enough to buy basic needs and hire daycare and everything will be fine.

Except it's not. Parents who have nothing left to give their kids (or each other) at the end of the day end up raising kids who lack healthy emotional attachments and direction.

They end up getting divorced and bouncing the kids around like beach balls, hoping the lack of consistency and permanence doesn't scar them too badly.

Can we still expect tomorrow's adults to become leaders instead of prisoners; strong parents instead of deadbeat couch potatoes?

A society that does not funnel as much resources as it can to people raising children is a society that has gone crazy and botched its priorities. It's that simple.