IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AND WE’RE GONNA MISS IT

By M. Alberto Rivera

Shopping in bulk feels like preparing for the apocalypse. Surely I can’t be alone in this sentiment. And while I feel as though our pantry is sufficiently spacious, I don’t think it was conceived with BJ’s, Sam’s Club, or Costco in mind.

The once-a-month trip to the bulk emporium finds the otherwise spacious vehicle packed to the gills with absurd quantities of sundries and foodstuffs — 42 cans of cream of mushroom soup, 206 individually wrapped bagels bites, and 56 packages of assorted snack crackers made up mostly of the kind no one likes or wants, the kind that only get eaten out of desperation when everything else snack-like has disappeared from the home.

And if no one’s able to organize the space in a timely fashion, we end up with a helter skelter stacking of boxes, which only adds to the cluttered feeling of living in a Cold War/Y2K bunker. I’m now sidestepping flats of Spam and discontinued flavors of marked-down Ramen that stand waist-high, begging for children of comparable size to come knock them down, and claustrophobia-inducing towers of cardboard and tin. It can all start to feel like hoarding for beginners.

Toilet paper rolls normally come in multiples of 16, but there are exceptions to this rule. There is a 12-pack of available for purchase, but it’s the extra–mega-super-jumbo, industrial-wide girth rolls usually reserved for airports and other impersonal, utilitarian buildings. Try fitting that onto the standard spool in your restroom and you may end up losing a finger.

There’s a false sense of security brought on by this kind of purchasing. Possibly the most infuriating moment related to bulk shopping convenience arrives when something you’ve lived in close confines with for the past three months has finally run out. “Whaddaya mean we’re out? We just bought 209 of ‘em, like yesterday…” This is particularly true of the aforementioned toilet paper. I know some of you still have those rectangular tissues from the 2004 hurricane season MREs tucked away somewhere, just in case.

But a sense of impending doom has been loitering for as long as anyone can remember. Every so many years they change the how-and-why of our ultimate demise as a species, planet, and life as we know it. I think they think we’ll eventually point out that the world didn’t end as predicted and so they divert our attention to something else to fret over.

Nostradamus is usually associated with end-of-the-world prophecies, but no one seems to nail a prophecy down solid until after the event done come and gone — sort of a  “hindsight is 20/20” thing, re. accuracy. Lots of Negative Nancys say Nostradamus predicted the 2012 doomsday to begin with several natural disasters. He also mentioned a planet that is supposed to hit the earth. He didn’t name the planet, but some scientists named it “Planet X.” I don’t want to disparage the storied seer, but timelines were never his strong suit.

Much ado has been made about the Mayan calendar and the year 2012. By the time you read this, it’ll already be 2012 and you can set your watch for extinction. According to the sort of people who worry about such things, on December 12, 2012 — 12/12/12 for anyone needing it spelled out — doomsayers claim the Earth will be host to a veritable smorgasbord of cataclysmic astronomical events, including a Planet X flyby (again), killer solar flares, and a geomagnetic reversal, guaranteeing a very, very bad day for most, but great ratings for CNN. Not to mention that this is set to take place just before Christmas and you probably still won’t know what to get your brother-in-law. And how sad would it be to perish at the mall, waiting in line for some rapping Santa gag gift? Not only is it the end of civilization, but you’ll also be out ten bucks.

My theory on why the Mayan calendar ends in 2012 is simple. The calendar maker died. Quit. Retired. Started selling Amway or Mary Kay. He/she figured by the time they get to 2012, it’ll be someone else’s problem. Say goodnight, Gracie.

The end of the world is relative. I’m not trying to trivialize anyone’s suffering or loss, but if I were stranded outside the Superdome after Hurricane Katrina for days on end, it would certainly seem like the end of the world. The same goes for watching my house, car, and neighbors being swept away by the 2011 Japanese earthquake/tsunami combo. But it can also seem like the end of the world when your girlfriend reads a text on your phone from another girl who’s pretty sure she’s your girlfriend also. The best you can do at this point is go into survival mode, hunker down, and ask your friends if they know anyone who’s currently single.

But I get the distinct feeling that when the world ends, whether the house is stocked or barren or whether I’m prepared or not, I’ll be out of town. There will be a wedding to attend, a family gathering, or God knows what, but the more supplies I’ve secured in anticipation of end times, the better the odds I’ll be far and away. Then I’ll have to ask if someone will let me crash on their sofa until the end of the world is over — or until it has been replaced by the next season of “American Idol.”

I’m thinking of asking for the day off, just in case, to use the time at home to catch up on my to-do list. If it all goes to hell while I’m doing yard work, no one’s going to fault me for not finishing. I’ll give Nostradamus a high five and call it good if there’s a mass checking out that day and I’m among them.

Otherwise, we’ll all just have to brace ourselves for the next sure thing that guarantees our inevitable doom.

AND YET MORE RANDOM NOTES 

By Rick LaClaire

“Capitalism is the exploitation of man by men. Communism is just the opposite.” — Nikita Khrushchev

Yes, another year has passed. They sure go fast, don’t they? It seems like only yesterday I was shaking out my leisure suit, looking for party leftovers. Nowadays I’m more likely to find a suppository wrapper. This phenomenon was best summed up by Bob Dylan. When asked how he felt when he turned the ripe old age of forty, he said, “Ya just can’t help it.” Yeah Bob, you hit the nail on the head. Time passes, and ya just can’t help it. And when time passes, people pass too. Ya just can’t help it.

Now I could begin this new year loudly lamenting the passage of Steve Jobs or Elizabeth Taylor — people with bigger-than-life fame. Or I could do what I usually do, which is doting on the unsung and less significant. The rich and famous get their lion’s share of attention, so I think it’s only fair to elevate the quickly-forgotten. In some ways they’ve affected me more than their much-lauded contemporaries. For instance, Steve Jobs never entertained me for one minute when I was a teenager, but in half-hour increments, Sherwood Schwartz sure did.

Remember “Gilligan’s Island” and “The Brady Bunch”? Yeah, the shows are corny today, but back in ’65 I never missed an episode of “Gilligan.” Part of it had to do with the fact that we only got two channels on the ol’ black and white Zenith (and one channel was Canadian), but you just never knew; maybe this would be the episode when they get rescued. Of course, we didn’t want them to get rescued. There would be no show — and worse, we’d be relegated to watching the curling playoffs in Saskatoon. “Gilligan” was pulled after the ’67 season and it wouldn’t be until ’69 that my attention was captured by the Bradys. It was from that family I learned which paisley shirt pattern best matched my striped pants. Six kids, two parents, a housekeeper and only one toilet? Except for the live-in maid and the gay dad, that sounded like home to me. You know, after watching over my kids’ shoulders as they indulge in their so-called “reality” TV, I find watching “Brady Bunch” re-runs refreshing. They’re still in daily rotation on one of the religious cable stations.

Schwartz laid some eggs, too. Do you recall “It’s About Time” and “Harper Valley PTA”? I didn’t think so, but everyone remembers “My Favorite Martian.” Schwartz had his hand in there, too. The talents of Sherwood Schwartz, to me, fueled what I call the Aluminum Age in TV. Television’s Golden Age was the Fifties. I call the Sixties the Aluminum Age because that was what the ol’ black and white Zenith’s body was made of: anodized aluminum. Mr. Schwartz died last July. He was 94.

Thirty some-odd years ago I was graced with the gift of a “licorice pizza,” which some will recognize as a vinyl LP, by one of my favorite D.C. blues bands, The Nighthawks.  The band has had a variety of lineups over the years (including Brevard’s own Danny Morris) and this album, Jacks and Kings, featured one Pinetop Perkins. “Pinetop,” for those who don’t know, was a brand of cheap rotgut whiskey which circulated among the troops on both sides during our War Between the States, so named for the pungent pine dowel used as a cork. I don’t know if that has any bearing on Mr. Perkins’s moniker, but man, could that guy roll on the piano.

My favorite cut has always been “Pinetop’s Boogie-Woogie,” a “funny little song” in which he extols the listener to “hold it,” then “get it” and boogie. This song rocks. It’s fun to dance to as well as play, and I’ve tried forever and ever to get that Pinetop piano roll down and can’t quite “get it.” His real name was Joe Willie Perkins and he died last March at age 97.

Another loss in March was Geraldine Ferraro. Remember her? If not, remember Walter Mondale? Well, in case you don’t, Walter Mondale ran for president in 1984 and I (and two other people) voted for him. In retrospect I don’t know why I did that, but I do remember he was the first nominee to run with a woman as his vice-president. No, he didn’t make it, and I always thought he had a sex change shortly afterward and became Madeline Albright, but that’s just a rumor. Anyway, in 1984, it took a lot of guts to bust into Reagan-era politics with a woman in tow. And it took a lot more guts to be that woman. Of course the Republicans took her apart piece-by-piece and in the end, well, you know what happened. Four more years of The Gipper — or “The Gypper,” depending on which social stratum you occupied. Geraldine Ferraro was 75.

Has there ever been a more distinctive singing voice than Phoebe Snow’s? You could recognize her in a heartbeat. The first time I heard her was in college, when my then-housemate Sam bought the Still Crazy album by Paul Simon. Simon was always infusing new sounds and Phoebe certainly filled the bill. Despite legal hassles with her labels, she was much in demand and recorded with the likes of Lou Rawls, Garland Jeffreys, Billy Joel and Queen, among many others. She suffered a cerebral hemorrhage in 2010 and never fully recovered. Born Phoebe Ann Laub, she died in April at age 60.

When someone called “Doctor Death” meets his demise, do you celebrate, mourn, or what? Also known as “Jack the Dripper,” his goal was “death with dignity,” and as I grow older and nearer my own time I find myself agreeing more and more with his philosophy. He was not a wanton killer. Yes, his methods were said to defy the then-current moral standards, but did they really? Abortion had been legal for decades. You could kill your defenseless fetal offspring, but not willingly take your own declining life? Kevorkian said it was okay to do that and put his own butt on the line. His goal, he said, was not to kill people, but to end their suffering. He went to jail. After release from prison in 2007, he devoted his life to lecturing and running for Congress. He was also an artist who sometimes painted with his own blood. I find that just a bit weird. He died in June.

Chester, Festus, Miz Kitty, Doc… What do those names conjure? “Gunsmoke”! It is said that the Wild West only lasted seventeen years, but Gunsmoke lasted twenty. There’s something to be said for a TV show that can re-write history. Of course the glue that held the Gunsmoke gang together was Marshall Matt Dillon, also known as James Arness. Born James Aurness and father of 1970 world-champion surfer Rolf Aurness, he was 88 when he died in June.

Clarence “Big Man” Clemons, Jerry Lieber… The arts took a beating in 2011. I was never a fan of Bruce Springsteen, but who could resist that signature sax style of Clarence Clemons? And remember hearing “Jailhouse Rock” for the first time? I was only five then, and ten years later I covered the very same song with my high school rock combo. Someone told me Big Mama Thornton wrote that song, but no, it was a couple of white guys from Baltimore called Jerry Leiber and Jeff Stoller. Clarence Clemons died in June, Jerry Leiber in August.

Finally, does the name Lana Peters ring a bell? Perhaps you would know her better by her birth name, Svetlana Stalina. Yes folks, she was the daughter of that fun-loving, devil-may-care, madcap despot known as Josef Stalin. Now why would the only daughter of the leader of the not-so-free world want to defect to the land of hot dogs and Playboy magazine? Well, why not? Nikita Khrushchev, one of Stalin’s homies, once said he witnessed the “man of steel” grab Svetlana’s mother by the hair and drag her to the dance floor (it’s rumored alcohol was a factor). I hope it was a good song. Obviously, Svetlana had daddy issues, and a few years after his death she defected to America where she took the name Lana Peters. Hounded by reporters and paparazzi all her days here, she desperately sought privacy, winding up back in Russia for a short time in the ’80s. She died in Wisconsin at age 85.

Japan Again “Toto” is to sophisticated toilets in Japan as “Apple” is to consumer electronics in America. In September, Toto unveiled a prototype motorcycle with a toilet bowl to convert a driver’s waste into fuel, not only making it self-gassed-up but contributing to the company’s goal of reducing carbon dioxide emissions by 50 percent within six years. The company was launching a monthlong, cross-country publicity tour (presumably featuring a gastro-intestinally robust driver). And in America, the quest for perfectly straight teeth can lead to orthodontia bills of thousands of dollars, but in Japan, a dental “defect” — slightly crooked canine teeth — makes young women more fetching, even “adorable,” say many men. Women with the “yaeba” look have canines pushed slightly forward by the molars behind them so that the canines develop a fang-like appearance. One dental salon, the Plaisir, in Tokyo, recently began offering non-permanent fixtures that replicate the look among straight-toothed women.

Marketing Genius Apparently, officials at the Chattanooga Metropolitan Airport felt the need for professional guidance on rebranding their facility to (as one put it) “carry it into the modern era,” and so hired the creative talents of Big Communications of Birmingham, Ala., to help. Big’s suggested name for the airport, announced to great fanfare in September: “Chattanooga Airport.”

March Of The Eccentrics “My ultimate dream is to be buried in a deep ocean close to where penguins live,” explained the former Alfred David, 79, otherwise known in his native Belgium as “Monsieur Pingouin” (Mr. Penguin), so named because a 1968 auto accident left him with a waddle in his walk that he decided to embrace with gusto. (His wife abandoned the marriage when he made the name change official; evidently, being “Mrs. Penguin” was not what she had signed up for.) Mr. Pingouin started a penguin-item museum that ultimately totaled 3,500 items, and he created a hooded, full-body black-and-white penguin outfit that, according to a September Reuters dispatch, he wears daily in his waddles around his Brussels neighborhood of Schaerbeek.

False Comfort The British recreation firm UK Paintball announced in August that a female customer had been injured after a paintball shot hit her in the chest, causing her silicone breast implant to “explode.” The company recommended that paintball facilities supply better chest protection for women with implants. Also, the Moscow, Russia, newspaper Moskovsky Komsomolets reported in October that a local woman’s life had been saved by her “state-of-the-art” silicone breast implant. Her husband had stabbed her repeatedly in the chest during a domestic argument, but the implant’s gel supposedly deflected the blade.

Cruisin’ For A Bruisin’ The North Koreans called it a “cruise ship” and tried to establish a business model to attract wealthy tourists from China, but to the New York Times reporter on board in September, the 40-year-old boat was more like a “tramp steamer” on which “vacationers” paid the equivalent of $470 to “enjoy” five days and nights at sea. More than 200 people boarded the “dim” and “musty” vessel, “sometimes eight to a room with floor mattresses” and iffy bathrooms. The onboard “entertainment” consisted not of shuffleboard but of “decks of cards” and karaoke. Dinner “resembled a mess hall at an American Army base,” but with leftovers thrown overboard (even though some of it was blown back on deck). The trip was capped, wrote the Times, by the boat’s crashing into the pier as it docked, knocking a corner of the structure “into a pile of rubble.”

Weeding Out The Riffraff Sally Stricker was angry that the Nebraska troopers patrolling the state fair grounds in September had told her that she had an “illegal” message on her T-shirt and that if she wished to remain at the fair, she would have to either change shirts or wear hers inside out. The “message” was a marijuana leaf with the slogan “Don’t panic, It’s organic.” Stricker was at the fair to attend the night’s live concert — starring (marijuana-friendly) Willie Nelson.

Truth In Stereotypes Italian men are notorious “bamboccionis” (“big babies”) who exploit doting mothers by remaining in their family homes well into adulthood, sometimes into their 30s or later, expecting meals and laundry service. Many mothers are tolerant, but in September an elderly couple in the town of Mestre announced (through a consumer association) that if their 41-year-old, gainfully employed son did not meet a deadline for leaving, the association would file a lawsuit to evict him. (A news update has not been found, perhaps indicating that the son moved out.)

Going Medieval Freemon Seay, 38, was arrested in Thurston County, Wash., in October on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon after disciplining his 16-year-old daughter for leaving home without his approval. Seay allegedly forced the girl to suit up in armor and helmet, with a wooden sword, and to fight him (also in armor, with a wooden sword) for over two hours until she could no longer stand up. Seay’s wife (the girl’s stepmother) was booked as an accessory and was said by deputies to have been supportive of her husband’s “Renaissance fair” enthusiasm (which Freemon Seay called a “lifestyle”).

I’ve always loved sorority girls. They’re always gorgeous and always eager to party. I’ve dated quite a few since I started college, but I’ve never met anyone quite like Beth. Beth belongs to one of the most conservative Christian sororities on campus, and though she’s really pretty and has a great body, Beth looks down on people who drink and do drugs and has probably never been to a wild party in her life. Even though I’m one of the hardest-core partiers at school, Beth seems to like me… I think because she thinks she can change me into a straight-laced gentleman. But little does she know that I’m out to change her. Beth really needs to cut loose. I’m not going to do anything sneaky like roofie her milkshake, but I am determined to prove to her the virtues of partying hard and letting go of your inhibitions. Everything so far has failed though. I was hoping maybe you could help.

“Kyle”
Merritt Island

Indeed I can help, Lyle. I am well known in many circles for my ability to convert even the most prudish of sorority coeds to the joys of the libidinous bacchanalia. I remember once dating a similarly puritanical girl who belonged to a sisterhood called Pi Pi Lambda. By the time I was done with her and her sisters, the whole organization had changed its name to Bi-Pi Lambada!

Romeo,

I got a problem. My girl is super hot and really cool, but she can’t stand the beach — which is more than this Florida-born surfer can handle. “Leslie” is from Buffalo, New York. We met when she came down here two years ago on vacation with her family. (I know! Who would have thought that I’d end up falling in love with a snow bird!) Anyways, I’m pretty convinced that she’s the one. It’s just this problem of her hating the beach! She hates the sand getting everywhere, she hates the salty, sticky air, and she says the waves are too big for her to enjoy swimming. She won’t say it, but I’m pretty sure she’s not even happy about me surfing. I love her to bits, but I don’t know what to do about this. I can’t believe it, but I’m starting to consider giving up going to the beach for her sake. She must be quite a girl, right?

“Chip”
Cocoa Beach

This sounds like quite a problem. But there’s no need for you to give up your interests for the sake of love. I can acclimate anyone to the pleasures of the seashore, and this girl is no exception. Let me take her to the beach with my woodie. I’d also be happy to show her my mahogany-paneled Ford.

Dear Romeo,

I’m having a difficult time with my boyfriend. We love each other deeply, but the relationship is beginning to show signs of strain. This is mainly due to my disgust with performing oral sex. Don is going crazy and threatening to leave me if I don’t pleasure him in this way. But I’m just not into it, Romeo. Frankly, the whole idea of it has always disgusted me. I don’t want him to take it personally. Please help.

Mary H.
Cape Canaveral

Not to worry, Lillian. You must try to pleasure him so well in other ways that he will forget about his preoccupation with fellatio. I remember I once had the opposite problem. Back in Italy, I dated a girl who preferred performing oral sex to traditional copulation. Needless to say, this was a huge blow to me. But I managed to forgive her in the end.

Romeo,

A few months ago I started seeing “Denise.” Denise is a good girl at heart, but she’s a little wild. To be honest, Romeo, Denise is a common tramp. I’m not all that proud of our relationship (which is based entirely on rough, impromptu sex), but she has no relatives and I feel a little sorry for her. Seeing as how Thanksgiving is coming up, I feel kind of guilty about leaving her on her own. I’m thinking about inviting her over to my parent’s house this year to feast with my close-knit family. Of course, I’m sure all my pretty straight-laced relatives will give both of us a hard time and I really don’t want her to feel uncomfortable. I’m more worried about my mother though; I’m sure she’ll go ballistic when she meets Denise. Is it worth hurting her feelings or ruining our family holiday? Any thoughts? What should I do?

John B.
Cocoa

Frank, don’t be such a turkey! Invite her! This is a time to give thanks and to be generous. I have been in a similar position many times over — and trust me, my mother is far more judgmental and vengeful than yours. The main question is: Are you a real man? Do you have any cranberries? If you do, then you’ll not hesitate in inviting her over! Do not be so shallow as to leave this poor girl alone on this most generous and loving of holidays. This girl may embarrass you at the table by requesting gravy on her pie. So what? Serve her! Maybe she would like a roll? Give her one! Maybe she desires stuffing? Maybe she yearns for a hot yam? Perhaps she’d like her buns buttered? Whatever the case, do not ruin this girl’s Thanksgiving for the sake of propriety. Pass the breasts and give thanks!

Wrong Dolly The Learning Channel’s “Toddlers & Tiaras” series has pushed critics’ buttons enough with its general support of the competitive world of child beauty pageants, but a recent episode provoked unusually rabid complaints, according to a September New York Post report. Mother Lindsay Jackson had costumed her 4-year-old Maddy as “Dolly Parton,” with anatomically correct chest and backside. The Post described Maddy as “embarrass(ed)” at her chest when another 4-year-old pointed at her and asked, “What is that?” (Ultimately, the judges liked Maddy — for “sweetest face.”) In related news, while too many children in Third World countries die from starvation or lack of basic medicines, the preschoolers of the TLC TV channel’s “Outrageous Kid Parties” reality show celebrate birthdays and “graduation” (from or to kindergarten) with spectacular events that may cost their parents $30,000 or more. Typical features, according to an August ABC News report, included a Ferris wheel, a roller coaster, a dunking booth, animal rides and a cotton candy machine, as well as the obligatory live music and limo or horseback (for grand entrances).

Thankfully No Swirlie Chicago’s WLS Radio reported that a man (unnamed in the story) filed a $600,000 lawsuit on Sept. 2 against the Grossinger City Autoplex in the city, claiming that five employees had physically harassed him during business hours over a two-month period in 2009. Included was the man’s claim that he had been given multiple “wedgies,” one of which was a “hanging” wedgie.

Score! Madrid’s Getafe soccer club, struggling for customers, startled Spain this summer by commissioning a porn movie, with zombies, hoping to attract more fans. As if that were not quixotic enough, it then tied the movie to a campaign to solicit sperm-bank donations. Explained the film’s producer, Angel Torres, “We have to move a mass of fans to seed the world with Getafe supporters.” A promo for the film follows a Getafe fan, armed with a copy of the movie for his viewing pleasure, as he disappears into a clinic’s private cubicle to fulfill his donation.

Metal Lite A New York Times obituary for former lead singer Jani Lane of the heavy metal band Warrant revealed that Mr. Lane’s birth name (he was born a year after Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated President John F. Kennedy) was John Kennedy Oswald. Rebellious musicians (Warrant’s debut album was Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich) often adopt provocative stage names to enhance their image, but Mr. Lane must be one of the very few to have abandoned a provocative birth name in favor of a bland one.

9/11: A Great Excuse Among the aftershocks of the 9/11 attacks on America was the colossal budget-busting on “homeland security” — a spending binge that, additionally, was thought to require something approaching uniform disbursement of funds throughout the 50 states. (Endless “what if” possibilities left no legislator willing to forsake maximum security.) Among the questionable projects described in a Los Angeles Times August review were the purchase of an inflatable Zodiac boat with wide-scan sonar — in case terrorists were eyeing Lake McConaughy in Keith County, Neb.; cattle nose leads, halters and electric prods (to protect against biological attacks on cows, awarded to Cherry County, Neb.); a terrorist-proof iron fence around a Veterans Affairs hospital near Asheville, N.C.; and $557,400 in communications and rescue gear in case North Pole, Alaska, got hit.

Struck By Turtle An update of the official index for classifying medical conditions (for research and quality control, and for insurance claims) was released recently, to take effect in October 2013, and replaced the current 18,000 codes with 140,000 much more specific ones. A September Wall Street Journal report noted, for example, 72 different codes for injuries involving birds, depending on the type. “Bitten by turtle” is different from “struck by turtle.” Different codes cover injuries in “opera houses,” on squash courts, and exactly where in or around a mobile home an injury occurred. “Walked into lamppost, initial encounter” is distinct from “walked into lamppost, subsequent encounter.” Codes cover conditions stemming from encounters with extraterrestrials and conditions resulting from “burn due to water skis on fire.” “Bizarre personal appearance” has a code, as well as “very low level of personal hygiene.”

Horse Feathers! Earlier this year, Marion Laval-Jeantet won a notable Prix Ars Electronica award for her “hybrid” work that, she said, intends to blur the boundaries between species. Laval-Jeantet stepped onstage in Ljubljana, Slovenia, as a horse-human, having earlier injected herself with horse blood (after prepping her body for several months with different horse immunoglobulins). She also walked with stilts that had “hooves” affixed to the bottom. She capped the show by extracting some of her own presumably-hybrid blood, to be frozen and stored for future research.

Ready For The Big League In October (1995), Richard King, 36, pleaded guilty to making threatening and obscene phone calls to two boys who were star players on his son’s Little League team in Blue Springs, Mo., to get them to reconsider their plans to quit the team. According to prosecutors, King called the boys several times while he was on a business trip in China and threatened to kill one kid and his parents and to commit sodomy on the kid’s whole family.

SAGITTARIUS: No one has ever doubted your worldliness or reputation as a jetsetter, so try not to show off too much this Thanksgiving. An around the world-themed feast starts well with Norwegian lox and Salade Nicoise, but falls flat when the Burmese maggot pudding comes to the table.

CAPRICORN: If you devoted as much time to your personal hygiene as you do to detailing your expensive car, you probably wouldn’t have to spend your weekends scraping boogers off the console of your limited edition Alfa Romeo.

AQUARIUS: You’re a slave to fashion — so much so that you’re shamed by a flea market vendor into buying two Abernathy & Finch t-shirts, a pair of Channel sunglasses, and a Dolce & Banana handbag.

PISCES: As a proud veteran of the U.S. Navy, you rightfully take umbrage at all the “don’t bend over for the soap” jokes you routinely hear. However, your life might be a tad easier if you refrained from wearing that purple feather boa each time you went out.

ARIES: For you, there’s never a question of as to whether the glass is half-full or half-empty so long as there’s at least a drop or two of cheap vodka in it.

TAURUS: Math has never been your strong point, but that’s no excuse for allowing many of your monthly bills to go unpaid. Your subscription to Hustler.com is still current, but it’s hard enjoying the benefits when your power’s been cut off.

GEMINI: Your interest in genealogy provides you with both joy and abject disappointment later this month. On your father’s side, you’ll be pleased to learn that you’re distantly related to Abraham Lincoln. Too bad your mother is Steve Doocy’s sister.

CANCER: Your desire to always be first in your field is certainly commendable. Changing the name of your business from “Zorro’s Zesty Prostitutes” to “AAAA-1 Escorts” is probably the best decision you’ll ever make.

LEO: Your family has always played an important role in your life, and Thanksgiving is the time when you shine the brightest. It’s a shame your relatives don’t share your enthusiasm for humping the turkey before it gets carved.

VIRGO: If you’re unhappy about your lot in life, consider the people who have it as bad, if not worse, than you do. It’s this kind of thinking that will buoy your spirits while your yacht is in drydock for repairs.

LIBRA: You know that you’ve always been uncommonly attractive to men, but you’re puzzled by the growing number of nerds who have been hitting on you since you got that Chinese “Peace” character tattooed on your ankle. Turns out it’s not Chinese at all, but Klingon for “Space Wench.”

Wasted Day
• Rick LaClaire

“And the hangovers hurt more than they used to…” — Hank Williams, Jr.

I have a musician friend with a theory about life expectancy. He claims that each of us is born with a preprogrammed number of breaths and heartbeats; that each of us, regardless of how we treat our bodies, is doomed to wear out anyway at a certain specified point.

G. Gordon Liddy once said that the maximum mileage of the human machine is 125 years. If you didn’t smoke, drink, have any stress, mainline meth or get hit by a truck, your body would wear out anyway at one-two-five. I’ve certainly never known anyone to live that long, but I also don’t know anyone who’s never been stressed (maybe it’s because they know me?).

The point is, we don’t live forever. Time is precious, and time lost is exactly that — lost — because we have only so many breaths and so many years. But that’s only if you believe my bass player or a convicted Watergate burglar…

I have certainly noticed one constant: the older I get, the faster time passes. That’s handy in a way, like when you’re waiting for a flight connection or having a root canal. A couple of hours of unpleasantness were hell when I was 21. At pushin’-60 it’s only Purgatory … Or maybe Limbo. Which place has the calypso Muzak?

So you may suppose a mere annoyance like a hangover, at my age, would be a walk in the park. Its only cure is time, and it passes so quickly at age 57 that — pffft — just like that, it’s over. Not so. Why? Because hangovers, at my age, are actually worse than they were when I was 21. And I also believe that when one has a hangover, time is suspended. It sure felt that way a few weeks ago.

I don’t have a lot of free time. Now I know I have friends who will say, “LaClaire, if you’re so busy how come you have time to write these stupid articles?” And I have an answer for that. Writing stupid articles, like having a hangover, is time suspended. It may not take that long, but it sure seems like it does.

Anyway, I have only a certain amount of hours each week to devote to primping and maintaining this humble pile of rocks I call home. This usually takes place on weekends, Saturday mornings being the prime time for outdoor chores like mowing, pruning, mending fence and snaking drain vents. To avoid the energy-sucking heat of the day, I like to be in the yard by 8 a.m. and in the pool by noon. To lose this window is like losing a week’s worth of chores, so I like to arise chipper, rested, and alert. That having been said, it seldom happens. That’s because Friday night is when my wife and I hit the town.

Recently, on one particular Friday, we didn’t just “hit” the town, we kicked its butt. As usual, we began with a cocktail at home and then walked to a local restaurant for dinner. Service was slow, so we managed to down a few glasses of wine in waiting. Then a beer with dinner, an aperitif in the bar, and the next thing you know we’re at the Oasis and I’m slammin’ Cuervo. Of course we run into neighbors there, and they must buy us a round, and what began as one shot for the road turns into three sheets to the wind.

There are as many cures for a hangover as there are ways to get one. One cure that always comes to mind is what I call “The Otis.” You may remember Otis Campbell, Mayberry’s loveable town drunk on “The Andy Griffith Show.” I’m sure you’ve seen the scene: Otis awakes in his personalized jail cell, hungover as all get-out, and Andy enters with the makings of an instant cure. Somehow this mixture of tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, and a raw egg performs a miracle I’ve never experienced. An obviously nauseated Otis guzzles this potion, and at the cue of a tympanic boom, he is suddenly well. Oh, how I wish that was factual. Oh, how I wish there were some elixir capable of curing this most miserable state of self-infliction.

Some say “hair of the dog.” I’ve never been able to do that. I can’t even look at a bottle of liquor, much less smell or taste it when I have a hangover. I’ve been told that means I’m not an alcoholic. I’ve also been told it means I’m a wuss.

Others have said you should eat a big breakfast. Nothing light and fruity, but something substantial like eggs, bacon, ham, and biscuits with gravy, all washed down with hot coffee or a cold Coke. In my experience, that can help, but there’s no guarantee. Sometimes it only serves as fuel for the malady. Especially if you’re like me, one of the lucky people whose hangovers are primarily in the gastric region.

Many years ago there was an over-the-counter hangover cure called “Quick Over.” Do you remember this? It was a blister pack containing a handful of large pills to be taken all at once. A couple were aspirin and a couple were antacid, combined to supposedly alleviate both the cranial and gastric symptoms of a hangover. I tried this once before a fishing trip. Unfortunately, a couple of other pills were heavy doses of caffeine, for lethargy. Did it work? It made me sick as a dog, worse than if I had taken nothing. If it had worked, it would still be on the market, wouldn’t it? And I’d own stock…

We all know that a hangover will eventually end. The span of that time can vary widely though, depending on what caused your hangover.

Doctors say there are two causes. One is an element known as a congener. Congeners are what make gin taste like gin and sour mash taste so sour. They’re adulterants, mostly. Flavorings. Tannins for color. The Coke in your rum and Coke. So, an easy way to avoid hangovers would be to drink your booze straight, right? Wrong. The other cause is the alcohol itself. Let’s face it, if you drink too much you will be sick. No two ways about it.

Let’s examine the building blocks of my last disabling hangover. A drink at home… well, maybe two drinks. Okay, three bourbon and sodas before deciding on a restaurant. Like I said, service was slow there, so we had some wine. So three shots of bourbon, two merlots, then a Guinness with my grouper sammitch. Then a Drambuie at the rail. So already we’ve had whisky, wine, beer, and brandy. With a nice greasy chunk of fried fish floating around in it. Then the clincher: Cuervo Gold. Three shots. Whisky, wine, beer, brandy, and cactus juice — that’s a certified puker! But I didn’t. Nope. If I had, I probably would have felt better. Instead, I had the mother of all hangovers. I slept through my Saturday morning choretime. Actually, “slept” isn’t the right word. I groaned through my chore time.

Nothing makes you feel stupider than a hangover. It’s not like a regular disease — you don’t “catch” it from somebody. You don’t inherit hangovers through your genes. You bring them on yourself, through a process known as gluttony. And it is a wasteful process. In that case, I wasted an entire Saturday. My most productive hours, hours set aside to enhance the curb appeal of this humble home, my greatest investment, destroyed by wasteful selfish gluttony. Time lost.

O, Pioneers! Part IV: Sodbusters

• By Rick LaClaire • 

It is August as I write this… August in one of the driest Florida summers I can recall. You’ve often heard me warn of dry Florida summers — heat, fire, misery… But that’s on the mainland. Beachside’s a different story.

Dry summers mean that every day is a beach day. The surf warms and stays that way (unless we get an upwelling — we’ll talk about that some other time). So what if your lawn is brown? Lawns don’t belong beachside; too much water, too many chemicals. When you get sick of looking at the hell-on-earth your yard has become, just go jump in the ocean. And be thankful you’re not mowing.

When I began this serial I posed a question: What would have happened if the original Florida settlers had arrived during a dry summer? I remember experiencing my first Buffalo winter and telling my wife, “I think the people who settled this place came on the Fourth of July.” Our original Florida Crackers must have come at Christmas. A dry summer would have certainly been a deterrent, as the earliest settlers were primarily mainlanders. It was considered stupid to build on the beach. Thank God we are now enlightened. I think…

And so it was with the great LaClaire emigration of ’87. We became mainlanders. The house is still there, in Eau Gallie. I have no fondness for the place, but I drive by it occasionally. The memories it kindles are forlorn — homesick, broke, heat-stricken… And all in a dry summer. Add to that the pressure of starting a business, and it was some of the worst stress I’ve ever experienced.

But we were pioneers then. We had taken our future into our own hands and would soon find out what we were made of. We’d provisioned and mustered in Buffalo; had our shakedown in the highways and hills of southwestern New York and Pennsylvania; fought hostile commuters on the outskirts of Fort Mom; reconnoitered under the huge sombrero at South of the Border; and had a hoedown in Florence. Now, when I think back, the final leg of our journey was probably the smoothest.

By this point, I had mastered the U-Haul’s retarded stick shift and had become somewhat comfortable in even the thickest of traffic. That was tested again in Jacksonville, but I prevailed. I’d even learned to live with the intermittent radio (skrrrxx, skrrrxx…). I guess it was like living next to a railroad track; after a while you don’t even notice. Driving that beast had become second nature. Then, an obstacle. Not the largest, but the most embarrassing.

It was a mere curb. We’d arrived at our new home and I was attempting to back the U-Haul up to the front door. In all our miles I had never faced the scenario of backing up. All my motions had been in the forward gears. Reverse, I soon learned, was another acquired skill. I tried and failed, stalling again and again, blocking the road and creating ample entertainment for the neighbors. They soon gathered.

“Whatcha tryna do?” a portly man with a mouthful of chicken asked. It was dinnertime. His was in his hand. Not a mere drumstick, but a whole half a chicken. Grease ran between his fingers. I felt like saying something snotty like “going bowling,” but I bit my tongue. I was hungry, sweaty, tired, and suddenly aware of the skrrrxx-ing radio. “I’m stuck on the curb,” I admitted. “It’s been a long day.”

“You sure you wanna cross the lawn with this thing?” He took a huge bite out of his chicken and chewed vividly.

“It’s full of furniture. I wanted to get close to the door.”

“Well, then –” and he pitched the chicken in the yard “– shove over.”

What? Before I could stop him he had displaced me. He was so big I couldn’t resist. Chicken grease on the shifter, grease on the steering wheel… He slapped her into reverse and in a heartbeat we were at the door.

“Uh… Thanks,” I managed.

“Thank me later. We probably just snapped off a half-dozen sprinkler heads.”

Do things ever turn out the way you imagine them beforehand? They never have for me. Our new home in Eau Gallie was no exception. Yes, I had seen the place and a dozen others in my previous trip to lay down a security deposit. It seemed nice then. In fact, it was the nicest I’d been shown. But now that we were actually in the place… I guess I hadn’t looked too closely.

One of the first chores the coonskin settlers had to negotiate was land-clearing. Before you could build a house, corral the livestock, sink a well or plant a seed, you had to carve your place in the wilderness. My land-clearing chores were discovered at first light the next day. When I had seen the place six weeks before, the lawn was trimmed, full, and neat. That was the last time a mower had been pushed over this property. The lawn was now thigh-high. I didn’t need a mower. I needed a reaper. Apparently my neighbors had also noticed. Parked in the center of my lawn were a mower and a can of gas, courtesy of the chicken-eater. I found it rude, but complied. I spent the first four hours of my first morning in our new Florida digs mowing — or should I say reaping.

There were other problems. The carpet was full of sandspurs; you couldn’t walk barefoot in the house. Our two-year-old found that out right away. The bathrooms were moldy. I opened the dishwasher to discover all its parts sitting on a rack within. The toilet ran — who knew for how long? The fridge was skanky, and our AC consisted of two window units: one in the dining area and one in the baby’s bedroom. And there were bugs, lots of them.

There was a shed in the back, full of old plumbing and an ancient trunk. Hoping for treasure, I flipped the lid. I was horrified at the sight of hundreds of huge cockroaches, fairly seething within. I slammed it shut and shuddered all the way to the house. “Don’t ever go in there,” I said to my wife.

Our little wake-up calls were constant. The water tasted terrible. There were fire ants all over the yard. Half the stove didn’t work. And yes, I had broken off a half-dozen sprinkler heads. Compared to the setbacks and disappointments our pioneer forefathers had experienced, our torments were minor, but didn’t seem so then. All contributed to a heaviness, a burden that grew daily and finally manifested itself in deep homesickness. We had left all our friends, good jobs, family, and a comfortable flat in a nice neighborhood for this: a sweltering pile of moldering cinder blocks in a strange and seemingly hostile land.

This was our “soddie,” this Eau Gallie bungalow. It was the first spindly root of our establishment here. The pioneers of the Great Plains built soddies. Generations later, they became a source of pride, these holes-out-of-the-ground. And that’s exactly what they were: dwellings comprised of the land itself. They represented a make-do spirit in a land of no lumber. Though meant to be temporary, some Midwestern farm families preserved them. They proved to be durable, when built right. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter. And they remind you where you came from.

No, I have no fond memories of our first house here. It was gloomy as a cave and rank as the artesian water that spewed from the sprinklers I eventually fixed. Probably just like a soddie… The place seemed cursed to me. Drug dealers had occupied it before us. There had been a big bust. Children were involved. It was a “marked” house — doomed. Consequently, the neighbors were nosy. We felt watched all the time. There wasn’t a chore I could do without the chicken-eater butting in. Mow the lawn? Yer doin’ it wrong. Here, lemme show ya. Change the oil in the Buick? Ya don’t want thirty-weight, ya want twenny. The clincher came when his wife accused my wife of wearing the same outfit two days in a row.

We lived there for nine months. In the space of a marriage, a good one anyway, that’s not a long time. But whenever I drive by, I still get this “clunk” in my chest. The heaviness comes back. After our two-vehicle wagon train emigration I thought we would be through with our adventure. Twenty-four years later, it hasn’t ended yet.

LIBRA: You may find your little heart all aflutter this month. Is it that special someone you’ve been ogling at the gym or is it a clogged artery? Only time will tell.

SCORPIO: Your work habits have improved greatly these past few months but unfortunately will garner you no rewards. Now fill this cup with pee and price that case of Pop Tarts before I write you up.

SAGITTARIUS: Later this month you give new meaning to supporting the troops when you carry three veterans on your back during a foot race with a gay Democrat.

CAPRICORN: Everyone makes mistakes. But it takes a stubborn, persistent schmuck like you to keep making the same ones over and over. Remember this simple equation: Fire = hot.

AQUARIUS: Your popularity with the opposite sex has somewhat ebbed this month but will soon return, putting you atop everyone’s list. To castrate.

PISCES: You have a knack for spreading good cheer and positivity. This will come in handy now that you’ve fulfilled your lifelong dream of opening your own funeral parlor.

ARIES: This month I foresee the moon moving into your house and the Star of Phoebus lingering in your kitchen. If someone knocks on your door and asks if something is burning, it is most likely the Star of Phoebus.

TAURUS: Can you go the whole month without succumbing to the distractions that stifle your motivation to accomplish anything worthwhile? Better consult your bartender before giving it a try.

GEMINI: This month you’ll finally have the courage to come out of your shell, only to find that your shell was the only thing keeping you from being crushed to death.

CANCER: You’re so used to being alone that just when you thought you’d never find “The One,” you finally meet him. Sadly, he has become so used to being alone that the two of you decide it would be better to just keep to yourselves.

LEO: You have questioned my authority more than once, but this time you should heed my warnings. Things are going to take a turn for the worse in your financial house, so stock up on toilet paper and Wheat Thins while you still have the funds. Just remember, people lived just fine without electricity in the old days.

Dear Romeo,

My girlfriend Angie is a great looking girl and attracts stares from guys every time we go out. I admit I get a thrill out of showing her off because it reminds me of how lucky I am. Angie has always been a conservative dresser. She could go out in an ankle-length parka and muddy galoshes and still get attention. But since she turned 35 this past June, she’s taken to wearing more revealing clothing — sometimes too revealing, in my opinion. This summer has been one of the hottest on record, I’ll give her that, but I also think she may be starting to feel self-conscious about her age and is over compensating. Personally, I think she’s too old and classy to be dressing like a 15-year-old tramp, wearing what’s become her new favorite combo, a small, tight tank top and the top of her thong peeking out of her short shorts. She thinks I’m being prudish. What’s your opinion?

“Ron”
Cocoa Beach

In my humble opinion, Desmond, a girl of any age wearing short shorts with the top of her thong sticking out is guilty of some very cheeky behavior. It makes me wonder what young girls will be wearing 10 years from now. Your lady friend would be right in thinking that you’re being prudish, however. If you love her for her looks and her body and want to support her as she goes through this difficult time, I suggest that you let her show her whale tail. Just be sure she covers her blowhole. Ahoy!

Romeo,

I’m a girl who loves the outdoors. I mean really, really loves the outdoors. I’ve been with lots of guys who share my passion for hiking and camping, but all of them eventually get fed up with my constant need to sleep out under the stars. They usually split around this time of year when the temperatures get hotter and the mosquitoes start swarming. Honestly, all that has never bothered me at all. And I always sleep in the buff! Where have all the real men gone?

Kate S.
Merritt Island

Right here! I’m a real man! Even though I routinely shave my legs and chest and spend an inordinate amount of time on my hair, you will not find a man more in love with the outdoors and camping than I. Call me sometime. I am always pitching a tent!

Romeo,

Recently, while cleaning some computer files, I discovered that my husband has been visiting a slew of disgusting porn sites on a daily basis. I feel cheated and betrayed. Plus, all of these sites deal with some very strange and disturbing fetishes. Why are men obsessed with porn? Can you explain this phenomenon?

Martha D.
Cocoa

This is a terrible calamity of which you speak. Sex is a natural function, but it shouldn’t be shown in an ugly way that ignores romance. Porn is just a mechanical thing that has no place in sex. Every man has at least one fetish, but it sounds like your husband has too many to control. I can’t give you much assistance, but you can visit my informational blog on this distressing subject at: www.romeoshotgirlongirlaction.com. Enter!

Romeo,

I’m trying to plan a sexy-themed party for dear friend who’s finally getting married and all my fellow bridesmaids. We’ve decided that we’re totally not into creepy male strippers, but we’re still having a hard time coming up with a racy alternative. Any ideas?

Janice K.
Cocoa Beach

Dear woman, how about letting me help you organize a furniture party? I know it doesn’t sound very sexy, but just wait and see. After a few pink martinis, you’ll all be showing me your chests! I’ll even let you look in my drawers!

Dear Romeo,

I am so fed up with guys who think saying “That’s what she said!” is funny. Every time I go out with my girlfriends we always meet some jerk who think it’s hilarious to add it on after we say something unintentionally suggestive. What’s worse is that some of these idiots are well into their 40s. Please tell your male readers to stop this annoying habit.

Tracy G.
Cape Canaveral

Naomi, you’re not the only girl who has written to me about this. I get loads of letters about this very topic every day. As a matter of fact, I’ve created a special email account devoted solely to such missives. Every time I turn around, my box is full… which, coincidentally, is exactly what she said.

Great American Pastimes The New York Yankees’ Derek Jeter achieved his milestone 3,000th major league hit in July, and Steiner Sports Marketing of New Rochelle, N.Y., was ready (in partnership with the Yankees and Major League Baseball). Dozens of items from the game were offered to collectors, including the bases ($7,500 each), 30 balls used during the game ($2,000 each, unsigned), and even Jeter’s sweaty socks ($1,000). Steiner had also collected five gallons of dirt (under supervision, to assure authenticity), and uberfans can buy half-ounce containers of clay walked upon by Jeter during the game (from the shortstop area and the right-hand batter’s box) — for a not-dirt-cheap $250 each.

On Second Thought The initial explanation by Melvin Jackson, 48, upon his arrest in June for sexually assaulting an unconscious woman in Kansas City, Mo., was to deny that he would ever do such a thing. Rather, he said, “I thought the lady was dead.” The initial explanation by Thomas O’Neil, 47, upon his arrest in Wausau, Wis., in June for criminal damage to property (breaking into a neighbor’s garage and defecating on the floor) was to claim that he thought he was in his own garage.

Them Thar Avenues “The streets of 47th Street are literally paved with gold,” said one of New York City’s gold wranglers, as he, down on all fours and manipulating tweezers, picked specks of gold, silver and jewels that had fallen off of clothing and jewelry racks as they were rolled from trucks into stores. The man told the New York Post in June that he had recently earned $819 in redemptions for six days’ prospecting.

Kids Today… A loaded handgun fell from the pocket of a kindergarten student in Houston in April, firing a single bullet that slightly wounded two classmates and the “shooter.” In Grant County, Wis., prosecutors filed first-degree sexual assault charges recently against a 6-year-old boy, stemming from a game of “doctor” that authorities say he pressured a 5-year-old girl into in 2010. And in Lakewood, Colo., police attempting to wrest control of a sharpened stick that a second-grade boy was using to threaten classmates and a teacher, gave him two shots of pepper spray. (The boy had just finished shouting to police, “Get away from me you f—ers.”)

China’s Got Balls Zhou Xin, 68, failed to get a callback from the judges for the “China’s Got Talent” TV reality show in June, according to a CNN report (after judge Annie Yi screamed in horror at his act). Zhou is a practitioner of one of the “72 Shaolin skills,” namely “iron crotch gong,” and for his “talent,” he stoically whacked himself in the testicles with a weight and then with a hammer.

More Pricks Than Kicks Self-described Las Vegas “performer” Staysha Randall took 3,200 different piercings in her body during the same sitting on June 7 to break the Guinness world record by 100 prickings. Coincidentally, on the very same day in Edinburgh, Scotland, the woman with the most lifetime piercings (6,925) got married. Elaine Davidson, 46, wore a full white ensemble that left bare only her face, which was decorated green and sported 192 piercings. The lucky guy is Davidson’s longtime friend Douglas Watson, a balding, 60-something man with no piercings or tattoos.

Unentitled Pablo Borgen has apparently been living without neighbors’ complaints in Lakeland, Fla., despite general knowledge that he is, according to sheriff’s officials, one of the area’s major heroin traffickers, bringing in tens of thousands of dollars a month. Following a drug sting in June, however, neighbors discovered another fact about Borgen: that he and some of his gang were each drawing $900 a month in food stamps. Formerly indifferent neighbors were outraged by Borgen’s abuse of benefits, according to WTSP-TV. “Hang him by his toes,” said one. “I’ve been out of work since February (2008). I lived for a year on nothing but … food stamps.”

For All My Dothan Pals Two undercover policewomen running a prostitution sting in Dothan, Ala., in October (1999) declined to arrest a pickup-truck-driving john, around age 70, despite his three attempts to procure their services. He first offered the women the three squirrels he had just shot, but they ignored him (too much trouble to log in and store the evidence). A few minutes later, he sweetened the offer with the used refrigerator in the back of his truck, but the officers again declined (same reason). On the third trip, he finally offered cash: $6 (but no squirrels or refrigerator). The officers again declined. They later said they had resolved to arrest him if he returned, but he did not.

Blondes On Parade “Hundreds” of blondes paraded through Riga, Latvia, on May 28 at the third annual “March of the Blondes” festival designed to lift the country’s spirits following a rough stretch for the economy. More than 500 blondes registered, including 15 from New Zealand, seven from Finland, and 32 from Lithuania, according to a woman who told Agence France-Presse that she was the head of the Latvian Association of Blondes. Money collected during the event goes to local charities.

While We’re Gone
By M. Alberto Rivera

(Note left on kitchen counter next to three $50 bills)

Lurlene,

I can’t begin to thank you enough for watching the place while we go visit my mother. Right now the schedule has us returning in 11 days, but if Roy can stage an accident where nothing important gets broken or he might can get some work, we might stay an extra week or two.

I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble at all with the pets, the house or anything at all, but I left some notes, just in case something might come up. If the porch light doesn’t turn on, just wiggle it a little. If that doesn’t work, there’s replacement bulbs in the pantry next to the cases of out-of-date cough syrup.

The dogs should have plenty of food, but if something happens and you run out, we left some money on the counter. But don’t handle them bills before the 9th on account of the ink needs to dry. Also, you might want to go to the nearsighted cashier at the Piggly Wiggly if you decide to use ‘em. She works early in the morning. (She’s the one that smells of Miller High Life and orange blossoms.) You can distract her by gossiping about the headlines of the World Weekly News. Once she didn’t even ring up a tube of toothpaste ‘cuz she was goin’ on about how Brad Pitt was really an alien sent to mate with Angeline Jolie.

The big dogs get a cup of food at 8:00 am, 12:00 noon and 6:00 pm. The little dogs get a half a cup each at 9:30, 1:00 and 7:45. If they seem mopey, you might have to sing to them, otherwise they won’t eat. They like Willie Nelson the best. If the big dogs try to get to their food, you can take the green broom handle and smack them on the snout with it. Don’t mind Lobo. He’s more bark than bite. Just a 173-lb. baby doll. A lot of that stuff you hear about wolf-dog breeds is made up by the liberal media.

The snake gets a live rat once a week. I think there are still some in the crisper drawer. The cold makes them sleepy and easier to handle. I made the mistake of leaving one rat in the freezer for a few days and it ate through all my frozen spinach. I opened the freezer and saw his little pink eyes and I swear he stood on his back legs and waved to me. I never looked at him the same after that. He was sort of funny, so I kept him for a while. He used to make me laugh and I carried him on my shoulder. It was like the little guy knew what I was thinking. I think there’s a video of him being fed to Mr. Huggy Snake on top of the TV if you want to watch it.

There’s a room that can only be accessed through the closet of the master bedroom. DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR. It has alarms and if you don’t give it the proper access code in 1 minute, it will lock the room from the inside. Also, you don’t want your fingerprints anywhere near the room so you can always claim plausible deniability.

If you hear any weird sounds coming from near the compost heap, take a stick with you and maybe 1-3 of the bigger dogs. There’s a raccoon trap that sometimes gets one, and if the raccoon is still alive, it’ll make a racket. You can set it free or club it. I’ll leave that up to you. But you can’t leave them making a fuss, because sooner or later one of them hippie liberals living near here will call the animal cops and we don’t want another Ruby Ridge on our hands. Not like that anyhow.

You’re welcome to watch the movies we have and make use of our home entertainment center. We have a lot of new movies and some that haven’t been released yet because Roy has a co-worker that gets them from the interweb. Some are dubbed in Korean and/or Farsi, but don’t let that stop you from enjoying the sequel to “Thor II: Thor’s Hammer Time.”

The hot tub hasn’t been used in a while, not since Roy’s cousin tried out for the “All-American Skanks” reality show contest. Her audition tape did end up in the bonus features of the Season 1 DVD, but she was mad on account of she didn’t get paid and the producer’s assistant never did call her like he said he would. Honestly, I’d use a lot of bleach and chlorine before getting back in there, but you’re more than welcome to use it.

I don’t want you to get freaked out in case you get curious and start walking around the house, but the middle room is a little odd. It started out as a home office, but when my Uncle Paul passed away we ended up with a lot of his stuff and we haven’t decided what to do with it exactly. Paul was a self taught taxidermist and he used to practice on everything dead he ever found or killed. His wife, my Aunt Beulah, thought it would be fun to dress up all the stuffed squirrels in clothes she made like if they were at a wedding party. I think it’s a Unitarian service, but Paul swore it was Baptist as there was a tiny bottle of whiskey out of sight behind the podium. Aunt Beulah didn’t always take her meds. We’ve been trying to donate this piece to a museum or something, but you’d be surprised at how many people aren’t in a rush to add “Dead Squirrel Wedding” to their permanent collection.

Now there are some buzzers, alarms and the slight sound of running water you might think you’re hearing, but it’s nothing to worry about. The garage is off limits for more reasons than that. We REALLY don’t know anything about that couple that moved in down the street and went missing all of a sudden. And nothing in the garage says otherwise. We re-did the floor because the concrete naturally wore out from the wear and tear of parking a car on it and setting cardboard boxes on it repeatedly.

Thanks again. It’s nice to know we can get away for a few days and not worry about nothing.

As-Salaam Alaikum
By David Sherman

My time of late has been grossly over-monopolized by the silliest of things: a computer game on Facebook. I know it’s a ridiculous waste of time for a man of 50, but I don’t give you grief about golf, so there. For me, one of the fascinating aspects of the game are the Facebook “Friends” I interact with during the course of play. You are encouraged at every turn to add “Friends;” indeed you cannot go far without scads of them. One thing led to another and now I have “Friends” playing this game with me from all around the world. (The game has over 5 million players!)

Reading the posted messages of these diverse people is as riveting for me as the actual game itself. I’ve commented on several, and thus now interact regularly with other players in Scotland, Turkey, Thailand, Canada, and of course all around the U.S. The game is primarily one of industrial development and military conquest, and players are constantly requesting various items from one another. It amused my liberal conspiracy-tinged mind to think of someone in a post-Patriot Act office somewhere whose computer is suddenly deluged with messages from people with names like Ahmed and Mohammed that read “I need torpedoes. Can you send me one?” or “I need to upgrade my bombers!”

This is how I was spending my idle hours when the recent turmoil erupted in Egypt. One of my “Friends” was a man from Cairo named, you guessed it, Mohammed. I inquired after his safety and that of his family and asked him for his views on it all. A series of messages followed, during which virtual Facebook “Friends” became actual friends. Among other items of note, Mohammed once said of Israel, “I do not hate Israel. I do not like them because they kill Palestinians, but I do not hate them. I am neutral.” It struck me that for this alone Anwar Sadat is smiling somewhere. Mohammed also told me that “evil” men who grew rich doing illegal and “evil” things are spreading lies to try to return to power. You all know my liberal mindset, so you should not be surprised that I saw parallels here.

Then, without explanation, Mohammed went silent. His corner of the game was obviously untended. Concerned messages went unanswered, and I began to fear the worst. After two weeks of anguish on my part, Mohammed finally contacted me. He was fine. His father, Mahrous, was not. No bullets, no military police, no rioting accident had befallen him. Instead it was cancer, the spectre that has no regard for political niceties, the reaper’s blade that cuts ever-widening swaths through both the fair and the foul of our world. They gave Mahrous two weeks. Mohammed tried to hide from his grief in this silly game, but it was no help. Mostly, as a good son, he spent his time at his father’s bedside. He asked me to pray for his father.

Many of you know that I am not Christian, but I do pray. Mohammed and I had never touched on topics of faith, but considering his name and his Egyptian heritage, I assume he is Muslim, just as I imagine he assumed I was Christian. It did not matter. He asked me to pray for his father, and so I did. I prayed for Mohammed and his own family as well, for a lessening of their grief. In this I found a greater lesson than any of the trivial, politically motivated parallels that had occupied my thoughts before. This was my newfound friend from the other side of the world, but suddenly the man who had lost his own father years ago found deeper commonality with the man who was facing that loss now. A man named David and a man named Mohammed.

When I first conceived this article, I had thought to ask you all to put aside whatever preconceived notions or fears you may have about Arab peoples, Muslim peoples, and to pray for the father of a man named Mohammed. I just learned that Mohammed’s father went ahead on Friday, in what for Muslims the holy month of Ramadan. I will still ask you for those prayers, but now I would ask that you pray for the safe journey of Mahrous, a father gone ahead. I would ask also that you pray for the son and the family left behind. I would also ask that when you see the chaos in the Arab world playing out on your nightly news, you see not people who are inherently different from you — Arabs, Muslims. See people. See fathers and sons. See mothers and daughters. Maybe it will mean more. And perhaps if it comes to mean more to us, we can make it mean more than profit and military considerations to our leaders. Maybe we can help assure that our nation chooses more wisely which regimes to support in the future.

For Mohammed, my friend, who has a keen mind, a good heart, and a kind Soul. As-Salaam Alaikum. (Peace be upon you.)

Mosquitoes love my feet. There, I said it. I attract biting insects. It was even this way when I was a kid. I complained to my mother once, and she said it was because I was so sweet. My dad said maybe it was because I smelled like something rotten.

For some reason I attract a lot of things, some less onerous than others. For example, babies like me. But then, so do winos and panhandlers. Cats like me. Someone told me cats are good judges of character, and they can tell right off if you’re a decent person. Someone else said maybe it’s because I smell like fish. Regardless, I’m allergic to cats. I think they like me because they like to watch my eyes get all red, itchy and swollen.

There are things that don’t like me, too: Mexican food, hot chicken wings, draft beer… How do I know this? Because I keep trying to make them love me (I love them) and they treat me worse every time I imbibe. Truckers don’t like me either. This I discovered while piloting the only truck I’d ever driven on our great emigration south in May, 1987.

It was our first full day on the trail. We’d mustered, had our shakedown, and were now actually heading south — well, more like southeast, because our next stop would be Fairfax, Virginia, also known as “Fort Mom.” Our entry into Pennsylvania was Route 15, which in those days was a mere two lanes until you were in the heart of the state at Williamsport. Truckers didn’t treat it that way, though. To them, it was a major route. he road was wall-to-wall semis. They had no patience for an old, underpowered, undergeared U-Haul driven by a white-knuckled, inexperienced wannabe trucker tormented by a faulty radio (skrryyxxxx). These hurtling behemoths roared past me one after another, honking and blinking their brights, reminding me constantly that I was out of my element.

Look at a road map of Pennsylvania. Why are the roads so squiggly? Nothing is straight, and south of Williamsport they all seem to slant in the same direction. Then take a look at a topographical map. Whoa! That’s why! Ol’ Pensy is one rugged state. In fact, it looks like a rug from the air. A very wrinkled rug.

There are beautiful river gorges, the West Branch of the Susquehanna and the Juniata come to mind, and everything’s covered with trees. It also means driving a standard shift on hills — not my greatest talent — and my trucking buddies never let me forget it. However, by the end of that day, as we crossed the Potomac into Virginia, I had finally mastered the technique. In fact, I learned more about driving that day, shoulder-to-shoulder with the finest drivers on the planet (truckers), than I had in the past fifteen years. Like the clerk at the U-Haul repository in Buffalo said: “Everybody learns on these things.” Then, right when you think you know it all, you find yourself in Fairfax County, Virginia, during rush hour.

D.C. has the worst traffic in the world. Whether you’re in Fairfax, Arlington, Alexandria, or Vienna, yep, you’re in D.C. Traffic is so bad it spreads like a disease across northern Virginia. If you’re anywhere within thirty miles of the District of Columbia, you are infected. And on this warm evening in May, it was all under construction.

Everything down to one lane, everything dirt, stops and goes over the nastiest of humps… Supposedly this was Route 50, the main trail to Fort Mom. Of course the pioneers had stretches like this — swamps, creeks, broken ground. In a way, they probably had it better in those situations. For one thing, their vehicles were pulled rather than pushed. I think that’s a more efficient way to ford a snag. My wheels spun, my gears slipped, but I did not stall. I wouldn’t have dared. The coonskin types faced hostile natives. This was worse. These were government employees freshly released from work. Tens of thousands of them. If I had stumbled, I would have been trampled. Finally, Fort Mom.

We had a mini family reunion that night; my mother, my sister’s family and mine. Alcohol flowed freely, as it always seems to do, and for some reason (I can’t remember what) I had to practically unload and re-pack the U-Haul. It was a search for something, a toy or teddy bear, and I remember being extremely annoyed. I was also extremely apprehensive. This was the end of our family ties, the southern limit of our blood. From here, we would truly be on our own.

On our first trek South in ’79, I-95 was still a dream. Segments were finished, but there were long breaks of two-lane dirt construction. It was neither reliable nor complete as a North-South route. On many stretches we were the only subscribers. Not so in 1987. Between Washington and Richmond we encountered near-deadly congestion, not with our four-wheeled brethren, but that of the eighteen-wheeled type. I was like a mite among elephants — it could only have been more menacing for my poor wife and child in the Buick. It was white knuckles all the way. Then, an accident. Somewhere… For hours we sat stalled in the Virginia heat as our gas burned away and my daughter filled her pants. Glad that was in the Buick.

In oxen and Conestoga days the going was so slow the trailmasters had to factor in the seasons. This meant setting up a timetable which coincided with places. In other words, you didn’t want to be doing the Rockies in winter (the Donner Party is not just a reindeer’s birthday). One of the most important milestones on that schedule was a place called “Chimney Rock.” No, not the one in North Carolina, but the one at the butt-end of Nebraska. And if you weren’t there by the Fourth of July you would not cross the Rockies before winter.

What a sight this must have been for the old coonskinners. After endless weeks of trudging the vast flat plains, finally, terrain. The Indians had a more colorful name for this landmark but my mother’s probably going to read this, so I’ll let it drop. It is impressive, however — erect like an obelisk and visible for miles. On our route there was a similar location: that big sombrero at “South of the Border” on the North Carolina/South Carolina line. I have a colorful name for that place also: “Tacky Eyesore.” But you shore can’t miss it, and that’s where we decided to reconnoiter our own wagon train after leaving Fairfax.

It was an odd parley, this huge dilapidated sombrero. I guess it was a snack bar of some kind. Our engines echoed beneath the brim. The place was so big and dreary I couldn’t tell if it was open. “Pedro” had teased us for scores of miles: fireworks, food, gas, amusements, rooms… Why was this place so run-down? The sun was goldening and our daughter fidgety. Our decision was “Florence.” That’s where we’d make camp: Florence, South Carolina.

The ideal campground in the pioneer days had several requirements: level ground, peripheral visibility (to detect approaching hostiles, be they white or red), water, fuel, and ample room to circle the wagons and conduct a proper hoedown. A hoedown, you ask? Come on, you’ve seen “Wagon Train,” that endless ’50s western drama that chronicled the endless trials and tribulations of pioneers on the endless trail. In short, they never got where they were going because they were constantly waylaid by subplots. Sounds like everyday life, doesn’t it? And like anybody’s everyday life, we all need a cocktail hour. What better place than around the communal campfire, surrounded by wagons, fueled by jugs of whiskey and a Juilliard-class fiddler?

Florence, South Carolina is definitely level ground. For peripheral visibility we occupied a room on the second floor of the Days Inn. Water? There was a swimming pool! Fuel? Right at the corner. All we needed was to put the wagons in a circle and find stoke-juice for the hoedown.

The wagons-in-a-circle thing wasn’t going to work, not in this parking lot (and not with only two vehicles), and for a moment even the hoedown whiskey seemed in jeopardy. We couldn’t find a liquor store anywhere. So I drove thirty miles in that crummy truck to finally find a booze drive-through two exits back. Never take liquor for granted in the South.

The Conestogans most likely supped on bacon or rehydrated salt-beef and beans. We had similar fare, tastewise, something I like to call “McReflux.” A swim in the pool, then, in lieu of a fiddler we had television, enhanced by bourbon and motel ice. A hoedown indeed.

Little did I know that it would be a long time before I slept in another motel bed or peeled the wrapper from another greasy McReflux. The real adventure was just beginning.

Oh Dear… Tokyo’s Kajimoto Laboratory has created a tongue-kissing machine to enable lovers to suck face over the Internet, according to a May CNN report. At separate locations, the pair place special straws in their mouths and mimic a deep kiss, which is recorded and transmitted to each other’s straws. Researcher Nobuhiro Takahashi sees profit in “celebrity” tongue-kissing applications, but said more work is needed to establish individual taste, breathing and tongue moistness. (Another team of Japanese researchers, using a harness-type device, reported making similar advances — in Internet “hugging,” with sensors that mimic lovers’ heartbeats and even their spine’s “tingling” and stomach’s “butterflies.”)

Nickel Diming The Columbus, Ohio, school board accepted principal Kimberly Jones’ resignation in May following revelations by The Columbus Dispatch that she, though earning $90,000 a year, swore on federal forms that she made just $25,000 — so that her own two children would qualify for reduced-price school lunches. And Prime Healthcare Services, with a reputation for rescuing financially failing hospitals, reported that two new acquisitions, in Victorville, Calif., and Redding, Calif., somehow curiously experienced rates about 40 and 70 times the state average in patients with a rare Third World Ghanian sickness that, conveniently, qualified the hospitals for enhanced Medicare reimbursements.

Unhappy Birthdays Principal Terry Eisenbarth apologized to parents and children at Washington Elementary School in Mount Vernon, Iowa, in May and promised to stop his ritual “whammies,” in which he summons kids on their birthdays to his office, sings “Happy Birthday” to them, and ceremonially spanks the child’s backside with a cushioned hockey stick (with the number of whacks equaling the child’s age). Elsewhere, Joseph Hayes, 48, was arrested in South Memphis, Tenn., in June after allegedly threatening (with a gun in his waistband) the hostess of a birthday party to which his kids had been invited but which ran out of cake and ice cream. “Y’all didn’t save my kids no damn ice cream and cake,” he was heard to say, and “I ain’t scared to go to jail.”

Altitudinally Challenged In May, a federal appeals court reinstated the Americans with Disabilities Act lawsuit filed in 2007 by Darrell Miller after he was fired as a bridge maintenance worker by the Illinois Department of Transportation. Miller had been medically diagnosed with a fear of heights, and could not work on many projects, but a lower court dismissed his lawsuit, concluding that working at heights was an unavoidable condition of bridge maintenance. (The appeals court said that a jury “might” find that bridge maintenance could be done in “teams” with one worker always on the ground.)

Claptrap In December (1993), a New York appeals court rejected Edna Hobbs’ lawsuit against the company that makes the device called “The Clapper.” Hobbs claimed she hurt her hands because she had to clap too hard in order to turn her appliances on: “I couldn’t peel potatoes (when my hands hurt). I never ate so many baked potatoes in my life. I was in pain.” However, the judge said Hobbs had merely failed to adjust the sensitivity controls.

The Great Gall Of China Nightclub singer Simon Ledger was arrested following a performance at the Driftwood Beach Bar on Britain’s Isle of Wight in April after a patron complained to police. Ledger was covering the 1974 hit “Kung Fu Fighting,” and two customers of Chinese descent reported that they felt victims of illegal “racially aggravated harassment.”

Def! Alleged gang members Barbara Lee, 45, and Marco Ibanez, 19, were arrested in Hallandale Beach, Fla., in April and charged in the assault and stabbing of four deaf people. Lee was at the Ocean’s Eleven Lounge one evening when she saw several people in a group make hand signs that she interpreted as disrespecting her own gang’s signs, and, according to police, left to recruit Ibanez to come administer retribution. Unknown to Lee or Ibanez, the group were deaf people using sign language and had no idea they were making “gang” signs.

Piddling Concern In June, as five young men gathered around the Mount Tabor Reservoir near Portland, Ore., one urinated in it, thus “contaminating” the 7.2 million gallons that serve the city, and, said Water Bureau administrator David Shaff, necessitating that the entire supply be dumped. Under questioning by the weekly Portland Mercury whether the water is also dumped when an animal urinates in it (or worse, dies in it), Shaff replied, certainly not. “If we did that, we’d be (dumping the water) all the time.” Well, asked the reporter, what’s the difference? Because, said Shaff (sounding confident of his logic), “Do you want to be drinking someone’s pee?”

Inverse Mortgage Bank of America (BA) had the tables turned on it in June after the company wrongfully harassed an alleged mortgage scofflaw in Naples, Fla. BA had attempted to foreclose on homeowners Warren and Maureen Nyerges last year even though the couple had bought their house with cash — paid directly to BA. It took BA a year and a half to understand its mistake — that is, until the Nyergeses sued and won a judgment for expenses of $2,534, which BA promptly ignored. The Nyergeses’ attorney obtained a seizure order, and two sheriff’s deputies, with a moving truck, arrived at the local BA branch on June 3 to load $2,534 worth of furniture and computer equipment from the bank’s offices. After about an hour on the phone with higher-ups, the local BA manager issue a check for $2,534.

VIRGO: The stars support you this month and want you to take control of your future. Mel Gibson said he’s behind you all the way and that you can call him if you’re in need of a little cash (unless of course you’re Jewish). Angelina Jolie left a message and said “You can do it!” but don’t call back, she’s “busy.” And Gary Busey called to say that you’re doing a great job and he’s going to need to crash on your couch for a few days.

LIBRA: Treat yourself to something nice this month. You don’t have to go overboard, just something small that will make you happy. Something small and useful. Like a midget with a great set of tools.

SCORPIO: If you’re having trouble getting started this month, don’t worry. You may just need a little jumpstart. Try mixing two cans of Red Bull, three cups of sugar, a can of minty fresh Copenhagen, three sprigs of parsley, and a pint of Irish whisky in a large blender. Add some ice and puree. Now drink. If that doesn’t work, it’s too late for you. You’re already dead. Quit your job and get married.

SAGITTARIUS: This feeling of insecurity that’s been hanging over your head stems from the fact that you’ve never really satisfied a woman, you drive like an old lady, you were never any good at sports, and even though you’re in you’re 30s, your little sister could still take you in a fist fight. Wait, don’t cry… I didn’t mean it. I was just joking! You’re the man! Seriously.

CAPRICORN: Bad decisions will play a key role in this month’s unfolding of loneliness and gloom. Keep this in mind when you opt to spend your time with a no-talent oaf with the personality of a cane toad instead of the handsome athletic hunk next door. You may want to lay off the Pina Coladas. They seem to effect your otherwise good judgment.

AQUARIUS: Your travel star shines bright this month. Go adventure to the ends of the earth. Seek new places and cultures. Drink in the strangeness of a new land. Inhale the wisdom of ancient jungles. Slap yourself with a few Bintang beers and a $5 masseuse. Just remember to pack plenty of sunscreen, aspirin, clean skivvies, and a funny hat. And, oh yeah, monkey repellant.

PISCES: Everything looks to be in your favor this month: your finances, your love life, top-notch health, and a surprise waiting just around the corner. You’ll get a special visit from a very special someone, and just when you think things can’t get any better, they get way worse. You lose your job and your lover splits. Then you find out after a routine checkup that both your hands need to be removed and you develop a sudden lisp. And that special someone turned out to be not so special. Turned out to be a pain in the ass, really.

ARIES: Don’t worry about a thing this month! Or for the rest of your life, in fact! A great fortune will befall you and you’ll have plenty of money to make sure you and everyone you love will live the remainder of their lives in ecstasy! Wait. Wrong reading. Says here you’re going to get hit by a comet. Never mind.

TAURUS: Nothing really changes for you this month. It’s going to be the same as last month. Except, maybe throw in a little food poisoning and the shingles. Yeah, everything will be pretty much the same except for the constant diarrhea and painful, itchy scabbie things. And your car might get repossessed. But that’s probably it. Everything else? The same.

GEMINI: Take good care of yourself in the coming weeks and you will notice an instant attraction from the opposite sex. Take too good of care of yourself and you will notice an instant attraction from the same sex. Know what I mean?

CANCER: This year will be somewhat of a rollercoaster. At first there will be excitement, then suspense followed by a quick thrill and then a sudden stop. Then a little dizziness when you realize all your money came out of your pocket and your hat flew off. You will leave the year with empty pockets and the feeling you’ve been taken for a ride.

This economy really stinks. Not only can I not find a boyfriend, I also can’t find a job. As you can imagine, it’s pretty hard to meet single guys when you’re feeling terrible about yourself and can’t even afford to buy even one lousy Cosmopolitan. Do you have any advice to help me stick it out until Mr. Right comes along?

“Carmella”
Cocoa Beach

Janice, my heart goes out to you. Right off the bat, I’d say that the best way top stick it out until Mr. Right comes along is to stick it out! Mr. Right will be coming in no time. In the meantime, if you’re hungry for work I am in need of a highly skilled secretary who can take dictation and has difficulty running around desks. Jump on my staff!

Romeo,

I know it sounds stupid, but I’m in love with a guy who will only date girls who surf. “Kenny” says I’m good looking enough and have a nice enough body, but he refuses to date any girl who doesn’t know how to ride waves. He’s such a jerk, I know, and really vain and shallow, but I’ve had a crush on him for a long time. Plus, I want to get back at my ex-boyfriend, Joey. If Joey finds out I’m with Kenny, he’ll go through the roof. It sounds shallow of me too, I know, but Joey really betrayed me and I know dating Kenny is the best way to get back at him. Can you surf? Can you show me the basics one weekend? And can I borrow your board for a few weeks? Thanks!

Nina L.
Cocoa Beach

Unfortunately I had to give up surfing three years ago, Melody. I suffered a crippling accident while practicing some tantric sex techniques with a nubile Tahitian girl and a lewdly carved taro root in a barrel at Teahupo’o. Tantric sex, however, I still practice. Come by sometime and I’ll show you one of surfing’s most basic postures, which involves you putting your toes on your nose repeatedly. And yes, you can ride my board any time. You’ll have to wax it yourself, though.

What up, Ro?

Dude. I got a big problem. Both my buddy and me are in love with the same chick. She’s totally smokin’ hot and me and my buddy have been buddies since way back in the day — old school style. My buddy’s thinking that we should both date her, but that kind of weirds me out, you know? I just don’t do sharesies. What do you think? Will I be better off by myself and keep my buddy, or follow her and start a fight with my buddy, or just let my buddy have her? Buddy, I’m in big trouble.

Your bud,

J.T.

Melbourne Beach

As we say in my hometown of Santo Ignazio della Tagliatelle: “It is better to have one sausage in the hand than two in the frittata.”

Dear Romeo,

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had difficulty reaching climax in intimate situations. I’ve read a number of books on the subject, have had many good lovers, and have invested in several devices and toys, but I still can’t reach the heights of ecstasy I hear so many people describe. They talk about it in books, in movies, in music. I hear close friends describing the pleasure they receive from their boyfriends and husbands. I’ve heard it all, yet I just can’t relate. Since I was a teenager I’ve always been interested in my own body and I know better than anyone its limits and desires. I’ve tried everything on my own in my own bed with the right mood set and I think I’ve come close, but I still feel like I haven’t completely arrived. It’s like I’m eating a sundae without the hot fudge and the cherry. I’m at a complete loss and feel like sex is just a waste of time if I’m not experiencing it fully. Surely Romeo Pomodoro can help. Please?

“Farrah”
Merritt Island

Dear lady, of course I can help. But you think you’re alone in this predicament, don’t you? You would be foolish to think so. Would you believe that until his early twenties, Romeo himself suffered from this very problem? I was very popular due to my legendary stamina, but was never fully satisfied and was a woeful sight and object of pity in my village for many months. Between you and I, I still suffer from episodes of incompleteness from time to time. And I’ve found that the only way to achieve arrival is through vigorous but gentle manipulation from a sympathetic partner. Together we can overcome our problem. Why not drop by my sea-kissed bungalow to help me pull it off? Use the side gate. It’s always open and I am always nude on the verandah!

The Big Heist
By David Sherman

It was a brittle, bright Tuesday, not unusual in the middle of January, not unusual in any way, save that this was Audit Day. It happened at the Bank every year. Perhaps the only indications that this was no normal Audit Day were the names of the Auditors themselves.  Credentials presented at the security desk showed them to be Rick Pekoe, Michelle Oolong, and Rand Darjeeling. The head of the team was John Lipton. John had been a member of several previous Auditor teams, though this was his first time heading one. The odd part was that John’s last name had never been “Lipton” before. Many would later surmise that John had changed his name in order to ingratiate himself with his newfound friends. It seemed they had a common theme. They certainly had a common goal.

The Auditors were shown to the offices set aside for them, and apart from a few snickers around the water cooler about the whole “Tea” thing, business returned to normal. Then the CEO of the bank showed up and tried to log onto his computer. The moment his security password was entered his entire terminal shut down, as did every other terminal in the building. Frantic calls to the corporate Tech Division showed that the same thing had happened in every office, every branch, and every home computer affiliated with the Firm! Then came the demands… at which point “ominous” and “weird” were both up-graded to “bizarre” and “stark raving mad”!

“We have seized control of your entire financial system,” said the note delivered by a local courier service. ”We shall not relinquish control of your system until our demands are met. We know you are the largest single bank in the world. We know that with your funds, those of your depositors, and those of your investors locked away and at our control, thousands may suffer,” the note went on to say. ”We do not care!”

The note continued:  “We realize that this may cause businesses to fail, rents to lapse, and mortgages to go into default. We realize that the entire economies of many developing nations rely on this bank, and this may cause their collapse. We further realize that food and medications may not be purchased, and some may even die. To all of this, we repeat: WE DO NOT CARE!” It took every scrap of control the CEO possessed not to smash something. Anything. The note was signed: ”The Tea Party.”

Security rushed to the offices of the Auditors only to find them calmly sitting at their desks. Only the smug little smirks on their faces betrayed the fact they had any hand in the chaos that had gripped the entire building. ”Without us,” John (newly) Lipton calmly told the CEO, “It all disappears! Harm us and it all comes crashing down!” Despite his rage, the CEO recognized the precarious nature of his firm’s situation. He sat down, and after taking a few moments to compose himself, asked about the demands. The demands were without doubt the most mind-numbing twist of the entire affair:

Every account holder in the Bank who had assets in excess of two million dollars would receive a gift of a full million dollars. The money for these gifts would be taken from the accounts of the less wealthy account holders. Also, every corporation with accounts in the Bank would receive a bonus of two million dollars, the funds again to come from the accounts of the less well-to-do. Furthermore, the Bank would amend its bylaws to include said gifts and bonuses every year from that day on.

Beyond these points, on which all the Auditors were in complete agreement, each of the four had their own individual demand as well. Mr. Pekoe wanted Western Union to be forced to change its name to Western You Can All Be Replaced. Ms. Oolong wanted all of those swishy people to stop being so swishy, and to stop calling her husband at all hours and trying to get him to be swishy, too. Mr. Darjeeling wanted somebody, anybody, to make him a doctor, not a pretend doctor, mind you, but a real Doctor, one other doctors would acknowledge as an equal. Saddest of all was Mr. (newly) Lipton, who wanted a lifetime’s supply of spray tan, and a law forbidding that he or any of his descendants ever be picked last for anything or ever be beaten up behind the big slide.

I cannot tell you how this story ends, for as I am writing this, the “Drama at the Big Bank” is still playing out. Rest assured that in the end, in this story, they will all go to prison… for EXTORTION! (There may also be some mental health counseling involved.) What confuses me is why, when the same scenario is played out on an ever grander scale with our nation’s economy, as well as that of the rest of the world, no one is screaming, “EXTORTION!” from the highest rooftop. It is surely nothing less.

Everybody’s heard of Wilbur and Orville Wright, right? You know, the guys who invented the airplane. Some say others invented it, but history books today credit the Wright boys with the first reusable airplane. They were the pioneers of air travel.

Now what if, on that blustery December day in 1903, after strapping himself onto that kite with a motor, Orville Wright suddenly changed his mind? What if, at the last minute, he said, “Hey, Willie (he called his brother “Willie”), let’s bag this flimsy bundle of bedsheets and go back to Ohio and fix bicycles like we’ve always done”?

You know what would have happened. Somebody else would have done it and the Wright brothers would have secured their not-so-lofty place in obscurity just like the rest of us schmucks. And after all that planning, all those trials, all that expense… After suffering all those skeptics… “Hey, Willie, let’s bag this.” What a letdown for all involved.

I’ve let people down in my life. I’ve walked out on jobs, on bands, on friends. Second thoughts are easy to conceive. The night before my own wedding I got drunk in a motel room with my brother. It was probably the booze, but suddenly this freezing bolt of panic hit me and I thought of running. Funny thing: my wife said she had the same experience. No, she wasn’t drunk. She was sitting in a hot bath. But she thought about it. Wouldn’t it have been funny if we’d run into each other at the airport, each holding a one-way ticket to Pago-Pago?

The coldest feet I ever had came in May 1987, when my family and I embarked on our final move to Florida. Like the Wright brothers, we’d spent years planning and suffering skeptics (“Yeah right, LaClaire, you’ll never leave here.”). We’d quit our jobs, cancelled our lease, sold off all that was unnecessary, and crammed everything else in a decrepit U-Haul with no first gear and a faulty radio (“skrrrxx, skrrrxx…”). Our bridges were burning brightly. I’d eaten my first and last Buffalo fajita, and there we were, standing in our empty apartment, about to turn in our keys. Panic.

The first colonists must have felt this way, having lived in the same town, the same country, eating the same cuisine, and enjoying the comfort of generations of family and friends, and then, after severing all those ties, facing the great unknown. What if the Pilgrims had said, “Hey, let’s bag this”? You know what would’ve happened. Instead of the Plymouth Fury, we’d probably be driving the Jamestown Fury. (Ahem…) Anyway, someone else would have gotten the credit. Confucius said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Our first steps were downstairs. To the landlord’s. To turn in our keys. My wife, our baby and I crowded into the tiny alcove and rang their bell. This was hard. This was final. I was scared. The door creaked open.

“Hi, Mrs. — ”

I couldn’t get another word out. She began screaming at me. She was a tiny old lady, 80 years if a day. I didn’t know so small a package could pack such a wallop.

“What’s wrong with you people? You left the side door open all night! We could have been robbed! We could have been murdered! I could have been raped!” We had sold the washer and dryer the day before. Apparently, the buyers had left the door ajar. “Don’t you have any sense of responsibility? I could have woken up dead! I could have been raped!”

I looked at her tiny shriveled presence. In your dreams, lady. I handed over the keys. She kept yelling. “Irresponsible! That’s what you are! You never think of anybody else! I could have been raped! Murdered! Robbed!” My wife and daughter were already gone. I softly closed the door. “Raped! Murdered! Robbed!” I heard her all the way to the truck. In two years of tenancy we’d never exchanged a harsh word. I guess she’d been saving them up. All second thoughts on leaving evaporated. Goodbye, landlord. Goodbye, Buffalo. And good riddance.

The coonskin pioneers would begin their emigration with a muster. That is, they would gather. Ranks and rules having been defined, the initial leg of the journey was known as a shakedown. This was when you found out if your rig was sound. It also tested your commitment. We U-Haul pioneers had our shakedown.

Our first leg involved the Scajaquada Expressway, the New York State Thruway, State Route 400, and a somewhat hilly passage known as Route 16. Our mileage would have been a major feat in coonskin times. Conestogas, at a max, might make 12 miles per day. We’d covered 60 miles in less than an hour and a half. Regardless, our experience was still a shakedown.

I’d discovered this ancient truck was horrible on expressways. It was slow. It crowded the lane. Wind blew it around. And even though I was sitting way up high (so it seemed, compared to a car), the visibility was bad. I got lots of honks.

Hills were a new set of procedures. I spent five minutes trying to get into gear without stalling when traffic was stopped on a grade. This was embarrassing. People were honking, yelling. And that radio: skrrrxx, skrrrxx…

At last we’d reached our first destination: the in-laws’. I climbed down from my cab and banged the old beast on the fender. “Cheated death again,” I muttered and headed straight for the saloon — that is, my Father-In-Law’s built-in bar. My wife and baby had been there for 15 minutes (they drove the family Buick). I was greeted with, “What kept you?”

“Traffic was stalled on Route 16,” I half-lied. “Some jerk in a broke-down truck.”

I didn’t stay long at the bar. I needed to learn how to drive this thing, even if it meant practicing all night. And that’s about what I did. As soon as the dinner dishes were cleared I was back in the cab. For the next two hours I circled the neighborhood, clanging and grinding, in a desperate attempt to decipher the standard shift. I even parked it on a hill and tried to put it in gear. I don’t know why, but that skill kept eluding me. Finally I was satisfied, or at least sick of it, and resigned myself to take what the road may give.

I won’t say our departure the next morning was tearful, but it certainly was somber. At this point in our marriage, my wife and I possessed the first and only grandchild in the entire family. I suddenly felt selfish. Here we were, pursuing some half-baked dream while denying our in-laws the access to their greatest object of affection. There were promises to visit, to keep in touch, handshakes and hugs, and then we were off. It’s best to do these things quickly. It’s less painful. Or so I thought. A heavy sense of guilt fell upon me as the U-Haul lurched into gear. What would the coonskin crowd have done? Mail delivery was sketchy (that hasn’t changed). There was no long-distance telephone service then; no direct flights; not even buses or trains. A separation like this would’ve been final. Then I realized that in those days, the in-laws would have probably come along.

I pondered that scenario. We would have shared the same Conestoga. The women would have slept inside, up off the ground and the men beneath. We’d share every meal together. We’d work together, or try to. We’d have cholera together. And when we finally reached our Promised Valley, we’d probably spend at least a year together under the same roof, if not longer. Hey, I love my in-laws, but…

If there’s one thing to be said for driving an over-stuffed, under-geared antique U-Haul with a radio going skrrrxxx every six seconds, it’s that there’s never a dull moment. My depressed ponderings disappeared a mere five miles later. I was stuck. On a hill.

It wasn’t really a hill; it was a little hump over an intersecting street. But any obstacle is huge when you’ve no low gear. I was like, snagged. Five, then six times I started, only to flub the clutch and stall. A kid yelled from the corner; something about giving me a driving lesson. People honked. I needed to back up. Finally the guy behind gave me some rocking room. The gears engaged, and I was on my way.

There comes a point in every emigration where there’s no turning back. With the Pilgrims, it was the open sea (though one of their ships, the Godspeed, actually did turn back). With the coonskin types, it was the Mississippi. With us U-Haul pioneers it was a mere sign: “Welcome To Pennsylvania.” Now we were definitely on our way; committed, as it were.

Southward ho!

Gemini: Don’t worry, Gemini. There are plenty of other fish in the sea. They just dwell in very, very low depths. So low, in fact, that when you bring them up, they can’t adjust to the change in light and temperature and promptly die when you try to lift them up onto your rusty jon boat. Maybe your bait is stale.

Cancer: Yes, in case you’re wondering, size does matter. But you knew that already, didn’t you, you jerk. I mean, you’re probably the only guy I know who’s decided to outfit his crappy, second-hand Mazda with a really wide muffler. That high-pitched buzzing sound you make when you accelerate past me at the stoplight is such a turn-on!

Leo: This next election — one of he most important of the century — will hinge solely on your vote. So who will it be, that peroxided, collagened, siliconed blonde in the string bikini, or the brunette with the big knockers wearing Brazilian dental floss? Have another rum runner and get involved!

Virgo: You take being green to another level, Virgo. Your rapacious jealousy gets you into many a tight corner with those thousands of old lovers you keep running into. Maybe you should stop recycling all those old lines and start a compost heap.

Libra: Wow, do you look like something! I mean, that tortured gaze! That impeccable posture! That sexy tilt of your head! When does the neck brace come off? And what the hell happened to you?

Scorpio: Sex appeal isn’t everything. In fact, it’s nothing as far as you’re concerned. Your taste in mates is on a par with a French sommelier with inoperable tongue cancer. If you need to know the difference between a St. Emilion ’62 and a Colt 45, just ask the guy next to you with his head down on the bar.

Sagittarius: Who says money buys happiness? Well, you sure do. Especially when happiness comes in the form of a roll of electrical tape, Vaseline, and a bootlegged copy of “Spring Break Dreams II: Wetter and Wilder.” That’ll be $24.95, you sad, sad fool.

Capricorn: Gas prices getting you down? Don’t fret. The way you consume Taco Bell’s frita suprema gordita chimichanga grandes, you could fuel a fleet of overloaded Escalades with your flatulence. Crack a window, for Pete’s sake.

Aquarius: Desperate times call for desperate measures. Your level of desperation, however, is so off the scale that a roomful of IBMs couldn’t calculate your loserhood. Things are looking up, though. This month will see you go from “groveling” to “bowing and scraping.” Well done.

Pisces: There’s something behind you, Pisces, and it ain’t your pudgy can. Yes, that’s right, it’s your past, and it’s catching up with you pretty quickly in the form of a 400-lb. Samoan mime named “Flippy.” That’ll teach you to chuck M80s at guys stuck in glass boxes.

Aries: Good news, lovable ram! Everything’s coming up roses! Looking into my crystal ball, I can see that everything’s just gonna get better from here on out. Love? Check. Money? Check. Fame? Check. Happiness? Double check. Yes, life is beautiful, and come the 15th you’ll be on top of the world! Unless your name happens to be Dave. Sorry, man.

My husband travels a lot for work. It’s been this way ever since he got the job 10 years ago, but lately it seems like it’s gotten worse. No sooner does he come home and unpack than he has to get back on a plane. I know I shouldn’t complain because we have a beautiful home and plenty in the bank thanks to Carl’s job, but I’m starting to feel left out. The kids are off in college and I’m often stuck at home at loose ends. I’m very active in the community and enjoy several hobbies, but I’m beginning to resent Carl’s jet-setting lifestyle. Whenever he is home, he likes to stay around the house and we rarely vacation. Our relationship is beginning to show signs of strain. I married Carl to spend more time with him, but lately we aren’t enjoying each other’s company at all. Am I just acting like a spoiled ingrate? What I need is a mate, not a roommate!

Nancy G.
Merritt Island

Sounds as if you’re due for a vacation yourself, Eleanor. You may need to clear your head and relax to help you put things in perspective. In fact, as it happens, I’m due for a holiday myself. How about coming to Australia with me for a few weeks? I’d love to see you down under! G’day, mate!

Romeo,

I’ve had a lot of girlfriends, but I’ve never had as much trouble with an ex as I’m having right now with Debbie. One of the main reasons I broke up with her was because she was getting too possessive and needy. Since we split I’ve caught her driving past my apartment and workplace several times a day. I’m thinking about calling the cops on her, but a lawyer friend told me that Debbie wasn’t actually doing anything illegal, just weird. But last week i caught her rifling through some old junk I put outside by the curb. When I yelled at her from out my window, she just took off. I’m no wuss, but I’m starting to get freaked out. You must have been in situations like this before. Any advice?

“Jake”
Cocoa Beach

Sorry to hear about your predicament, Rick. I have indeed been in plenty of similar situations. In fact, I’m so stalked that people often call me “Broccoli.” The difference between you and I, however, is that I have no problem with crazy women handling my junk!

Dear Romeo,

Just when you think you’ve got your finger on current sexual fads, along comes someone to throw you for a loop. I’m an aging baby boomer and grew up in a time when oral sex was a taboo subject of conversation, but in nowadays it’s seen as passe and rather white bread. Now the kids are into all kinds of deviant sexual practices I never even imagined — and this is coming from a guy who’s been to his fair share of bisexual, wife-swapping orgies! I consider myself to be as sexually open-minded as the next guy, but I’m having a hard time keeping up with the latest sexual practices. My question to you is, when should one stop exploring new sexual avenues? What’s a graceful age to give up trying?

“Thorvald”
Cocoa Beach

I certainly understand your frustration, Lyle. As an aging lothario myself, I too have issues with constantly changing sexual mores. But I’ve also always been something of a freak, and as such, have never had a hard time keeping up with anything! And as far as these sexual fads go, it’s never really a bad idea to always be coming up the rear!

Dear Romeo,

Of all the things that get you excited about a woman, what’s the most arousing? Just curious.

Jane T.
Cape Canaveral

Interesting question, Gilda. It’s something I’ll have to think long and hard about.

“Classy” Hobby Louis “Shovelhead” Garrett is an artist, a mannequin collector and a quilter in the eastern Missouri town of Louisiana, with a specialty in sewing quilts from women’s panties, according to a report in the Hannibal Courier-Post. After showing his latest quilt at a women’s luncheon in Hannibal in March, he told the newspaper of his high standards: “No polyester. I don’t want those cheap, dollar-store, not-sexy, farm-girl panties. I want classy — silk or nylon.”

The Not-So Dark Knight On Halloween day (1989), Tallahassee, Fla., K-Mart employee Jeff Sablom was taking a break in the back of the store to try on the Batman costume he had planned to wear to a party that night when a security guard asked for his help to apprehend a shoplifter. Said the guard later, “You should have seen that man’s eyes when he looked back and saw Batman chasing him.” Sablom recovered four cartons of cigarettes and two videocassettes.

Our Gubmint In April, Texas state Rep. John Davis of Houston proposed a tax break — aimed at buyers of yachts valued at more than a quarter-million dollars. Davis promised more yacht sales and, through a ripple effect, more jobs if Texas capped the sales tax on yachts at the amount due on a $250,000 vessel — a break of almost $16,000 on a $500,000 boat. Elsewhere, the federal government failed to foresee that fighting two wars simultaneously, with historically high wound-survival rates, might produce surges of disability claims. Just in the last year, according to an April USA Today report, claims are up over 50 percent, and those taking longer than two months to resolve have more than doubled. (Tragically, Marine Clay Hunt, who was a national spokesman for disability rights and who suffered from post-traumatic stress, killed himself on March 31, ultimately frustrated that the Department of Veterans Affairs had lost his paperwork. “I can track my pizza from Pizza Hut on my BlackBerry,” he once said, “but the VA can’t find my claim for four months.”)

Aerostar Cabbage The local board of health closed down the Wing Wah Chinese restaurant in South Dennis, Mass., briefly in August (1992) for various violations. The most serious, said officials, was the restaurant’s practice of draining water from cabbage by putting it in cloth laundry bags, placing the bags between two pieces of plywood in the parking lot, and driving over them with a van. Said Health Director Ted Dumas, “I’ve seen everything now.”

Breeding And Refinement Sharon Newling, 58, was arrested in Salisbury, N.C., in April and charged with shooting at her stepson with a .22-caliber rifle. She denied shooting “at” him, but said she was just shooting toward him “to make him stop working on his truck.” In April in Greensboro, N.C., Stephanie Preston and Bobby Duncan were married in front of family and friends at the local Jiffy Lube. Lastly, 25-year-old man in Okaloosa County, Fla., was arrested and charged with misdemeanor trespassing after he entered the Club 51 Gentlemen’s Club, from which he had been banned after a February incident. The man told police that he knew he had been banned from a strip club but couldn’t remember which one.

Dangerously Delicious Erie County (N.Y.) jail officials suspended guards Lawrence Mule, a 26-year veteran, and James Conlin, a 29-year veteran, after they scuffled at the County Correctional Facility on April 21, reportedly over a bag of chips. An inmate had to break up the fight.

Unbearable Whiteness Of Being An anti-terrorism drill scheduled for Pottawattamie County, Iowa, in March, which was to practice community co-ordination after an attack by a hypothetical white supremacist group angry about illegal immigration, had to be canceled. The sheriff said callers claiming to be white supremacists were angry at being picked on as “terrorists” and had threatened a school in Treynor, Iowa, with an attack that closely resembled the kind of imagined attack that would have preceded the simulated drill.

Tea Fairies In Chinese legend, tea leaves picked by fairies using not their hands but just their mouths yielded brewed tea that would bring prosperity and cure diseases, and now the historic, picturesque Jiuhua Mountain Tea Plantation (in Gushi, Henan province) has promised to hire up to 10 female virgins to provide the equivalently pure and delicate tea leaves, picked with the teeth and dropped into small baskets worn around the women’s necks. According to an April report in London’s Daily Mail, only virgins with strong necks and lips (and a bra size of C-cup or larger), and without visible scars or blemishes, will be considered for the equivalent-$80-a-day jobs (an almost unheard-of salary in China, especially for agricultural field work).

By the time you read this it will be July and summer.

I often write about the seasons in Florida. We do have them, contrary to popular belief, and though it might feel like May in January, there’s no way you’re going to confuse July with anything but July. It’s hot, and it’s gonna stay hot probably till November.

If we’re lucky, it rains every day. Yeah, I get sick of the rain too, but it sure beats a dry summer. Those mean only two things: record-breaking temperatures and fire.

I wonder what would have happened if our first Florida settlers had arrived for a “dry summer.” Would they have stayed? The crops they planted wouldn’t grow. There probably weren’t any fire departments; there would be the constant threat of being burned out. I wonder if they’d seen that, in their initial encounter with Florida, if they’d just figured “Hey, this place sucks” and headed back to… Well… Wherever it was they headed here from.

Anyone who leaves somewhere of their own volition has done so for a reason. Usually it’s economic, but it can also be the climate, politics, or even the neighbors. It can be a combination of these things too. Prime examples were America’s early emigrants, the pioneers, as it were. Most left their homes for the promise of free land and a place to make their own life. That’s economics. Some left to escape religious persecution or bigotry. That’s politics. Others left because of famine or crop failure. That’s climate. And probably a few split because a storm flattened their crops, a mob burned their church, and the neighbors played a continuous ear-splitting tape loop of “That’s the Way (I Like It)” by KC and the Sunshine Band. That’s economics, politics, climate, and bad neighbors. Regardless, they became our pioneers, the ones who risked everything to build a better life.

Unless you’re a member of the extinct Ais tribe, or were born in Florida, you too are a pioneer. I like that notion. The common image of the American Pioneer is the coonskin-hatted, rifle-totin’, buckskin-wearing, ox-driving, covered wagon pilot. It’s time to shatter the stereotype. If you went anywhere to escape something and make a better life, in my opinion, you’re a pioneer.

So there. I’m a pioneer. Let’s compare Now with Then and see how I stack up.

First, you gotta be from somewhere else and you gotta have a reason to leave. Okay, I used to live in Buffalo, New York. Do I need to list reasons? Just kidding… Buffalo, to the folks born there, is the only place in the world to be. When I announced to my landlord that I was moving to Florida, her immediate reaction was: “Oh! I’m so sorry! You have to leave Buffalo!” But I was not born there. Those ties were not that hard to cut. My reasons for leaving were two: I was going to start my own business and I was going to do it where there was better fishing. Now that’s not to say the fishing in Western New York was bad, I’d had plenty of fun, but in Florida you could fish year round. So there are the reasons: economics and climate.

Once the decision is made, the pioneer must pack and provision. This involves choosing what to bring that you already have and what to purchase to get you there. The buckskin crowd would gather the Bible, the muskets, a stick of furniture, and maybe a hand mirror and hook up with an outfitter or trail master. Provisions such as bacon, hard tack, and dried beans would be loaded into the U-Haul of its day, the covered wagon, or more succinctly, the Conestoga wagon. Have you ever seen one of these things? I have. They’re pretty hefty, about twenty feet long, and built like a ship. Big iron-rimmed wooden wheels and no suspension nearly guaranteed a bumpy ride—kinda like a U-Haul! And that’s what my family packed for our great migration: a U-Haul, the Conestoga wagon of the 1980s. And like a Conestoga wagon, the U-Haul was barely equipped.

Over the phone I was promised a recent model, automatic shift, A/C, and AM/FM/cassette sound system. I was psyched. I’d never driven a truck before, at least not for 1,500 miles, and the fact that all would be up-to-date was reassuring. They had my deposit a month in advance.

I remember the scene well. They tossed me the keys and I strode into the lot. This beast was 30-years-old. There was paint missing, an oil puddle beneath, and the seat was covered with what looked like chicken wire. “That’s to keep the springs from stickin’ you in the butt,” the trail master — I mean, the clerk — said. No A/C. AM radio. And worst of all, a stick on the floor. “I can’t drive this,” I admitted.

“You can’t drive a standard? What are you, retarded?”

“Uh, yeah — I mean, no! I just, well… Yeah, I’m retarded.”

“You want your money back?”

“Well… They told me automatic, A/C, AM/FM… ”

“Who’d you talk to?”

“I booked it through the main office. Phoenix… ”

“This ain’t Phoenix. It’s Buffalo.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“You want your money back?”

We’d sold almost all our furniture. We had two days left on our lease. Everything was in boxes on the porch. “No,” I sighed. “I have to take it. Can you… I never… ”

“Aw hell,” the guy laughed. “Everybody learns on these things. You’ll get the hang of it!”

Yeah, I got the hang of it. I also learned it had no first gear, but soon I was barreling down the Niagara Extension, anticipating the wife’s reaction. The pioneers used oxen, for the most part, to haul their Conestogas. If things got real bad on the trail, you could eat an ox.

Even if a 1956 GMC oil-bath air filter V8 was edible, I wasn’t about to eat this one. This truck was a turd. Even the AM radio — the only amenity — was a bust. Every six seconds, no matter what channel, it emitted a loud skrrxxx. I jiggled the knobs. Skrrxxx! I banged on the metal dash. Skrrxxx! One of the euphemisms the early pioneers had for their experience was “Seeing the Elephant.” I was riding one.

Have you ever been on the verge of something — a great adventure like going off to college, or marriage, or a new job — and suddenly wanted to rethink it? Maybe even … back out?

I’ve had my share of life-changing precipices — all the above and more — but the “rethink” urge never came on as strong as it did the afternoon we left Buffalo in May, 1987. My last meal in the Queen City on that day was lunch. One thing Buffalo did have was a plethora of great eating establishments. And on this day, our last day, we discovered a brand new one. It was the first time I ever sampled a fajita. Don’t laugh folks, but that fancy taco almost changed the course of my history. The truck was loaded, the last of our furniture had been sold, and we were waiting for the baby to finish her nap before turning in the keys. We sat on the floor of our bare kitchen and my wife said: “Why don’t you go down to the corner and pick up something for lunch?”

Sadness fell upon me as I walked our street to Hertel Avenue. It was a beautiful day, a weekday. I was never home on weekdays. The lawns were green, the trees were lush, and neighbors smiled as I passed. Why would I ever want to leave this place? Shortly I was amid the bustle of Hertel Avenue, with its bars, bistros, and boutiques. I could smell souvlaki, garlic, and sausages mingled with “that old Detroit perfume” (car exhaust), and for the first time in ten years I felt at home in that city. Here was a bar my band used to play in. There’s where I bought my olives every Thursday. Here was my bus stop. There was my newsstand. And there… There… Was a fajita joint. It wasn’t there a week ago. Hmm…

The owner was a kid. Or at least he looked like a kid to me; maybe twenty-five. He had that eager look of a first-time entrepreneur. “What’ll it be?” he greeted.

“What’s good?” I’d never had a fajita before. I didn’t even know how to pronounce it.

“It’s all good,” he urged. “Order the beef.”

I did. As the meat sizzled, I looked around. “This used to be a music store,” I commented.

“And a sausage packer before that,” the kid added. “Got a beautiful clean room in the back. My Dad worked here.”

Peppers and onions hit the griddle. The smell was intoxicating. I wondered if I would ever smell it again. “I bought strings here just a year ago.” There was one of those old glass stand-up coolers stocked with Canadian beer. I wondered if I would ever taste that again. The meat was flipped, the whole shebang was herded into soft shells and wrapped deftly in deli paper.

“Onions too strong, maybe?” the kid asked as I fished a couple of bills from my wallet.

“No… Why?”

“Your eyes… They’re watering.”

My first fajita.

It was delicious.

How could I leave this place?

Cancer: You’ve hit a dead end. You don’t know where to turn. You’re desperate. You’re ready to crack. What in the hell is a five-letter word for “Dolt” beginning with “IDI” and ending in “T”?

Leo: You’re a conservationist at heart. You recycle, you buy organic produce, and you ride your bicycle to work every day. But that’s not enough. You also need to save your breath. Stop bragging to everyone about how “green” you are and live a little why don’t you?

Virgo: You dressed yourself up, opened the door for her, held her hand, paid the bill, and drove her home. So why no hanky panky? What went wrong? Maybe taking her to Lucky Dragon Grand Buffet wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Scorpio: Feel like things are going your way finally? Don’t be so sure. I know of at least six people who’d say otherwise. One’s your priest and the other five all work in the Public Defender’s office.

Libra: The Lord works in mysterious ways. Like how does lighting always strike you whenever there’s a thunderstorm? And how did he come up with the idea of metal plates that those doctors inserted into your head?

Sagittarius: Wow! That was some night, wasn’t it? Everyone was going crazy — especially you! That was really great! You are one dancing fool! No, I mean you really are a dancing fool. You dance like a complete fool.

Capricorn: People just love ordering you around, don’t they? What is is about you that makes people feel like they can always take the upper hand? Is it your sweet disposition? Your deeply-rooted belief system? Maybe it’s the orange jumpsuit you’re always wearing.

Aquarius: If you asked me to enlist someone to record the soundtrack for the movie of your life, I’d choose either Xavier Cugat or Henry Mancini. Unfortunately, both have long since passed, so it looks like I’ll be calling Boy George.

Pisces: Travel is what you need, fish. I know your budget is tight, but there are plenty of exotic locales that don’t cost a fortune. Darvocet isn’t a city in Romania, but it’s still a pretty nice destination.

Aries: Time to stop putting off all those changes you’ve been promising to make. Time to take a hard look at yourself in the mirror and get yourself back in shape. I know it’s a difficult task, but it will all seem doable after two calzones and a dozen Peronis.

Taurus: Quit nitpicking about everyone else’s faults when yours are just as glaring, you sanctimonious jerk. Maybe taking up the cloth wasn’t the good idea it sounded like now that you’ve been caught with your hand in the church’s poor box.

Erring On The Side Of Seagal! A tank and several armored vehicles with dozens of SWAT officers and a bomb robot rolled into a generally quiet Phoenix neighborhood on March 21, startling the residents. Knocking down a wall, deputies raided the home of Jesus Llovera, who was “suspected” of running a cockfighting business, and, indeed, 115 chickens were found inside, but Llovera was alone and unarmed, and his only previous connection to cockfights was a misdemeanor conviction in 2010 for attending one. “We’re going to err on the side of caution,” said Sgt. Jesse Spurgin. Adding to neighbors’ amazement was the almost-fanciful sight — riding in the tank — of actor Steven Seagal, who had brought his “Lawman” reality TV show to Phoenix.

Inferior Designers Businesses typically resist government regulation, but in March Florida’s interior designers begged the state House of Representatives to continue controlling them, with a theatrically ham-handed lobbying campaign challenging a deregulation bill. Designers righteously insisted that only “licensed professionals” (with a minimum six years of college and experience) could prevent the nausea Floridians would suffer from inappropriate color schemes (affecting the “autonomic nervous system” and salivary glands). Also, poorly designed prison interiors could be turned into weapons by inmates. Furthermore, deregulation would contribute to “88,000 deaths” a year from flammable materials that would suddenly inundate the market in the absence of licensing. Said one designer, addressing House committee members, “You (here in this chamber) don’t even have correct seating.” (If deregulation is successful, competition will increase, and lower fees are expected.)

Cure For Mosquito Bites Young girls “grow up” prematurely, often aided by hungry retailers such as the U.S.’s Abercrombie & Fitch and the British clothiers Primark and Matalan, each of which this spring began offering lines of padded bras for girls as young as 7 (8 at Abercrombie & Fitch for the “Ashley Push-Up Triangle”), with Matalan offering one in size “28aa.” Child advocates were predictably disgusted, with one Los Angeles psychologist opining that permissive mothers were trying to compensate through their daughters for their own lack of sexual appeal.

Don’t Mess With Their Priorities In January, while the Texas Legislature debated budget cuts that would almost certainly cost Allen High School (just north of Dallas) at least $18 million and require layoffs of teachers and other school personnel, construction was continuing on the school’s new $60 million football stadium. Noted a New York Times report on the stadium (which 63 percent of voters approved in a 2009 bond referendum), “(O)nly football supersedes faith and family (among Texans).”

Death Panels? Marla Gilson, 59, was fired in April after her employer callously rejected her offer to work from home in Chevy Chase, Md., at reduced salary, while she recovers from chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant for her leukemia. Gilson’s job was chief executive of the Association of Jewish Aging Services of North America, which serves 112 facilities that help frail and elderly Jews during their final years. Gilson’s termination also made her health care much more expensive and potentially made her uninsurable in the future if her treatment is successful. (Nonetheless, the board of directors thanked her for her service and wished her a “speedy recovery.”)

Up The Bum Marie Stopes International is a prominent London charity that robustly promotes a woman’s right to choose abortion, but a whimsical public service campaign in January has created unusually savage criticism. The organization partnered with the British comedy music band The Midnight Beast to produce a video suggesting anal sex as a contraceptive of choice. Among the lyrics of one song, “One up the bum, and it’s no harm done/One up the bum, and you won’t be a mum.”

Ducking Insane A Tulsa, Okla., physician, writing in a 1992 issue of the Irish Journal of Psychological Medicine, reported on a 32-year-old woman whose neighbors had just had a large satellite dish installed in their yard. The woman became convinced that she was being wooed by Donald Duck and that the dish had been placed there to facilitate his communicating with her. She spent lots of time “hovering” around the dish and eventually undressed and climbed into it, where she said later that she had consummated marriage to Mr. Duck.

Nice Piece! Sigurdur Hjartarson’s life’s work is his Phallological Museum in the fishing town of Husavik, Iceland. As the world’s only all-penis attraction, it draws tourists by the thousands, eager to see the 276-specimen collection of desiccated or stuffed organs from a wide range of animals. However, only in April (15 years after it opened) did the museum acquire a human penis, donated by the late Pall Arason, an acquaintance who, said Hjartarson, “liked to be in the limelight … to be provocative.” To an Associated Press reporter inquiring of the “size” of Arason’s donation, Hjartarson said only, “You will just have to come and see it.”

I have a weakness for men with accents. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve passed over drop-dead gorgeous, red-blooded American guys for the dumpy Greek tourist sitting in the corner. It doesn’t matter where they come from — China, India, Holland, or Chile — so long as I can detect an accent as soon as they open their mouths I’m in all the way. Yet as a successful small business owner with strong ties to the area and whose biological clock is ticking away I’m also dead set on finding a regular American guy with whom to settle down and raise a family. And American guys can have accents, right? What I got last week wasn’t at all what I expected to find. The first time I met “Joe” I knew he was the one, but his Alabama twang isn’t the kind of regional accent I was hoping for. Frankly, it’s starting to turn me off. Am I being too much of a snob?

M.K.
Cocoa Beach

A woman who likes an accent is an idea I can definitely get behind. And usually, behind every woman who likes accents who comes into my bedroom, is a handsome and skilled man from Hoboken pretending he’s from a small Tuscan village. Why not take Joe to a speech therapist or voice coach? He’ll sound a lot more enticing to you with perhaps a Scottish burr or Croatian mumble? Problimisolvid, no?

Dear Romeo,

First off, I’m not gay. Let me make that much clear. But does that stop me from getting hit on by gays every time I go back home to visit my family in Wisconsin? Hell no. I don’t know what it is with that state, but to me it’s way worse than California or New York. Don’t get me wrong; I have a lot of gay friends, but wherever I go in Wisconsin I’m instantly surrounded by lisping, well-groomed men. Any thoughts?

“Kyle”
Cocoa Beach

So you’re not gay, Mike. We’ve got that much straight. Any place where a common newspaper headline during draft season is “Packers Grab Tight End” should set off some gently tinkling alarm bells. But I’d feel flattered if I were you. Still though, if you’re so concerned about being accosted, try wearing decidedly “straight” attire like a NASCAR sweatshirt or football jersey. Clothing items like these should indicate clearly which team you play for, thereby deflecting any unwanted advances. But don’t be too stubborn; I hear the two-point conversion is making a comeback. I’m open!

Romeo,

I’m embarrassed to tell you that I don’t last very long in bed. To be honest, I prefer foreplay to the actual act because I’m usually able to hold out for about an hour. But once it gets to the actual deed it’s all over. Do you have any tips for me?

“T.J.”
Cape Canaveral

Plenty of tips and techniques can be found in my 2002 book, “Ejaculatory physiology and dysfunction,” the name of which was changed by the publisher from “I’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain.” But there’s nothing wrong with what you’re experiencing. In fact, it puts me in mind of when I first moved here and worked as a sailor-for-hire at Port Canaveral. As pleasing as it was to go on the odd long voyage out in the open sea, I much preferred the 10-minute tug jobs.

Romeo,

I just met this great Cuban woman while on a business trip to Miami. We didn’t hook up, but she’s due to come up here to visit me soon, based in large part on my drunken promise to cook her an authentic Cuban meal. The fact is that I know nothing about Cuban food or culture and lied about my ethnic background I guess a little too convincingly. I’m a third-generation Swede from Minnesota and don’t know a frijole from a media noche. You’ve got to help me!

Daniel S.
Indian Harbour Beach

Fear not, Oliver. Romeo will assist you in your time of need. I am very familiar with Cuban cuisine and can prepare you a dinner that will have her at your mercy by the time she takes a nibble of my smothered tostones. And as soon as she puts her lips to my firm malanga, we’ll all be off to BEACH PAWN (6992 N. Atlantic Ave., Cape Canaveral) for an engagement ring!

Gardening 102: Tomatoes
By Rick LaClaire

Melbourne Harbor was a different environment years ago. It was a working harbor; boats were hauled and fitted, sails were stitched, and a number of people (myself included) managed to squeeze a few bucks out of that place. I learned the difference between garboards and leeboards, ship’s logs and shaft logs, a transit and a transom. I got to know the cats and the bums and where to hang when your stomach was growling. Those were wonderful days, and the friends we made are friends still.

Buffalo and Melbourne have some things in common. Water is everywhere. So are boats. When my wife and I returned to Buffalo in 1981, our first attraction was to the many marinas. There were great buys to be had. That became our goal: to buy a live-aboard yacht, fix it up, and sail her back to Florida.

We perused issues of Yachting and Sailing. I bought every copy of Wooden Boat on the newsstand. I even bought a kit and built my own canoe on our apartment balcony (the landlord was not pleased). We borrowed books from the library and saw how people lived aboard worldwide. Then my wife gave me a book called “Sailing the Farm” by Ken Neumeyer. It touted “independence on thirty feet” and was supposed to be “A survival guide to homesteading on the ocean.” We were hooked.

I learned you could eat seaweed. You could live on sprouts, preserved eggs, and something called “spirulina.” You could even grow a garden in containers. Right on your deck! Why, that was almost like having your own garden right on your — dare I say — apartment balcony? And so we became urban gardeners. And that’s when we learned about late blight.

It was hot on that balcony. It faced south. By summer the spinach and lettuce had dried up. The chives were next to go. The tomatoes looked great though, as long as you kept them watered. We had a few cherries, then the blooms began to drop. The beefsteak specimens had gorgeous green globes, and slowly, as the summer wore on, they began to pale and appear to ripen. Then, a slight blush. Then… Then… What the heck was this? A black spot. On the very bottom. No matter. It’s small. No, wait… Now it’s not. Aw, gee, it’s only August and what gives? Pretty soon half the fruit was black. We had discovered late blight. But how could that be? It wasn’t that late! It was the heat. A south facing porch, a steel deck, white siding reflecting the sun; it was an oven out there. We had picked the wrong place to grow.

No matter. We’ll try other varieties. A different side of the house… There had to be some way to grow fresh veggies while we sailed the world. Our lives would depend on it. We got into sprouts big-time and grew them all winter. We ate them with everything. I ruined Thanksgiving dinner by putting them in the dressing (yes, we had company). It made the whole bird taste like lawn clippings. Also, be careful with radish sprouts. They burn at both ends. Okay, sprouts get tiresome and veggies don’t handle tropical heat. Was there anything else that could stop us from realizing our dream of living aboard in complete and utter independence? Yep. We had a baby.

Cut now to 1996, Melbourne Beach, Florida. September 21st, the first day of autumn… Ninety-two degrees… It would be tomatoes-only this season. I would stare down the “Jane Kaczmarek Challenge” and grow enough tomatoes to feed all the boat people I knew. And you know what? In 1996, I did.

’96 was probably the best season I ever had with Florida tomatoes. After two seasons of trying to grow full-size northern varieties like Beefsteaks, I was advised by a radio talk show to try a smaller, faster-ripening breed like “Better Boy.” It made sense; my cherry tomatoes flourished. So in ’96 I planted a dozen Better Boy plants. That was a big crop, and coupled with two Sweet 100 cherry bushes, I soon had buckets of tomatoes. For a Christmas Eve party that year I brought a three-quart bowl of vine-ripened cherries. They were gone in twenty minutes. The Better Boys began ripening soon after. It was a forgiving winter ’96-’97 and we had Better Boys from New Year’s till Easter; not just for ourselves, but also for neighbors, friends, and customers. I even shipped a couple dozen to my mother and anxiously awaited her verdict. “They’re okay,” she said, “but not as good as the ones we grew in New York.” I knew she was right, but was proud anyway. How many tomatoes were New Yorkers picking at that time of year?

I also had good advice from my neighbor Jerry. Jerry lived beachside for decades and had gone through his own tomato phase. He claimed the old-timers grew vegetables in pits lined with marl, filled with cow manure and peat moss. That made sense. What’s marl? So in ’96, pits it was. Was I actually starting to listen to advice? That was so unlike me. But hey, there I was at the post office shipping tomatoes to my mother. …After having a tomato and cheese omelet for breakfast …Then going home to a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich for lunch…

I got bad advice, too. I got this from a book on Florida gardening: mulch. Don’t mulch here. It breeds nematodes. Use amendments every season instead (manure and peat moss). Yeah, mulch is cheap and it’s a great way to recycle your yard waste, but the things that make mulch mulch will also eat the roots off your plants. Up north they have freezes every year. That keeps the mulch-making nematodes in check. We can go a decade without a freeze here. Each season they just keep multiplying. They love tomato roots.

There are lots of leaf and fruit eaters. Everybody’s seen tomato hornworms. I found the best way to get rid of them naturally was to check the plants with a flashlight at night. They hide well, but you get the hunter’s eye pretty quick. Just look for turds, then look up. They get so big you can hear them chewing. There are lots of nifty frogs out at night too. Leave them alone. Another planteater is the orange-head, a medium-sized caterpillar. You can pick them too, but they get pretty numerous. So do leaf-girdlers and leaf-rollers. Soon it gets out of hand and the next thing you know, out comes the insecticide.

I don’t like using chemicals, but this is Florida. Tomatoes are not native. You need all the help you can get, natural or unnatural. I tried going “natural” with insecticide. The same book that told me to mulch said you could make a multi-purpose insecticide by using a “tea” made with tobacco. After all, the book claimed, many insecticides were tobacco-based. So I steeped-up a gallon of Red Man and proceeded to spray. It did nothing. Apparently, beachside caterpillars don’t mind a good chaw. I only have one more word about insects: Sevin. And spray the soil…

’97-’98 saw another good crop and I was so psyched I tried a summer crop. More bad advice… Someone at Mao Mart said to grow Romas, those pear-shaped beauties from Italy. I planted in May. Yeah, they popped right up, and looked great. Then we took a week’s vacation in New York. The neighbor kids were supposed to water them for me. They swore they did, but all the plants were dead in a week. There were also signs of late blight. Things started going downhill. With each season the yield shrank. By 2000 I was no longer giving them away. We were lucky to get one or two a week for the table by ’04. Cherries, yeah, but you get sick of cherries; you can’t put them on a sandwich. The problem? Nematodes. I even replaced the soil two years in a row. By ’08 I couldn’t get the plants to reach maturity; they just shriveled, choked off at the roots. I tried Nemacide, and it worked for a few weeks but soon lost its oomph. Then they quit making Nemacide.

My last crop was ’09-’10. Again, no yield, due mainly to the weather. We finally got those long-awaited freezes. Last fall I did not plant. I’m giving it a rest. I’m glad I did. I would have lost it all by December.

So there you go, Jane Kaczmarek, I have witnessed failure. Will I plant again? Of course. Because failure is part of the game. Right, Jane?

I have a question about New Year’s Eve 2012. I know it’s way early, but my wife is already trying to ruin the plans it took us so long to make. You see, it’s been on our bucket list for a long time to ring in a new year in NYC and see the ball drop. After two years of planning and saving, we finally bought our tickets and reserved a room in a hotel overlooking Times Square. Well, you know how women are. Cathy is now convinced that the world is going to end in 2012 based on some nonsense she read about the Mayan calendar prophecies and now wants to stay closer to home with her mom, dad, and two sisters. She says if we’re going to die we should all be together. But I say that if we’re all going to die, what does it matter? We may as well enjoy ourselves, right? But Cathy won’t hear of it and is refusing to go. That’s a helluva lot of time and money wasted and all for some predictions that may or may not come true. What should we do?

Steve M.
Cocoa Beach

This is quite a conundrum, Donald. I overheard someone discussing these ancient Mayan predictions the other day while browsing at BEACH PAWN, which is located at 6992 N. Atlantic Ave. in Cape Canaveral, and the details and coincidences are somewhat unsettling. Whether or not the Apocalypse does come to pass isn’t really the issue though, as every New Year’s Eve should be a very special event. And this is why I propose a compromise: you could go to New York with another friend and your wife could stay here with me on my breezy seaside verandah to watch my ball drop. You’re welcome!

Dear Romeo,

I’m so embarrassed! There’s this guy I’ve been into for a long time, and he kinda seemed like he was kind of into me too. I never made the moves on him because he’s had a pretty serious girlfriend he’s been with since college. Well, last week I found out when we were at the bar that he broke up with her and I got so excited that I got pretty drunk and my friends pressured me into doing my famous “sexy dance” on a barstool to catch his attention. I’ve done it a bunch of times at this bar and it’s never failed to catch a guy’s interest and the good thing is that all the stools are bolted to the floor. Well this time I got up on one and it was really wobbly and it came up out of the floor while I was dancing on it and I totally collapsed and fell on my face and knocked a tooth out! Oh. My. God. When I woke up “Rich” was nowhere to be found and I’m scared that now he’s totally turned off by me. What can I do to get a second chance?

“Cindy”
Cape Canaveral

I wouldn’t worry too much, Margo. Be sure in the future to drink more responsibly and try not to come on too strong. He may still be hurting after his breakup. I’d be more concerned about your problem with loose stools. Make sure that all your stools henceforth are firm and solid before you attempt your dance. BEACH PAWN (6992 N. Atlantic Ave., Cape Canaveral; 868-CASH) might have some furniture items in stock.

Mr. Pomodoro,

I will be in your area in a few months’ time on business and would like to know where I might be able to find a decent prawn cocktail. Thank you kindly in advance.

Cheers,
Martin Turpin
(via email)

I highly recommend BEACH PRAWN, located at 6992 N. Atlantic Ave in Cape Canaveral.

Romeo,

I think I’m a pretty good-looking guy, but I have a hard time catching women’s attention. I’ve tried all kinds of techniques  but nothing seems to work. I usually test them before hitting the bars when out when I’m busy running errands — like in the grocery store or at the coffee shop — but still nothing seems to work. Any ideas?

John S.
Merritt Island

I think your testing these techniques out first is a good idea, Derek. I myself have perfected my famous techniques in this very way during my daily activities. As a youth, I started out making eyes at the butcher’s daughter, running my hands through my luxuriant hair at the post office, and unbuttoning my fine linen shirt a few notches in the bank, but nothing worked so well as when I would often drop my pants at the cleaners. I also recommend trying out some of your moves at BEACH PAWN, located at 6992 N. Atlantic Ave. in Cape Canaveral.

It’s about time you finally implemented that new exercise regimen you’ve left sitting on the back burner for so long. Start tomorrow, Ram. Get up early, gulp a wheat grass smoothie, put on your sneakers and start making a run for it, because that old roommate whose StairMaster you pawned is on his way with three of his ultimate fighter friends.

TAURUS

Among all your impressive achievements, it’s your culinary skills that seem to garner the most praise this month. You make a mean chicken cacciatore, but it’s the way you’ve cooked your company’s books that keeps the auditors coming back for more.

GEMINI

Fighting for your rights is a core principle of your makeup. Wearing eye shadow, blush, and cherry red lingerie with your powdered wig and tricorn hat, however, undermines your ability to swing the local chapter of the Tea Party in favor of your “Founding Queens” offshoot group.

CANCER

If you’re confused about how to tackle the abysmal state of your financial affairs this month start by taking a closer look at your exorbitant power bills. Some amateur sleuthing might reveal that your son’s ongoing science project in the garage isn’t all it seems. Try hitting him up for some extra cash. His meth business is booming.

LEO

Your life has seen its fair share of ups and downs, but the end of the month sees you settling into a holding pattern when you find yourself stuck on the sofa clutching your genitals while watching Lawrence Welk marathons after a botched vasectomy.

VIRGO

Fools rush in, so they say, where angels fear to tread. Remember this next time you and your drinking buddies decide to fire up a jet ski in your neighbor’s pool.

LIBRA

It’s hard to put your finger on it, but something is definitely missing from your life of late. Cancel all appointments, stay home, take a good look in the mirror and you may get closer to the answer. Better yet, check your phone messages. The bar called to inform you that you left your toupee atop the urinal in the men’s room.

SCORPIO

Of all your flaws, your unwillingness to plan ahead is your most crippling. This month, however, it proves to be very beneficial once you forgo stocking your apartment with items from your hurricane survival checklist to splurge for a slightly better brand of gin. Drink up and ride it out on your futon, you obstinate genius.

SAGITTARIUS

If your sex life seems dull and lifeless it’s not just your imagination. But your overactive imagination does in fact play a strong role in your dissatisfaction. Creative sex games are all well and good, but your fetish for dressing up like Elliot Spitzer doesn’t go over well in the bedroom. It’s still too soon.

CAPRICORN

We all need our fair share of down time. The way you’ve been working lately, you’re due for at least six year’s worth of rest and relaxation. Try Angola. The Feds will never think to look for you there.

AQUARIUS

It’s frustrating, isn’t it? All your efforts to get ahead in your work have come to naught. Better days lie ahead though, when an unfortunate accident leaves you with plenty of time to sit at home and finally finish archiving your vast collection of rejection notices.

PISCES

You’ve been down in the dumps for far too long and it’s about time things took a turn for the better. Look for inspiration in the back pocket of the jeans you wore last Friday. In it you’ll find an insightful passage you clipped from a Joel Osteen book, which should burn quite nicely when you use it to roll a joint with the weed you’ll find in your front pocket.

Madness Is The Brother Of Invention The German news agency Deutsche Presse Agentur reported in November (1992) on Japanese inventor Kenji Kawakami’s “New Idea Academy,” which features his own innovations and counts among his most successful products a portable washing machine that straps onto the user’s leg (swirling the clothes with each step); a travel necktie with room for writing utensils and a calculator; padded booties for cats so they can dust the floor while walking around; and a “solar flashlight” that provides a strong beam of light as long as the sun is shining.

Sensitive Limeys British drug dealer Luke Walsh-Pinnock, 22, recently released after a prison stint, threatened in February to sue police in the Kilburn neighborhood of London after officers distributed a leaflet near his mother’s home warning that Walsh-Pinnock was once again free. Walsh-Pinnock said he felt “humiliated” by the leaflet, in violation of his “human rights.” And Britain’s Oxfordshire County Council, which oversees youth swimming classes, banned goggles from the pools in February because of the fear that kids might snap the elastic bands and hurt their eyes. Lastly, Malvern Primary School in Huyton, Merseyside, recently banned play with regulation soccer balls because they are made of leather. “Football,” it ruled, must be played with less-dangerous sponge balls.

Righteous Fur New Orleans clothing designer Cree McCree, an ardent environmentalist, ordinarily would never work with animal fur, but the Louisiana state pest, the nutria (swamp rat), is culled in abundance by hunters, who leave the carcasses where they fall. Calling its soft-brown coat “guilt-free fur that belongs on the runway instead of at the bottom of the bayou,” McCree has encouraged a small industry of local designers to create nutria fashions — and in November went big-time with a New York City show (“Nutria-palooza”). Now, according to a November New York Times report, designers Billy Reid and Oscar de la Renta are sampling nutria’s “righteous fur.”

The F State Florida Senate Bill 1246, introduced in February, would make it a first-degree felony to take a picture of any farmland, even from the side of the road, without written permission of the land’s owner. (The bill is perhaps an overenthusiastic attempt to pre-empt campaigns by People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.) Though Florida faces a serious budget shortfall, another Senate bill, 1846, would authorize the state to borrow money for golf courses and resorts in at least five state parks and would require that the courses be designed by golf legend Jack Nicklaus’ firm. (Update: SB1846 was too excessive even for Florida and was withdrawn.)

Children Left Behind Principal Angela Jennings of Rock Chapel Elementary School in Lithonia, Ga., resigned after an investigation revealed that she had temporarily unenrolled 13 students last year for the sole purpose of keeping them from annual statewide tests because she feared their scores would drag down her school’s performance. (When the test was over, Jennings re-enrolled them.) The resignation, effective in June, was revealed in February by Atlanta’s WSB-TV.

Lovin’ The Brock Over the last 10 years, newspaper vendor Miljenko Bukovic, 56, of Valparaiso, Chile, has acquired 82 Julia Roberts face tattoos on his upper body — all, he said, inspired by scenes from the movie “Erin Brockovich.”

The Age Of Compromise In April (2006), a dead, decaying cow got caught on a tree branch at a dam near West Milford, W.Va., and remained there for “several weeks,” according to an Associated Press report, grossing out neighbors, while five government agencies split hairs to keep from getting involved. Could the West Milford city government move the cow? (No, outside city limits.) State Department of Natural Resources? (No, they handle only wild animals.) State Environmental Protection agency? (No, the cow presents no ecological danger.) State Agriculture Department? (No, it’s a local issue.) Regional Water Board? (No, just no.) Finally, workers from the state Division of Highways, along with volunteer firefighters, removed the cow.

Redneck Cavalcade Timothy Walker, 48, was hospitalized in Burlington, N.C., in February after he fell off of an SUV while he was on top, holding down two mattresses for the driver, who apparently rounded a curve too fast. Elsewhere, in Bellevue, Wash., three people were hospitalized in January when their van stalled and then exploded as the ignition was re-engaged. They were carrying two gallons of gasoline in an open container and had been feeding the carburetor directly, through an opening in the engine housing (between the seats), as the van was in motion. (It was not reported why they were doing it that way.) Arkeen Thomas, 19, broke into a home in Port St. Lucie, Fla., in March, but the residents were present, and the male resident immediately punched Thomas in the mouth, sending him fleeing. (Minutes later, a woman identified as Thomas’ mother arrived, picked up her son’s gold teeth that had been knocked out, and left.)

Of Mice And Men In February, a New York City gallery began offering classes in “anthropomorphic taxidermy,” described as a “Victorian hobby” in which mouse carcasses are not only meticulously cleaned and stuffed, but outfitted in handmade miniature 19th-century clothing, such as bloomers. British practitioners are said to have created elaborate scenes featuring scores of the costumed bodies. Class instructor Susan Jeiven said the mice have to look “classy.” “I don’t like rogue taxidermy.”