A thriller of a week in the news (as always).

Michael Jackson.

I swear if I hear that name again, I will do something horrible that I will probably regret.

I know none of you want to read this. You’re just as sick and tired of hearing about him as I am. And I doubt I have anything that enlightening to say about his life. But this is a place to vent, is it not? So that’s what I will do.

Let me start with a few questions that I’ve been asking myself the past few weeks: What has happened to our society? What has happened to this country? Since when did our insane fetishes completely take over and absorb our lives to the unhealthiest of extents?

No matter when I turned on the television this past week, I got the same disturbing images--constant coverage of MJ’s funeral / memorial service / memorial concert / cremation / you name it (and yes, I was kidding about the cremation thing... relax).

When I should have been getting my healthy dose of common sense from Judge Judy and the evening news (never mind, I gave up on that a while back), I was getting bombarded by the circus that was Michael Jackson and the overly zealous reporters who were covering his death.

What will happen to his money? Oh wait, he had none. What will happen to Neverland? Perhaps it will become a national park. What about those gloves of his? Give them to O.J. Who’s going to attend the memorial concert? Hopefully not Britney Spears. Is he the most popular person ever? Cringe.

And here’s my favorite that I just heard the other day: Will we get to see the sculpture of MJ made out of butter?

Well I sure hope so.

But these were not questions being asked by Mary Hart and Perez Hilton. Ok, they were. But they were also being asked by ‘respectable’ people like Charlie Gibson (I really still like you, Charlie, and will try to forgive your stupidity), Katie Couric (I’ve never liked you, Katie--sorry), and Shepherd Smith (I’m slowly beginning to lose my respect for you, Shep.) Even Fox News, the Mecca of all things fair and balanced got caught up in this delusion of grandeur.

Now I'm going to say something that makes me sound so sentimental and patriotic, but it’s what I feel. American soldiers are dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, and we’re worrying about whether or not Diana Ross is going to attend the memorial service? Iran is going insane and killing their citizens, and our news reporters are talking about how many plastic surgeries MJ might have had?

Side note: I think everything went down hill for Mr. Jackson after he got his nose removed. I never would suggest doing such a thing. He didn’t take my advice, and look where he is now. And I love this comic... kind of mean, but it’s truthful.

Back to business... I’m fed up with our lame media. It really does make me sad to think that I’m only one of a handful out there who thinks that MJ’s death should have gotten a mention for a couple of days, then go away and leave us be.

I know the man was talented... he was a man, wasn’t he? I’ve kind of been confused about that for these last few years.

He / She / It could dance like none other. Great voice, too. And he was (or so I hear) good looking when he was at his peak in the late 80s.

But we have crossed the line when we take an individual--who has squandered his life and turned into a complete creep--and glorify his life for all to see.

That’s what Michael Jackson was in his last years. A total, all-out, unabashed creep.

Shame on the media. Shame on the people who tune into such ridiculosity.

Can you see it now? Picture this--

“This is Walter Cronkite from the Staples Center, getting ready to talk with some MJ fans outside the memorial concert.”

“Edward R. Murrow reporting from Neverland. On tonight’s news, we’ll be examining what really will be done with MJ’s estate.”

It would never happen. Those men were respectable, and held themselves to a moral and professional standard that wouldn’t cater to such triteness.

Is there a solution to this problem with the media and their obsession with pop culture? I mean, I feel like every news network is slowly transforming into a subsidiary of Entertainment Tonight (“Tonight’s ABC Evening News Birthday--brought to you by Crest Whitestrips-- Which of these congressman didn’t have an affair with his intern?”)

I fear for our culture’s sanity. I truly do. And what can we do about it?

Turn to Alexandre Dumas’s words for comfort.

”Wait, and hope. Wait, and hope. Wait, and hope.”

You know the end is near when...

... the trailer for the next installment of the Twilight saga has come out.

Oh dear. I feel a rant coming on.

Let’s start with the books. The fact that the series is called the Twilight ‘saga’ makes me vomit a little. It causes these teenybopper books to sound like a masterful account of biblical proportions. Which they are not.  And it also makes them sound a little bit refined and maybe even sophisticated. Which they most certainly are not. 

The books are a phenomenon. Why, I’m not quite sure. I’ve read them (OK, only the first one... but that was enough), and I sure don’t get why everyone’s in such an uproar. But then again, I’m not a female. However,  I have a theory as to why they’re so popular:

I think a couple hundred girls across the U.S. got paid by their parents to check out a book from the library and read it. Reluctantly, these girls went to the library (to the ‘Teen’ section, duh!), closed their eyes, reached out their nail-polished fingers, and picked the first book their hand touched. Which just happened to be Twilight. (Why, oh why, could it not have been To Kill a Mockingbird or Catch-22?) Now these girls had hardly read anything before, much less anything thought-provoking and substantive. So when they started to read about Bella and Edward and more about Edward and all about Edward, they swooned.

Then these few hundred girls told their friends that there were these things out there called books (Can you believe it? You read them!) and that this one called Twilight was sooooooooooo amazing. And like, it’s just like the best book I’ve ever read! And Edward! Oh, Edward! If only boys these days were like him!

And so on.

Thus sparked the fad that is Twilight. Now as you’ll recall, fads are bad. That’s so easy to remember, because it rhymes. FADS are BAD. Plaid shorts, cliches, Twilight, etc. All fads. All bad. 

What is most alarming to me is that fact that several of my friends who, for the most part, I would deem ‘intelligent,’ have bought into the same ridiculous delusion: They fell for Edward Cullen, and they fell hard. 

When I read the first book (one of my close intelligent friends told me it was really good and that I should read it, and I actually trusted her opinion at the time), I was with it for a while. I liked the whole ‘angsty’ feel that played out in the first few chapters. It wasn’t groundbreaking by any means, but it captured the teenage years fairly well, I thought. 

But then the cliches set in... the parents who were divorced... the dad who didn’t relate to his daughter... the boy who wouldn’t talk to the girl (in Chemistry, of course)... the girl who wasn’t good at sports or anything in particular, yet the hottest vampire in the world was attracted to her... the stereotyping of the American Indian as a loon...

You get the idea. Unless, of course, you’re a thirteen year old girl.

And then I about lost it. Halfway through the first book, there is an entire chapter devoted to Mr. Cullen’s physical perfections. Oh yes, men. Believe it. His toned muscles, his rippling chest, the way his abs practically pop out of his shirt, the way he smells, his radiant white teeth, and oh, that hair. That hair! 

Once again, vomit.

Yeah, I’m a guy. And I shouldn’t like it. But why do I feel like the only one who understands that these books aren’t particularly well conceived or well written, that the characters have one dimensional personalities (Edward may be hot, girls--but he has zero points in the personality department), and that most importantly, just because every other person in the world loves them doesn’t mean I should have to?

I admit that I didn’t see the movie. Why would I? I knew it would be a waste of money that could be going to make brilliant independent French films about the meaning of life. And then they threw together the sequel in a matter of hours just because they knew it would make another trillion dollars at the box office, no matter how horrible it turns out to be. 

Sigh...

You can disagree with what I’ve said. You’re wrong, but you can disagree. You may even be one of those intelligent girls who reads the books just for entertainment and pleasure. But those aren’t good enough reasons for me.

If you really are intelligent, you’ll be entertained by Eliot and Brecht, not by Edward and Bella.

Buyers beware!

I went to the mall yesterday. Mistake number one. And for some reason, I felt compelled to go into American Eagle. Mistake number two. 

I made both of these choices for a couple of reasons. One, I need clothes. That's why I went to the mall. Second, the stores that I usually shop at are ridiculously overpriced, and I finally have enough self control to refuse to buy things from those stores. That's why I went to AE. It's not too pricey, and sometimes you can find an article of clothing that doesn't look like it's just been hit by a truck. But that's rare.

I walk in, and as is customary at most stores, I was greeted by an employee. I nonchalantly returned the hello and went on perusing. 

And then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her: the over-zealous, trying too hard, acted like she was paid on commission employee. She was my worst nightmare. 

If you know me, you know I don't like most people. People just annoy me, and I prefer to stay away from most of them.

And just by the looks of her, I knew that she absolutely loved people, especially people who were shopping in the store that she worked for.

I tried to escape. Honest, I did. But the cat was quicker than the mouse, and she soon had me in her fiery throes, ready to pounce at any moment.

"Can I help you find anything?" 

Wow. That voice. She really needs to work on NOT sounding like Rachael Ray. And don't EVER ask me that question. If I needed help I would come and get you lady, but probably not.

"No, I'm just looking, thanks," I said. I even said thanks! I'm doing so well, given the annoying situation I'm being held captive under.

"Well, my name is Laura, and let me tell you about some of the deals we're having right now at American Eagle. First, if you're a linen guy, all of our linen shirts are on sale for... "

And on and on she went. Do you recall me saying "No"? And why do I care that your name is Laura? You didn't even ask me for my name! And yes, I know that I'm at American Eagle. And linen? Are you kidding me right now? I'm not looking for bed sheets, woman. She rattled on for a couple more months while my eyes started to glaze over.

I understand that Laura might be required to do this to every victim that walks into the prison without bars that is American Eagle. But that's what I don't get. Has anyone ever asked a worker for help with their shopping, besides the occasional, "Do you have this in my size?" Please tell me if you have, I'm dying to know. It's courteous of employees to ask, yes. But it's also unnecessary, and it could save that worker a lot of breath if she didn't have to repeat this mantra 24/7.

Those workers. They're always on the lookout, you know? They can't stop looking at the entrance, eagerly waiting the arrival of new customers whom they can pester. They may be folding clothes, but notice how they are constantly looking up in between shirts to see if anyone else has entered the premises.

Most shoppers decline a worker's help because they have two eyes and are competent enough to shop on their own without the help of some yuppie 16 year old girl who has gone tanning one too many times.

In my opinion, a mall should be a sacred place where one can come apart from the everyday hum-drum of life and spend lots of money on nice things. But pleasant experiences just aren't meant to be, especially when Laura enters the equation.

All I want when I go to the mall is a little time to myself, away from the troubles of my life, apart from the Lauras of the world.

And by the way, I didn't buy anything. Especially nothing that was linen in material.

Embrace your thinness

What's up with our culture's obsession with thin people? It's crazy how many people act like it's a sin to be skinny. You would not believe the number of times that my weight gets brought up in conversations with people.

But yet they don't get the fact that I like being really thin. 

Oftentimes, they go on the offensive. They'll talk to me as if I didn't know I was so thin. But the worst is when they act all sympathetic toward you, as if you had a disease or something. 

"You are so thin!" 

Yep.

"So have you tried to gain weight? I mean, you practically are a walking corpse."

Yes, I have. And no, I'm not. Have you ever seen a corpse? Definitely not me.

"Have you gone to the doctor?" (That's my favorite... I've actually gotten asked that at least twice.)

Go to the doctor because I'm not morbidly obese? That seems kind of oxymoronic.

"How are you going to get a girl, let alone protect her, with that body of yours?"

Psh. If a girl's so shallow that she's going to base her dating decisions on my body type, she can go suck a tree.

And on and on it goes. I'm actually starting to get offended by such questions. Why even bring it up? Are they trying to make me feel insecure? Because it's not working. Yeah, I'm self-conscious about certain things, but my weight is nowhere close to being one of them.

But I struggled with it at one point. That was, until I learned to embrace my thinness. You know, I tried to gain weight for a while. I got a home gym for Christmas a few years back, and was pretty consistent in working out. Diet was another area that I tried to work on. But I soon found out that some people don't have the ability to gain weight, no matter how hard they try, just as many people attempt to lose weight, but are unsuccessful. I seriously eat like a horse sometimes, but I can never gain an ounce.

Nowadays, I love being thin. I love the very idea that I am one of a select few who have God-given body types that are very skinny. I love that fitted suits look awesome on skinny people. I love that we don't have to worry about working out 24/7 and buying clothes that show off our muscles. I love that the world thinks we hate our bodies. 

And on a side note, I love that a celebrity (besides Lindsay Lohan and Mary Kate Olsen) has come alongside us 'thin bodies' to support us in our cause. Dev Patel, the star of the amazing film Slumdog Millionaire, may even be thinner than me. But does he care at all? Of course not. And does he have a girlfriend? Yes. And I think she's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. So there, Brad Pitt. Who needs your body as a spokesthing for looking gorgeous? I have Dev Patel on my side. And he can actually act.

Too bad for all those naysayers out there. Because I love my skinny self. All 138 pounds of me.

Yes, I know my zipper is showing, thank you very much.

Summer's not here yet, but I was in a good mood this morning, so I decided to throw on a pair of shorts. They're plaid shorts, actually, which I'm not a big fan of anymore now that everyone and their mum is wearing them. 

But it's not the plaid shorts fad that I'm stressed out about. It's the zipper on the shorts that gives me so many sleepless nights.

The zipper, fly... whatever you want to call it, is an issue of security for most men. It safeguards our bodies from extreme embarrassment, and we are constantly checking it to make sure that we didn't absent-mindedly forget to zip it up after we've taken care of our business.

But I've recently noticed a trend in both pants and shorts that I find kind of disheartening. It seems that the Malaysian woman who works so tirelessly on running the machine that makes my clothing thinks it's funny to sew the flap of fabric that hides my zipper in the incorrect place, making my zipper always noticeable. 

Work with me here. On pants, you know how there's a piece of fabric that conceals the zipper, but that you can easily move out of the way when it's time to do your dirty work? Well, my flap is sewn in such a way that it doesn't cover anything up at all. It's just kind of there, out of the way, serving no purpose at all.

And I've only noticed this problem with the pants and shorts that I've purchased at the Gap. So shame on you, Gap. And shame on you, Malaysian citizens, for tolerating such indecency.

So if you perchance see a man on the street with his fly seemingly open and an embarrassed look on his face, 1) That's me, and 2) My fly isn't really open (make sure you tell that to all of your friends who start making fun of me).

Let's get something straight.

Good news. I'm going to be an uncle. Yay me. And it's going to be a girl, which is nice I guess, if children are your sort of thing.

Which got me thinking. When my sister told me that she was going to have a baby, she said something to the effect of, "Hey bro, guess what? I'm pregnant!" And then we gushed to each other for the next ten minutes about baby names, gaining weight, odd cravings, and the such like.

But I forgot to tell my sister (her name is Megan) how proud I was that she hadn't committed the egregious sin that so many couples do when they find out that they're going to have a new member added to their family.

I cannot begin to tell you the number of times I have heard men--grown, mature, even muscular men--say something like, "Guess what? We're pregnant!" And then I gush to them about how retarded they just made themselves look by saying something so utterly ridiculous. 

Let's dissect this commonly misused phrase so we can all understand why it is so wrong to use.

 

We:  plural pronoun that refers to more than one person

So by using this term, the man (or sometimes woman) is saying that they are both carrying the fetus in their shared uterus...or something close to that effect. That is an impossible feat, agreed?

are: verb...actually, a linking verb for those grammar junkies out there like me

Really adds no significance to the phrase. Poor verbs...they're so neglected!

pregnant:  an adjective that relates to someone who is with child (usually a woman) 

Females are the only people who can have babies, correct? Men are not females, therefore they cannot become pregnant, no matter how hard they may try.

So now that we're all on the same page, let's review.

Females and males make babies. Females get pregnant. Females carry the babies and get fat by doing so. Men sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. And men are not able to get pregnant, so therefore the phrase, "We're pregnant!" is both physically and emotionally perplexing and should never be used in the company of other humans with ears.

And by the way, am I the only one who thinks that pregnancy pictures are totally gross and unnecessary? Come on lady--I know there's a baby in there somewhere, and I don't need to see your naked belly in order to be convinced. I care about seeing the child after he or she is born, OK?

You know the end is near when . . .

. . . the new season of "Jon and Kate Plus Eight" smashed cable records when it premiered on Monday night. 

I'm feeling a bit nauseous. 

TLC got their highest ratings ever when the train wreck hit airways on Memorial Day. 

I cannot stand the show. I hate it. I loathe it. I hate the very idea that someone would even like it. Why is our country so infatuated with drama? Really, the only reason that it did so well was because everyone was waiting to see if there would be a tearful confession from Jon about whether or not he cheated on Kate, or if the kids would cry anymore than usual, or if Kate would yell any less than usual, etc.

TLC literally makes me want to shoot my television in the face. Given that I'm a guy, yes, but I just don't get the appeal of watching these shows where "real life families" (try to explain that one) live out the bane of their existence in front of our eyes. All of TLC's shows are so overdone and cutesy that the material is, frankly, better suited for Noggin or Cartoon Network. 

I try to look at such shows as educational programming; they (Jon and Kate, 18 Kids and Counting, and the one with the short kids) provide perfect examples on how NOT to live one's life. 

And one more thing. I am sincerely hoping that Jon and Kate have another kid just so the title won't rhyme. Now how cool would that be?

Buy, Strip, Listen.

I'm an old-fashioned guy. I don't have a cell phone (gasp!), nor do I have any need/desire to get one. I read the newspaper most every day (remember what those are? Or were?). And I still pine for the days when the world was a polite and beautiful place to live in, free from electronic clutter and the rudeness that ensues therein.

But perhaps my greatest post-modern downfall comes from my desire to keep the Compact Disc alive and going strong. Call me crazy, but I love going to Barnes & Noble and buying a CD or two, taking them home, inserting them into my CD player (it's a Bose, don't worry), and listening for hours on end.

I've never been able to get into the whole 'online music' ordeal. Like they say, seeing is believing. And I must have a hard copy of that disc in my hand in order to listen contentedly. This sounds quite OCD, I know. And I think it is. 

But a few experiences that I've had recently may force me to give up all faith in CDs. You know where I'm going with this: It's all about that stupid packaging. 

Why, oh why, must they take my Sinatra anthology and give it to some evil machine that takes my CD into its monstrous folds and wraps it up strategically to make sure that no one will be able to open it without first contemplating taking their own life?

   

I guess the evil machine's argument would be that he prevents theft, right? I mean, you wrap that CD up in such an impossible way that no one will be even tempted to steal it. But who are they kidding? People steal CDs because they love music and because they can't afford it. A piece of plastic wrapping is not going to stop anyone from getting their dose of Lady GaGa.

But that wrapping protects the CD, right? Yeah right. It's like .0000043 millimeters thick, and it's clear, and I'm pretty sure that when you drop a CD case on the floor, it will break regardless of its protective surroundings.

I have probably wasted a third of my young life biting, scratching, and gnawing off those wrappings. And then when I finally do get it off, I'm not even halfway there to getting my CD out: The case is taped together.

Again, I just don't get it. One thief-resistant method is not good enough, so we need two? The tape always says something like "Pull Here." Pull what? The tape is so strongly fastened to the CD case that you need the jaws of life to get it off.

So what should we do about this problem?

Solution #1: You can buy one of those cheap $0.99 shenanigans that are supposed to help you get the wrapping off, but will most assuredly break before you even buy the CD of your choice.

Solution #2: Our friend from the wonder that is YouTube teaches us all how to save our lives by . . . what exactly is it that he is doing to that CD case? It's like he's molesting it. And I do not want my CDs to be molested. But I do like his enthusiasm. I haven't yet tried his method, but if he's doing it on YouTube, you can count on it working every single time . . .

Solution #3: Boycott CDs. But please, I beg you, don't. They need us!

Solution #4: Use the jaws of life, and then post a video of yourself on YouTube, instructing us all how to do it. You will be my hero.

Solution #5: Steal CDs. This will get our message of intolerance across to all of those who think that protective wrappings are the key to decreasing the crime rate.

Solution #6: Contemplate taking your own life. Then do it. (But please only use this as a last resort, if at all possible.)

Do you honestly expect me to believe that?

I try to be helpful. I really do. When I see someone who looks kind of forlorn or maybe a bit bedraggled, I offer my help. Maybe I shouldn't be prying into their personal life. But I have good intentions, believe me. That's why I will usually ask someone, "What's the matter?" if they look like they need a bit of encouragement. 

But then I get the usual answer. In fact, I get this answer so often that I'm not even sure why I ask people anymore. "Oh . . . nothing," they nonchalantly (and dejectedly) reply. 

Liars. I hate liars. Obviously, if they're crying and they're sitting by themselves and they look like they just got hit by a taxi, something is wrong. So don't you dare tell me that you're perfectly fine.

I mean, really all I'm asking is for you to say one of two things: 1) "I'd rather not talk about it, Jordan, but thanks for asking." or 2) "You want the truth? Then it's the truth you'll get: I hate my life, all of my friends are like Paris Hiltons at best, and I'm ugly. And I'm chubby as well." 

Oh, for the moment that one person would look me in the face and say those words! But I'm not that lucky of a guy. Most of the people I know hide their problems from me. And I'm completely OK with that. Privacy is a beautiful thing.

But why must you degrade my intelligence by giving me "the look" (you know what I'm talking about) and saying that you're fine? 

Really, I think it comes down to this: People are selfish, and they want you to feel even more sympathy for them than you would normally have for a raped dog. So they drag the suspense out as long as they can. Aren't I clever? they think to themselves as they prolong their misery just to get me feeling sorry for them.

So I'm just not going to take it anymore. And you shouldn't either. I am determined from now on to call down anyone who tries to pull this evil trick on me. And it will be great, because I know they won't be expecting it. Hopefully that glorious moment will play out something like this:

Me: Hey Selfish. What's the matter?

Said Selfish Being: Oh . . . (looks at me with those puppy dog eyes, then turns away and looks to the left) nothing.

Me: Oh please. Just get over yourself. I can't believe you would be so ridiculously stupid as to actually think that I--for one second--might believe that you are perfectly fine. Wait . . . you know, I don't have time for people like you. Just please, start being honest with yourself. And me as well, OK? And then I'll be your friend again once you get your heart right. Bye.

Oh, how I would love to put Said Selfish Being in his or her place! Yes, it would make me look cruel and unusual. Yes, bystanders would immediately start to whisper that the only reason I called Said Selfish Being out was to make myself look better. (You know, something like, He's one of those 'holier than thou' people, and they would all step back in disgust.) And yes, I might even feel horrible for six minutes. But Selfish? He or she would get the message . . . at least I hope so. And maybe--just maybe--he or she would change for the better.

But I doubt it.

You know the end is near when . . .

. . . the sequel to the stage musical phenomenon The Phantom of the Opera is in production. I can't think of too many things that hurt my ears more than listening to anything written by Andrew Lloyd Webber, particularly Phantom. And a sequel? Didn't the phantom die in the first one? Or did I miss some deep, complex twist at the end that still leaves hope for his resurrection? Regardless, I think I'll call upon the master Stephen Sondheim to send Mr. Webber to get a shave from that nice man named Sweeney Todd and rid us all of his overcomplicated music.

Actually, come to think of it, there is maybe one--no wait--two songs of his that I can somewhat handle. There's a nice song from Sunset Boulevard (how dare he even try to duplicate the film) that is bearable, but only because Glenn Close sings it.

And as I scroll through my iPod, I see that Patti LuPone's version of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" is on my Top Rated playlist. That's kind of embarrassing, now that I think about it. 

But really now, let's be frank. Does the man have talent? Of course. Good for him for being able to scrawl down a few notes here and there. But that doesn't make him particularly good at what he does. 

I think I'll stick to Sondheim for my musical fix.

Turn on your freaking blinker!

I admit it. When it comes to driving, I tend to be a little frenetic, especially when I'm by myself. I try to calm down when I'm escorting a passenger or two whose lives are depending on my steering capabilities; but most of the time, you will find me with my windows rolled down, music blaring (iPod hookups for cars are a beautiful thing, true?), and normally in a rush to get to wherever it is that I need to be.

But regardless of my shortcomings in the driving department, there is one thing that I, without fail, will do every time while driving--turn on my blinker/turn signal. It really wouldn't matter if I were on the brink of death or had to pee ever so badly: I would still find the time and/or way to turn on that darn blinker.

Why is this so important to me? First off, I'm about the most self-conscious person ever. And I mean ever. I care so much about what others think about me (driving inabilities aside) that I will do anything to get approval from others. And I mean anything. Too many times I have cringed while sitting in the passenger seat as one of my parents abuses his or her privilege of using the blessing that is the turn signal. Oh my . . . what those people in that car behind us must be thinking of us right now! 

But it's not just that. I also wonder how many people die each year because some idiot (sorry Mom and Dad) refuses to exert .0084 joules of energy by lifting his or her hand 4 inches off the steering wheel to hit a plastic stick that produces a noise and a light just so the person in the automobile behind them doesn't meet his horrible demise. Sigh . . . selfishness really is a terrible thing, is it not?

Another car meets its Maker after falling prey to turn signal misuse

So please--I implore you--do the right thing. Yes, that *clucking* noise is a nuisance. Yes, I'm sure you are wasting gas by turning it on. But the man who invented the turn signal needs you (Oscar J. Simler, bless you!). The person in the coolish jalopy behind you needs you. I need you.

Save a life.

Let's Talk.

I know what everyone says. They say that people who complain are annoying. But doesn't that seem a bit oxymoronic to you? People who say such things obviously do not understand how healthy venting (I don't like to use the word 'complain') can be. Maybe it's those little habits that people have that drive you nuts (nervous laughter, anyone?). Or it could be that you are just sick and tired of the way our society is meeting its apocalypse. Don't worry: You're among friends. 

Each day I'll be giving you your daily ration of things that tick me off, and please feel free to suggest anything that pushes your button by either emailing me or posting a comment. 

So let's get started. Speak your peace.