Sexiest Man Alive? Hardly.

Johnny Depp?!!? Please! First of all, I wasn't even interviewed. How fair is that? Go on, compare his picture right there with mine in the top left of the page. His picture, my picture. His picture, my picture. His picture, my picture. I've been doing that all night and I still don't see it. Sexier than me? Who is doing the rating? Ray Charles? Stevie Wonder? (Why aren't there famous blind women?) I'm mean, c'mon, as far as I know he is completely unemployed right now. Meanwhile I have a full time job with health insurance and everything! Raise your hand if you've read Johnny Depp's blog? Of course you haven't! He doesn't have a blog. I do. And I have 12 followers! I have a blog, a full-time job, health insurance and the ability to use what I've learned about personal hygiene. Depp? No, no, no, and a big NO on the hygiene. Ask yourself this, who have you spent more time reading about this year, him or me? We all know the answer to that. You've been to my blog at least once or twice a week. How many times a week do you go out of your way to read what Johnny Depp has to say? In fact, you see my picture everytime you visit this blog. You've definitely looked at my picture more than Johnny Depp's this year too. Do you know why? That's right, because I'm sexier. Case closed. In fact my argument here is so watertight that I doubt Depp will even attempt to refute it.

"It's a Mute Point"

"No, I'm pretty sure it's not a mute point. If it were a mute point you wouldn't be saying it aloud to me right now would you?" Is what I wanted to say. I also wanted to say, "And isn't it terrible about all those autistic children who are moot and don't matter at all?"

Is it really that tough? C'mon people! They are two distinctly different words with different spellings, meanings, and pronunciations! And I'm not talking about people with limited education! On and on it goes. Everyday some person in a position of authority, or esteem, or which requires higher education uses one of those words incorrectly! Of course when I am interacting with these people in a professional capacity I cannot shout my frustration about their idiocy. In those situations I choose to pretend I have selective mootism. See?!!? See how stupid it looks when someone uses them oppositely?

When I become President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, I am going to pass a law allowing everyone to make a Citizen's Arrest of anyone who confuses these two words. Much like bad drivers who are ordered to attend a defensive driving class, the moot/mute people will have to go to a special class to learn the difference between these and other similar words. I only hope that when these dolts are in class they remain moot so everyone can hear what the instructor is saying.

On a marginally related point, The band Mute Math is really very good. I enjoy them immensely and highly recommend them. I wonder how their career might have turned out differently if they were Moot Math? If you looked at my high school transcript you'd see that math was a pretty mute subject for me. In fact you could say that my grades would imply that the instructors might have been moot. Or is that mute?

My Momentary Friends

Despite how you perceive me here, I actually do have friends in the real world. Don’t laugh, I do. We all have many different kinds of friends though. We have friends from school, friends from work, friends in our neighborhoods or apartment buildings, and of course our blog friends. We also have what I like to think of as “momentary friends.” These are people who may enter our lives for only a moment every day or once a week, but in many ways are as important to us as are the friends for whom we profess love and longing.

It could be the cashier at the supermarket you always go to because she has a nice smile and makes small talk about the weather. The security guard outside your office who holds open the door as you leave each day. The girl at Supercuts who cuts your hair and asks about your plans for the weekend. The guy who says hello as he passes you on his nightly walk down your street. Or perhaps the blogger who updates almost daily with a heartwarming story or amusing anecdote. We all have about a hundred of these people in our lives and for me I enjoy their momentary friendship immensely. I think we all do. As much as family or friends whom we know by name, these people also provide us with a sense of security. Often, more than “real” family or friends our “momentary friends” are dependable. They’re always there for us with that smile and hello, or perhaps only a knowing nod. Day in and day out, sometimes for years these nameless people are part of our lives and I miss them and worry about what happened to them when they don't show up in my daily routine.

The fun for me is providing them with names and stories. I like to imagine who they are outside of that moment in time when our paths cross. How and why did they come to be part of my life every day? The best part though is naming them.

Some of the names we give these people are flattering and some are not. No matter where any of you live, I think you’ve all met my friend, “Man with bad toupee.” Then of course in every neighborhood we all know “Woman with enormous ass who’s always bending over doing yard work.” “Girl walking dog” always seems so nice. You have no idea where she lives, but she appears around the corner every evening at the same time. One person I hate, but would somehow miss if he/she were gone is “Yellow Saturn Asshole.” This jerk parks his/her yellow Saturn in my street every day, completely blocking off traffic on that side of the street. As infuriating as this is to me, if they moved away I’d miss the little adrenalin rush I get as I curse them while I sit behind their parked car waiting for traffic to pass so I can get by. It’s only perhaps a 10 second inconvenience about 5 times a week, but that adds up to 50 seconds per week, 3 minutes and 20 seconds per month, or 40 minutes per year. That may not seem like much, but since I plan to live in my current house for the rest of my life, over the next 36 years Yellow Saturn Asshole will have wasted the equivalent of a full day of my life.

This post is dedicated to my favorite momentary friends: Hairdresser Nikki, Indian Girl at Dunkin' Donuts, Walking Man, Rollerblading Girl with dog, and Security Guard. Without these people and their momentary friendship my day would be incomplete. I could probably do without Yellow Saturn Asshole though.

The Hamster Ball People

We all know what a hamster ball is right? Generally I have no problems with hamsters or balls. What I do have a problem with is Hamster Ball People. What or who are Hamster Ball People you ask?

The Hamster Ball People are those people who move about the Earth as if they are in a giant plastic hamster ball, as if they are surrounded by a giant invisible bubble that is their space and theirs alone. Still not sure? Let me give you a few examples:

At the supermarket you push your cart along happily gathering what you need for the gourmet feast you're planning for that evening. As you turn the corner to find that one, last elusive item you need to complete your shopping, there sits a Hamster Ball Person. They are definitely in the middle of the aisle, cart parked sideways as they ponder what appears to be the most difficult decision of their lives. That entire aisle belongs to them don't you know? Or if perhaps they are actually pushing their cart, they are moving a such a glacial speed that you think their legs may fuse together, or already have. And of course they are in the middle of the aisle as if their invisible hamster ball won't let them move to either side to let other shoppers pass. Oh, that's right! They don't actually recognize that there are other shoppers because the entire store exists to serve their needs.

On the roads the Hamster Ball People aren't as egregious in their behavior, but they exhibit the same traits. The Hamster Ball People are likely to be the car that will stop regardless of traffic, on any road, without pulling over to the side, to read a sign, look at someones Halloween decorations, or just to point at a bird they saw.

At the bank the Hamster Ball People are the ones who on a Friday lunch hour with 40 people waiting in line will take up at least a half hour with the teller because they don't understand the ATM fee on their bank statement.

Another place the Hamster Ball People foul things up for the rest of men is in the men's room. Classic men's room etiquette insists that unless your bladder is in danger of literally exploding and splashing everyone within a 10 foot blast radius with urine and torn skin, you are not to ever use a urinal directly next to another man. The Hamster Ball People do respect this rule, but to an annoying degree. If there are only three urinals in a men's room, as there often are, A Hamster Ball Person will go to the middle, leaving anyone who follows them the choice of either standing directly next to them, or waiting until the Hamster Ball Person leaves. You ladies may just think men are being silly about this, but really, do you want to go to the bathroom with no divider between you and you're close enough that you might rub shoulders?

The best part of this post is that I know that from now on whenever you go somewhere and see someone displaying any of these behaviors in you're head you'll think "Hamster Ball People."

It's the End of the World As We Know It...

"It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine."--R.E.M.

The Mayan calendar ends on December 21, 2012. Many people believe this is a prophecy of the end of the world. First of all if the world ends on December 21st that will seriously put a crimp in my birthday party plans for two days later. The new movie, 2012 coming to a theater near you in November, has whipped the apocalypse zealots into a frenzy and scared school children everywhere.

In the news yesterday a current day Mayan leader said, "Dude, seriously, I am so sick of hearing about this. If the world does end, don't try and pin it on us. Damn, did you ever think that maybe the guy making the caledar just died, got laid off, or was fired for stealing office supplies?" I may be paraphrasing a bit, but that was generally the gist of what he said. He also pointed out that in some other carved-in-stone tablets another Mayan referenced the year 4077. He didn't reference a specific day, but I'll be pretty damn mad if the world ends right before my birthday again.

My cell phone, pda, and computer all have calendar functions and all of their calendars go past Dec. 21, 2012 so there's all the proof you need that the world is not going to end in 3 years. In fact, I have written a post and dated it to be released to my blog for Dec. 22, 2012. Suck on that you Mayan calendar nutjobs.

Save the Boobs!

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. I personally know of women as young as 28 who have been afflicted with breast cancer. If you're a woman don't wait, don't believe you're too young, don't think it can't happen to you. Get a mammogram. As Westley said in The Princess Bride, "There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours."

If you're a guy you can join a breast cancer awareness walk. You can also visit the Susan G. Komen foundationand purchase some beautiful pink ribbon accessories for your favorite female. The proceeds benefit breast cancer research and the immediate impression of you as a sensitive guy will benefit you with your lady friends.

The Hodge Podge Post

First off, is 'hodge podge' supposed to be one word? Secondly, since I've been really busy I've been accumulating blog post ideas in my head all week, but haven't had the time to put them down here, so I'm going to dedicate a paragraph to each idea here in sort of a catch up post that will give you a cliff notes version of everything I would have expounded on if I had the time for a full post on each topic. Let's face it, any idea I have really only needs one paragraph anyway. I'm not that deep.

1. The Lack of Boundaries People No this isn't a group of amoeba like people from another planet who invisibly flow through our walls. These are the people in everyday life, who apparently lacking a professional therapist, suddenly and without warning decide that you are their new therapist. Sometimes it's a cashier at the supermarket as she's checking your items, "Do you have a coupon for this? I used to use these when I could afford them. Of course that was before my husband slept with my sister and then left me for her because he said I just didn't 'do it for him' in bed." Umm...no, I don't have a coupon. I ran into one such person, a co-worker, on my recent work trip. There we sat having a couple beers and watching Monday Night Football when all of a sudden, unrelated to anything, he says, "My wife is flying down to meet me. I had to pack my suitcase when she wasn't looking so she didn't notice I have Viagra. I can't wait until she gets here. I'm ready to go all weekend. That Viagra is great and my wife has no idea I'm using it." Yeah right. An overweight, hypertensive 45 year old guy is suddenly going at it like an 18 year old and you think she has no clue? ... is what I could have said but I didn't. I said, "Oh...ummm....can you believe Buffalo is beating New England. I don't see how they could screw this up."

2. Dear President Barack Obama, Is everything ok? Are you dead? It's been a whole 48 hours since you've been on television doing something completely gratuitous and unrelated to your job. Yeah, I know it's cool being the President and all, but how often are you actually doing any President stuff? You know what? I don't want to see you out playing golf with Tiger Woods. I don't care to see you laughing it up with David Letterman. I suspect you went to see him just to get tips for picking up women anyway, because frankly I've seen your dancing and that isn't going to help you. I don't want to have you breaking down football games for ESPN or filling out an NCAA Tournament bracket on television. Yeah, dragging the Olympic games to Chicago so we could spend billions of taxpayer dollars on buildings that will forever sit empty after 2 weeks of use, seems like a good idea, but is it really as important as...oh I don't know....running two wars in the Middle East and fixing our economy? You're on t.v. more than Oprah Winfrey. Dude, just sit in that Oval Office and make some useful decisions. (And I'd briefly like to say a quick Hello to my friends in Homeland Security and the F.B.I. whose internet security filters were tripped by an online mention of the President. You guys rock. Keep up the good work and keep reading The Phil Factor)

I'm Still Alive and Flying the Friendly Skies

Although I referenced a Pearl Jam song in the title I have to tell you that I can no longer stand Pearl Jam. In 1992 I loved the 10 cd, but now 17 years later Pearl Jam has produced nothing of significance and much like the word "Kardashian," every song from the 10 cd has worn out it's welcome in my mind. If Pearl Jam comes on the radio I cannot change the station fast enough.

Hopefully blogging hasn't worn out it's welcome in my mind. I'm posting today just to stay connected. After my post about running away I figured I might post just so you don't think that I actually did go off the deep end, although it was tempting. I think that perhaps after a work trip that was part vacation I got back to my day to day routine and it just sucked the life out of me. After 4 days where everything was light and carefree, returning to my daily responsibilities has bogged me down mentally and until I regain my equilibrium where I have the emotional energy to handle my days and write sarcastic stuff, I may not have a lot of creativity here. But, let me tell you about a weird couple on my flight home last week...

So, when checking in for any flight I routinely ask if the exit row seats are already filled. The reason being is that if you're flying coach, standard seating doesn't have enough leg room for anyone who isn't a member of the Lollipop Guild. The exit rows however are very spacious and often last filled by passengers whom the airline employees deem able bodied enough to help people out in the event of an emergency landing. Being the strapping young buck that I am, I always pass this test.

So I amble down the aisle to my seat. It turns out it's in the middle of the exit row. Two people are already sitting there. One by the window. One on the aisle. They're married. I assume the airline made a mistake but these two didn't have the assertiveness to speak up and ask to be seated next to each other. I offer to allow one to switch seats so they can sit together. They refuse. The airline wasn't in error. They don't want to sit next to each other on a 2 1/2 hour flight. They chose to force a complete stranger to sit between them.

Are you freakin' kidding me?!!? How weird is that? "Frank, did you take your pill?" "Frank could you hand this to the stewardess?" "Frank take your pill now." "Sorry we have to talk across you." No, you didn't have to talk across me! You could have just effing moved over so you weren't inconveniencing a handsome and charming but complete stranger! What the hell is wrong with you two? Do you do this on every flight you go on? I'm reporting you to Homeland Security. I don't care that you despise each other so much that you can't rub elbows for two hours. Try to act normal in public and then go home and sleep in your separate bedrooms! I think airlines need to start separating the cabin by social skills.

Remember my Escapist Fantasy Post?

Remember my Escapist Fantasy post from Aug. 30th? I said that sometimes I feel like I want to get away from it all because it feels like I've got the weight of the world on my shoulders:



Well...I toook this plane:



And flew to this place:



And did this!



And I'm never going back! And if anyone tries to find me I'm going to drive away in this car:

Doppleganger

Doppelganger: German for "double walker", a shadow self that is thought to accompany every person. Some believe that only someone who knows the original person can also see the Doppelganger. Still others subscribe to the "evil twin" theory that doppelgangers behave in a manner directly opposite to the original person.

As of this writing, the world population is roughly 6,783,648,144. Is it possible that somewhere out there is another carbon copy of each of us? Are they living a parallel life somewhere else? Or, if each of us has both male and female genes, could we have a doppelganger of the opposite sex? Do we ever meet or see our own doppelganger? If we did and they were the opposite sex, would we be attracted to them? Would they be our "soul mate"? Or would it be more of a brother/sister feeling?

If the "evil twin" theory holds true, what do we do, knowing that the more good we do in life, the more evil our doppelganger will perpetrate? If we save a life, our doppelganger would take a life. If you met your evil twin, what would you do if you knew they were evil? If your evil twin is bent on destroying you, could you kill your own doppelganger? Would doing so destroy you both? Do we need a doppelganger? A balance? A cosmic yin and yang that makes the world go round?

How do we know that we are actually not the doppelganger? The shadow self for someone else? Could you be the evil twin and not know it?

This whole thing gives me a serious novel idea. I got dibs, so don't even think about it. And if I did have a female doppelganger, you know she would be really hot.

"I Love the Change of Seasons"

The picture here was my Saturday night. It is how I wish every evening could be spent. Sitting outside on a warm summer night. I know that most of you "love the change of seasons," but I'm not one of those. To me and the rest of the United States, Labor Day symbolizes the end of summer. To some this means changing leaves, cooler temperatures, and cocooning with family. To me the end of summer means shorter days, fewer opportunties to enjoy the outdoors, and work. Lots of it. And also since it's colder it Fall means I have to wear more clothes. With a body like mine, why cover it up?

Yeah, the leaves changing color are pretty, until my lawn is three inches deep in them and I'm speding two days filling over a dozen leaf bags. Then there's that whole winter thing. Some have espoused the virtues of fires in the fireplace, cuddling, snow angels, and snuggling. Or...you could see bitter cold, shoveling feet of snow from the driveway just so you can leave the house. Layers of clothes, specific footwear, and hats which just totally ruin my hair for the day.

I like sunshine and warmth. I don't have to shovel sunshine or scrape it off the windows of my car every time I just want to run to the corner store. Sunshine and warmth doesn't require a special wardrobe. Sunshine and warmth doesn't knock out my power for hours. This being the case, I dress for success. You know how they always tell you to dress not for the job you have but the job you want? I dress for the weather I want. It is usually deep into winter before I finally acknowledge the season has beaten me once again and I finally begin wearing a warmer coat. I don't cave on the hat however. Nothing messes with the 'do. Enjoy your change of seasons, but I plan to ignore it in hopes that it will go away. I don't mean to sound like a seasonal Scrooge, but in the Northeast where I live summer is so fleeting I don't want to let it go.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

For the most part bloggers are creatures who express ourselves with language. Occasionally we supplement our posts with pictures, some more effectively than others. But rare is the blogger who speaks only in images. One of my long time favorites is such a blogger. My blog has existed for over 4 years and very nice woman from New Zealand named Dzeni has been visiting my blog almost that long and in return I've been visiting hers as well.

Quietly and without fanfare or drama Dzeni has been posting pictures, designs and fractals she creates on her computer. She posts a new one daily. I visit and enjoy her artistry, amazed at what she does with an apparently endless stream of ideas, brilliant creativity, and technology. I have the same technology at my disposal that she does, and yet I'd be lucky to make a recognizable stick figure with the Paint program. Most of the time I can't even figure out how to use a new font. And each comment I leave is immediately responded to with an e-mail with a kind word of thanks. And I do mean immediately. I'm not sure how many hours difference there are between here and New Zealand, but she is seriously right on it.

If you have an extra minute each day make Dzeni a part of your blog rounds and enjoy something a little different.

To Yield or Not To Yield? That Is The Question

The sign to the right here is symbolic of everything that is wrong with the United States. Yes, that's right, everything. "State Law: Yield to Pedestrians in Crosswalk." Is this in anyone elses state? These signs started popping up in New York about two years ago. At first I thought they were just a small town thing. You know, those little towns without a stoplight and just one general store that is as much a social center as a place to shop for essentials. I can see these signs in towns where life moves slower and a motorist is just as apt to stop their vehicle to chat with a pedestrian about Edith's gout and the weather.

I would be fine if these little traffic impediments limited themselves to towns where Amish buggies share the road with cars, but that's not the case. Like an ivy that seems harmless at first, these laws and signs have crept into my city and town and are choking traffic. I can hardly finish a text without a half dozen stops and starts for people who suddenly believe that their soft, fleshy 150 lbs. are suddenly impervious to the might of my 3000 lb. death mobile hurtling towards them at 40 mph.

Don't get me wrong, in general I'm not in favor of running down pedestrians with my car, but let's have some common sense. This is a dangerous law. "But Phil," you say, "how is it dangerous? It seems like it is meant to protect people." Yes, it is meant to protect people, but from what? From their own stupidity. Why should we train people that it's OK to step off the curb without looking? Without consequence?

Now, children will grow up believing that it's just fine to run into a road. People don't need to get more comfortable with traffic, but less comfortable. With drivers busy eating, talking on cell phones, texting, and watching their GPS for the next turn pedestrians need to be on their toes constantly regardless of what the streeet sign says. This law goes against Darwin's evolutionary theory. It used to be that only the strong and smartest survived to procreate. Now with laws like this that protect the stupid people, everyone gets to survive and procreate! Do we really need more people who aren't smart enough to yield to a speeding car? I imagine years from now we will need to invent hover cars because our Earthbound roads will just be clogged with dolts crossing the street all day just because they can.

The Escapist Fantasy

We all have an escapist fantasy. Our wish to get away, to soothe our soul, to just for once think only of ourselves on those days when the rest of the world has forgotten to recognize and appreciate our personal greatness. It may be a day when months of work towards a particular goal are kicked aside by a higher up, who on a whim decides to take things in a new direction. It could be a day when everything seems to be coming up roses and then you get home to find a cold, cruel message informing you that your husband, wife, significant other has decided they need space or have found someone else. Or perhaps you've had that stressful day at work, it's finally the end of a Friday and you're looking forward to returning to your oasis at home and being embraced by the love of your family only to be greeted by screaming, yelling, and arguing. Life is sometimes imperfect and sometimes we all accept the invitation to the personal pity party and think to ourselves, "What if I just dropped it all and walked away?" Here's how my escapist fantasy goes:

It's been one of those days, weeks or even a month when the world has forgotten their obligation to fall fawning at my feet. I've had it. Fortunately for me there are two things happening that will allow me to finally just take care of myself, to have no demands on me more complicated than what to have for lunch. I just had my quarterly bonus from work direct deposited in conjunction with my regular paycheck. I have more money at my disposal at this moment than I've ever had. Tomorrow I have to travel to somewhere perpetually warm and sunny for a work function. I close out the bank account. It may not be a fortune, but it's more money than I've ever seen in my hands. This should take care of me for a couple months if I'm smart about it.

I get on the plane as scheduled and step off far away from my stress. I still stay in the hotel provided by work and attend all my meetings for the week. Why not? The hotel and my meals are paid for. Then comes Friday. The week of work meetings is done. Now it's time. I pack my suitcase and tell my roommate I'll see him down at breakfast. After breakfast I gather my suitcase, all the clothes I may own for a while, and instead of boarding the shuttle to the airport I walk past without a word or look in anyone's direction, and I keep walking until my feet find sand and my ears are filled with the sound of waves crashing upon the shore. I set my suitcase and my ass down upon the sun kissed beach. I slip off my black dress shoes and socks, setting aside the symbol of the life I've just left behind. "Even my toes wanted freedom from their workaday bondage," I think to myself as I dig my feet into the warm sand. I imagine that I can find a room to stay in above a beachside restaurant where I will work as a bartender pouring drinks and dispensing wisdom in exchange for my room and food. No paycheck, no social security number needed. Aside from that my time is spent enjoying the story of each person I meet as I soak in the sun, the sound of the waves and caw of the seagulls forever my soundtrack.

So what's your escapist fantasy? Where do you daydream of when it feels like the world is playing kick the can with your life?

P.S. If I don't post again for a while, you'll know why. "Wastin' away again in Margaritaville..."

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY !!!

I know Valentine's Day is months away, but it's never too early to start advertising and decorating for the next holiday is it? When I become President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first I intend to pass a law that limits how early advertising and holiday decorating can be done. Each year the holiday toy commercials and in store decorations force themselves into our lives earlier and earlier. There is absolutely no reason for advertisers and stores to begin Christmas preparations before Labor Day.

I love Halloween as much as the next guy, but I don't want to start thinking about it in JUly the way my local supermarket seems to. The local Halloween costume store is already open! And yes, Christmas is a big holiday for those that celebrate it, but there is absolutely no reason Christmas should be able to steamroll over virtually every other holiday that occurs in the previous four months. Those other holidays all have merit and earned their way onto the calendar, so let's not forget them. My new holiday Phil Law will simply state, "There can be no advertising or in store decorating for a holiday until the holiday immediately preceding it has concluded."

This way all the advertisers will have August to sell us our end of summer products such as rakes, leaf bags, sweaters, and beer and nachos to celebrate the beginning of the American football season. Then, as soon as Labor Day is over they are allowed to focus on Columbus Day. That's right, it's always important to celebrate the explorer who was the third guy to find North America but took credit for being first. The dimwit was heading for India and ran into a landmass about 6000 miles long from top to bottom. That was some shrewd sailing. The only way he could have missed hitting it was if he tied Leonardo DeCaprio to the front of his ship and found the nearest iceberg. He didn't even find a way around it! His trip was a total failure when you look at the goal he had when he set out. Yup, he definitely deserves a holiday. Then, only after Columbus Day can stores put Halloween costumes on their shelves. It's never too early to start worshipping Satan.

Of course after we're done with our evil, pagan holiday can we move onto to planning for the holiday that celebrates what we really worship, eating. Honestly, Thanksgiving is a holiday all about eating a giant meal. Who really, sincerely thinks about what they're thankful for on that day? I mean besides the thought, "I'm thankful I got one of the turkey legs this year." If I'm going to have a holiday centered on a really good meal, I am not going to eat turkey and stuffing. If turkey and stuffing are such a treat then why the hell don't we eat them the rest of the year? Why aren't there restaurant chains serving them year round? If there's going to be a holiday that's centered on a big meal, why not pizza and wings? When I'm President or Sexiest Man alive, whichever comes first, I am definitely declaring a pizza and wings holiday. Phil Day I think we'll call it.

Then finally at midnight on Thanksgiving should we be able to begin the Christmas season. It could be a national event. All the family and friends who get together for the Thanksgiving meal could stay up like on New Years Eve and at midnight cable channels can begin airing "It's A Wonderful Life." Every house in the neighborhood could turn on their Christmas lights at midnight. The first t.v. ads for Fondle Me Elmo could air during that first "Wonderful Life" commercial break. Stores could open at midnight with special sales. Dick Clark could host a "Ringing In The Holidays" t.v. special that airs live, showing cities across the world lighting their city Christmas tree and shooting off fireworks.

That's how to have a holiday season. With advertising and store displays started in August, Christmas has become almost tiresome by the time it arrives. The day itself is an anti-climax after the four month build-up. With my plan each holiday will get it's due and Christmas will still have the fanfare it deserves. Yes, I realize how ethnocentric this post is in regards to the penultimate Christian holiday, but that is just another example of how it dominates our culture at the expense of other holidays and religions. Don't worry, I'm working on my post about how Ramadan is way too commercialized as well. And don't even get me started on Yom Kippur.

My Twit Face

Facebook, MySpace, and Twitter have become part of modern life. All three are a wonderful way to connect with and communicate with friends and family. Technology has made the world smaller and in some cases brought the past back to us. Not all of this is good however.

I'm on one of these social networks and have found countless old friends whom I have lost touch with. I've kept in touch with family. And I've have had the creepy older brother of a friend send me a "friend hug" and countless drinks. Ugh. That's the problem with these social networking sites. Sure, you can find long lost friends and all, but they can also find you. I have people I wouldn't say Hi to if I bumped into them in a foreign country, and yet they're want to know my result on the 'What movie character would you be?' survey. I have a woman I haven't spoken to since I was 13 years old sending me flowers, blenders, and farm animals daily.

Then there's the status updates. I'll put one up if I actually do something that's somewhat out of the ordinary or if I think of something funny or original to say, but really do all these people care if I'm frustrated that it rained on my weekend, or what I cooked for dinner, or what my most recent workout consisted of, or what the hell my mood is at 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon? I don't care about these things about myself, and I'm pretty sure no one else cares about the minutiae of my day. Have we become such an insipid, needy society that we can't do anything without needing validation from someone? And does no one have any personal boundaries anymore? Just because people spill their guts on Dr. Phil doesn't mean that I need to know the same things about you just because the anonymity of the internet hides my horrified look and snide comment from you. If you're getting divorced, have a family member dying, or just found out your best friend is gay and in love with you, does it really help you if "5 people liked this"?

I am not a friend whore. Some people have literally hundreds of "friends" that they've never met or even sent an e-mail to. Never heard their voice, and yet these same anonymous friends get to see pictures of their family and know what's going on virtually every hour of their lives. I guess you can never have too many friends. That being said, I'm on Facebook as Fill Taylor. That's right, with an F. There are literally hundreds spelled the other way, so the differentiation makes me easier to find. Feel free to "friend" me. I look forward to hearing about your day.

One Last Golden Boys Story: The Walk

Our most sacred and enduring ritual is The Walk. We grew up in suburbia. Everytown, USA. Identical houses and identical yards as far as the eye could see. A corner store we could walk to. Four guys in four consecutive houses. All about the same age from average middle class families. Our ritual, when the weather was willing, and sometimes when it wasn't, was The Walk. The "walk around the block." In the beginning it was rarely spoken or suggested, it just sort of happened. Any time of day or night it could happen. After we finished swimming or building a fort, or when we got older, after a night out on the town. We would just walk and talk. Some days we would try to fathom the mysteries of our world and some days we just laughed at each other for reasons we wouldn't remember the next day. We knew every foot of that walk like the back of our hands. We knew who lived in every house, all 56 of them. 58 after they added the two down at the end. It was the best neighborhood in the world as far as we knew, and we felt like we were the kings of it.

The Walk is still our ritual, but it's changed. None of us lives in the old neighborhood anymore and our reasons for visiting it are almost gone. In our eyes though, the old neighborhood is unchanged. A time capsule of our childhood. As adult men now, we still go back to the neighborhood and take The Walk. We walk down the middle of the street at night and we point to every house and talk about the memory of a childhood friend, or the time it caught fire, or what tragedy befell the old folks, who weren't so old when we rang their doorbell and ran. For three of the four of us, the neighborhood doesn't belong to us anymore. Our parents have passed away or divorced and sold our childhood homes. But still we walk. This year when one of our parents passed away, three of us returned to the neighborhood after calling hours and took The Walk. We still try to get together once a year. Again this year, we still drove to the old neighborhood, parked the car at the corner store and walked by our childhood, wondering where it went. Someday when the first of us passes away, I imagine the others will take The Walk, carrying our friend's casket around the block, for one last walk.

Sick of The Golden Boys?

What does everyone think? I'm tiring of the subject after two weeks. I do have plenty more stories and a few pics, but like I said, I'm sure this is more fun for me than you. How about voting in the comments? Golden Boys? New posts?

Highway To Hell (A Golden Boy Road Trip)

Yes, the Golden Boys do occasionally leave New York to wreak havoc upon the unsuspecting denizens of other locales. A few brief, but memorable, moments occurred during just such a road trip when we set sail for Golden Boy Tom's nuptials in the windy city of Chicago. Tom was already in Chicago with his betrothed, while Gooby, Chuck, myself, and auxiliary Golden Boy Ozzy packed ourselves into a Ford Probe for the 12 hour drive.

First off, let me say that there should be a Golden Boys soundtrack because so many songs are associated with specific moments that we all remember. Those of you on the wrong side of 30 would enjoy our music. One such musical moment occurred spontaneously during the trip to Chicago. As we all cruised along, mocking me for not driving fast enough, the 1980's mega-hit "The Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats, came on the radio. Without a word, our bodies began to bob back and forth in uncanny unison to the music as we all spontaneously burst into singing the words loudly together.("You can dance if you want to. You can leave your friends behind, 'cuz your friends don't dance and if they don't dance then they're no friends of mine") The passengers in other cars going by us laughed and pointed.

Shortly after that we stopped at a rest stop in Ohio. Two things happened in fairly quick succession shortly after we sat down to eat. Auxiliary Golden Boy Ozzy inadvertently introduced a full-fledged, habit wearing nun to the phrase "knob job" and Chuck was filmed sitting helplessly on the commode. That's one thing about being a Golden Boy. You're guard has to be up at all times. Especially if you're naked. Whether it be showering, sleeping, or using the toilet, there is always an excellent chance another Golden Boy will film or photograph you and then send it by e-mail to everyone he knows.

FLAME

FLAME is our version of Spinal Tap. Or perhaps more appropriately, Milli Vanilli. Flame is The Golden Boys air band. I'm not sure how it started, but one summer day with too much time and too much beer we found ourselves hanging around someone's house with a bunch of musical instruments that none of us could play. Needless to say, we did what anyone would in that situation. We walked around our neighborhood pretending we were a band. We took publicity photos. We even put on a fake performance in a drive thru car wash at the end of the street.

About 10 years later we also had a reunion tour during Golden Boys weekend and again made matching shirts to commemorate the occasion. We again proudly wore our matching shirts out in public and explained to anyone who asked that we were a famous one hit wonder band from the 80's that was re-uniting for one more tour. We would feign stunned amazement that they didn't remember our one hit that made it to #17 on the billboard charts. We really did have a song we made up, or at least we had a few lines we made up that we would pretend were from our "song" and we would sing them for anyone who asked. (I'm on the far left in the top picture and the far right in the bottom picture)

One Golden Boy Short

I'm sure all of you are wondering what we do when one of our Golden Boys is missing from one of our functions. That's easy. We replace him. There are two ways we replace a Golden Boy. One is with our back-up Golden Boy, Ozzy. (No, not the singer, but another of our friends with a nickname. He's the one with the hip tattoo in the post below) The other way we replace a Golden Boy is with a cardboard cut-out. Gooby is very technically inclined and using pictures of me from 8th grade and one from high school graduation he created two life size card board cut-outs of my head and shoulders. By all reports my card board cut-outs have had a lot more fun than I have on some Golden Boy weekends. I was unable to travel to Connecticut for Chuck's wedding, but if you watch Chuck's wedding video there I am, from the shoulders up, dancing with bridesmaids, sitting at the head table and hanging out at the bar. The pics in this post are actually freeze frame images taken from Chuck's wedding video. Needless to say that Mrs. Chuck was none too pleased with the prominence of my cardboard participation. I apparently have also met a lot of women online through Gooby's web cam.

A Golden Boy Wedding

As hard as it might be to believe based on our group nickname , all of the Golden Boys are heterosexual and occasionally someone agrees to marry one of us. As you might imagine, when you put the four of us in tuxedos with an open bar and loud music, very entertaining things are bound to happen. The first thing that usually happens is that the dance floor suddenly looks like a Taylor Hicks convention with all of us pretending that we can dance. That's where the American Idol resemblance stops however because none of us can sing very well. Of course that doesn't stop us from singing. We usually continue to do so loudly and in unison almost constantly throughout the reception. Dates, wives and bridesmaids are quickly forgotten as we revel in our big day together. On more than one occasion the beautiful bride, who dreamed of this day her whole life, is usually quite upset that she, her $1000 dress, and the reason for the day has been completely upstaged by The Golden Boys. Considering the fact that she's getting to marry a Golden Boy, it's a sacrifice worth making.

One especially memorable Golden Boy wedding reception was Gooby's. Fortunately his bride that day had been riding shotgun with The Golden Boys the longest and knew what to expect. (In the rest of this story I am going to remove the name of the Golden Boy to protect his identity. Golden Boy X we'll call him.) Shortly after the reception began Golden Boy X was despondent over the fact that the bridesmaid he was paired up with didn't want to hook up with him, so he coped with this the way anyone would. He got very drunk. So drunk that he threw up under the gift table and was shortly thereafter was found napping under said gift table. Needless to say, the bridesmaid was so impressed that she didn't talk to him the rest of the night. Tom and I did not immediately comprehend the plight of our comatose friend because it was likely that at this time Tom and I, who were both not hitting on our bridesmaids, were slow dancing with each other until a pair of dateless divorced women(Can you say 'Cougar' boys and girls? Good, I knew you could!) decided they'd like to dance with us. Aren't there always Cougars prowling weddings?

At about 1 a.m., following the reception, during which I'm sure no one took their Cougar to a coatroom or a car, the Golden Boys decided to help Gooby and the future ex-Mrs. Gooby bring all their presents and flowers back to the new bride's parents' home. We did rouse Golden Boy X, and now conscious and feeling badly about his performance at the reception, decided to apologize by vomiting in the bride's parents' bathroom. That night may be why Gooby is now divorced.

The Nipple Ring Open

The title got your attention didn't it? The Nipple Ring Open was the first of the official Golden Boy weekend functions. We were all out of college and Chuck had gone off to the Navy. He was back for a week after boot camp and of course could think of nothing better do to than to spend time with The Golden Boys. As I said in Chuck's write up, The Golden Boys were, I believe, more responsible for raising him to be the man he became than his own family was. Apparently we did a very poor job of instilling our values in him. He runs off to join the Navy and comes home with...a nipple ring.

As his mentors and role models you can imagine how disappointed in him we were. Of course you can also imagine how much abuse we heaped upon him, including a fair bit of painful tugging on his ring. The Nipple Ring Open was an informal golf tournament we played amongst ourselves and videotaped a large part of our idiocy. Sadly, I have yet to figure out how to post our own vidoes here. Maybe next year. I'm not sure if Chuck still has the nipple ring, but I wouldn't bet against it. About 10 years later we had the 10th Anniversary Nipple Ring Open and we all wore matching shirts that we had specially made which said, "The Golden Boys: Nipple Ring Open 2000." We only realized later, as we all sat in McDonald's in our matching Nipple Ring shirts, how gay we must have looked.

The sun was hot, the beer was cold, and the golf was bad. Prior to the Nipple Ring Open 2000 we all spent a fair amount of time drinking and putting on temporary tattoos. The picture above is from 4 years ago. (me, Tom, Gooby) The picture below is Gooby, Auxilliary Golden Boy Ozzy, and me prior to the 2000 Nipple Ring Open. As you can see, I was a little more conservative than the others in my tattoo placement. Then again, the choice of temporary tattoos that year was intended to mock me because I've got a real tattoo somewhere you can't see.

Golden Boy Flip

Yes, I'm Flip. The story behind my nickname is no story at all. If you say my first name, Philip, really fast, it sounds like you're saying Flip. At least I think that's the story. It's entirely possible that they have another reason for calling me that and I have no idea. We all respond to our nicknames as if they're our real names when we're with each other, and it would sound strange if any of us referred to the other by our given name. Do you think it's time to change my blog name to 'The Flip Factor'? Nah, just doesn't roll off the tongue the same.

It will be hard for me to come up with some funny stories to sort of capture me in a snapshot as I did the others. I'm sure there are stories the others could tell you that are very funny, but I may not remember them because I was probably drunk at the time. I'm not saying I drink a lot, it's just that we're all usually getting drunk when we're together. I'm sure that I have often been a source of endless amusement for my friends. In the late 80's I had a pair of parachute pants that I'm sure the rest of The Golden Boys are still laughing about. Believe me, I had the ass to pull off that look. Still do if you frankly. When I first posted this post I had included an embarrassing picture of myself from that time in my life when I did love my parachute pants, but later I impulsively deleted it out of embarrassment. Trust me though, there are plenty of pictures of The Golden Boys coming soon.

Like I said, it's hard for me to think of what's funny about me, although after reading my blog for awhile I'm sure you have your ideas. Oh yeah, I'm also easily the best looking of all of us. Then again, that's like being the most smartest member of the Bush family. Who can choose? In the coming days I'll share some stories that tell you about what happens when you mix a lot of beer and four men who have never grown up. And thank you again for allowing me to indulge in my little trip down memory lane. Remember the movie previews for The Hangover? Yeah, I'm pretty sure they stole my stories.

Golden Boy Chuck

The first thing I have to explain about Chuck is that "Chuck" is not his real name. His real name is Ken, but one day when we were kids, my older brother looked at him and said, "You don't look like a Ken. You look like someone who should be named Chuckie Huddleburger." And so his name has since been Chuck, whether he liked it or not. He should consider himself lucky to be nicknamed Chuck. My brother also nicknamed Chuck's older brother "Aper" due to his resemblance to an ape. The other member of our foursome is nicknamed "Gooby," so I think Chuck realized that as far as nicknames go, he got off easy. That apparently is about the only way Chuck got off. He has always had an uncanny ability to avoid hooking up with women no matter how hard he tried. At one point, as an adult heterosexual male in his 20's he went over 2 years without convincing anyone to have sex with him! He is not a candidate for Extreme Makeover. He has an actual personality and the verbal ability to express himself. He also has rosy, red cheeks. Year round. Whether it's hot or cold. When we were younger, Chuck was always the tag along little brother to the older three of us. He was the youngest by a year or two and was moderately vertically challenged, but definitely not dwarf-like. Unfortunately for him, these traits also made him the group scapegoat for practical jokes. If there is any justice in the world, Chuck will one day own a billion dollar corporation, hire the rest of the Golden Boys, and then fire us just out of spite for the abuse we heaped upon him when we were younger. He had three older brothers of his own, but he wisely chose us three as his role models. One of our first tasks as Chuck's mentors in high school was to get rid of his hopelessly outdated hairstyle that we referred to as "The Wave." This hairstyle was so 1950's corny, that one winter we memorialized it with a 10 foot tall snow sculpture of his head on his front lawn.

Golden Boy Gooby

(This is the second post in my annual homage to my lifelong friends. To read the intro, scroll down to the previous post)
I have probably known Gooby since he was about 2 days old. I'm one year and one day older than him. Our parents lived 2 houses apart and were always friends. That being the case, I'm fairly certain that when his Mom came home from the hospital with the new baby, my Mom scooped me up and went over to visit Mother Gooby and her new offspring.

Of course the most obvious question is, how did he get the nickname Gooby? That started when we were all about 10 or 11 years old. At the end of our street was a police station. Each winter the snow plows would create huge mountains of snow on the edges of the parking lot when they cleared it. As boys, Gooby, Tom, Chuck and I would play a reverse King of the Hill kind of game. We'd climb to the top of one of these snow piles and one of us would expectorate a big, green goober upon the top of the hill. Then as soon as someone said, "GO!" we would battle to push each other onto the top of the mountain. Gooby, as a 10 year old had the physical build of a newborn deer, all spindly bones and no muscle mass whatsoever. Needless to say, he lost our pre-pubescent manhood contest more often than not and ended up with a frozen goober stuck to his parka. And so a nickname was born. Apparently a few years later, his father, who was not pleased that the nickname had stuck (pun intended) declared to someone, "I will not have a son of mine called Gooby!" Shaking in fear from this proclamation issued by an authority figure, we responded by promptly nicknaming Gooby's father "Colt" for his resemblance to Lee Majors' character in the ground breaking early 80's action adventure series The Fall Guy. (As you can see, our little group was fond of nicknaming almost everyone. Yes, I have a nickname too, and I'll get to that eventually.)

As I mentioned, Gooby grew up with a body that most closely resembled whichever of the Olsen twins had the eating disorder. Then in high school and college a funny thing happened. Gooby started eating a lot of protein and working out. Now his physique resembles that of The Thing from the Fantastic Four movie, only Gooby is a lot hairier. Three years ago during Golden Boy weekend we went to his mother's house to swim in her pool and drink her beer. While we were there his 60 year old mother came home to find three 30-something men swimming in her pool and drinking her beer. One of the three men asked his mother if she would shave his back for him. Gooby then let his mother lather him up and attempt to shave his back with a razor. That was like trying to take down a forest with a lawnmower. Overall, Gooby is the quintessential nice guy and the glue that holds the Golden Boys together. Whenever any of us has anything serious going on in our personal lives, tragedies, triumphs or elective surgeries, we confide in Gooby, even though we know he tells the other three everything when we're not there.

The Golden Boys (from the Best of Phil DVD)

I apologize to my long-time readers who will recognize this and several other posts from the next two weeks. Not all of my posts from the next two weeks will be repeats, but at this time of year I always pay tribute to my friends. This series of posts will undoubtedly be funnier to my friends and I than any of you, but some bits of my annual pilgrimage may be worth a chuckle for everyone else.

First, let me explain who The Golden Boys are. In our minds we are The Golden Boys. At least that's how we think of ourselves. Not because of any special qualities we have, or because of any of us has led a particularly charmed life. We are four fairly normal, middle-aged men who have been together our entire lives. We can't remember a time when we didn't know each other. We want to think we're special. Like all men our age, we still believe that if we had the time to train we could become professional athletes or crime fighting super-heroes. Despite a sprinkle of gray hair beginning to show or abs that aren't as defined as we'd like to imagine, we still fantasize that we can turn the ladies heads. We'd dubbed ourselves The Golden Boys when we were just barely past puberty. The name "The Golden Boys" was borrowed from a skit on a show called Fridays back around 1980. In the skit, there were two guys with gaudy blonde wigs and some sort of professional wrestler costumes accented by a gold bikini. The motto of The Golden Boys that was uttered by the pair in unison at the conclusion of each skit was, "We're young. We're tough, and we're good looking!" So needless to say, my friends and I adopted the name Golden Boys for ourselves and we began to shout the motto whenever we were together. We still do when we're drinking.

My "Golden Boys" include Tom, Gooby, Chuck, and myself. We all grew up on the same street in four consecutive houses. We have known each other since we were in diapers and will no doubt know each other when we're in diapers again. Once a year for the past 15 years or so we all try to make it back to our hometown for a weekend of drunken revelry and pining for the glory days of our youth. The weekend is typically one of the highlights of my year. This year I'm not sure if the weekend will happen, but I still want to tip my cap to my future pallbearers. Over the next two weeks I'll introduce you to each of the Golden Boys, except Tom, who has asked to be left out, and regale you with tales of our past indiscretions. After reading some of my stories last year a fellow blogger commented that we were "like the kids from Stand By Me, but on crack." I guess that's as good a description as any. I hope you enjoy the stories as much as I do. By the way, we have a secret handshake that we still use.

Connecticut is for F***ing, but what is Pennsylvania For?

I had a great time at the concert last weekend. The bill also included Life in a Blender (think Talking Heads lite) and Nellie McKay. All three acts featured enough humor in their music to keep me happy. The picture on the left is of course of Jesus H. Christ and the Four Hornsmen of The Apocalypse. It's the best I could do with my cell phone as flash photography wasn't allowed. The following day I sent a Facebook message to the lead singer to tell her how much I enjoyed the show and thank her for including me on her invitation list. She messaged back that she had planned to give me a shout out before beginning the song Vanity Surfin' (which mentions blogging) but got confused and forgot.

This weekend I'm in another state that may be worse than Connecticut. As soon as you cross the border from N.Y. you are immediately confronted by highway billboards advertising two things that are illegal in NY, but apparently perfectly acceptable here: fireworks and ...ahem...Asian massages. For a state so backwoods redneck that a friend of mine refers to it as Pennsyltucky, it seems odd that they are so liberal about happy endings massages. And honestly I didn't get what those Asian massage billboards were really advertising until a friend clued me in. And in case you're wondering, if I was going to get one of those massages I wouldn't be here writing about it. Ok, so in Pennsylvania it's ok to blow shit up and pay an alleged masseuse for a happy ending, but you can't go down to a convenience store or gas station and buy a six pack of beer? Yup, that's right. There is no beer at the convenience stores. I've got a fridge in my hotel room, but if I want to buy beer it must be in large quantities. The only way to buy beer for consumption at home it must be in large quantities from a beer warehouse. I'm not opposed to beer warehouses mind you, but I'm pretty sure I won't be drinking a case of beer over two nights. I'm terrified of what else I might find out is going on in this god forsaken state. Hopefully the villagers don't discover that I'm magically contacting the 'interweb' right through the air. They'd probably organize a mob with torches (or perhaps Roman candles) and pitchforks and storm my hotel room. If this is my last post ever you'll know that's what happened.

A Very Funny Band, A Very Funny Song

This may be the funniest song I've ever heard. If you're so inclined, it's even funnier to listen to than it is to read. They have two cd's out and are available on itunes. Here's their site if you want to read more about them.

The Band: Jesus H. Christ and The Four Hornsmen
The Song: Connecticut's For Fucking

We live in the dullest state
Package stores all close at eight
Malls are full of optometrists
And restaurants we hate
Swimming across Lake Quassapaug
Stealing makeup, catching frogs
Cutting our feet on broken bottles
As we wade in the Shepaug
It’s true for horses, cows and dogs…

Connecticut’s for fucking
That’s all there is to do.
I love to listen to classic rock
and have sex with you.

Doing hole shots at the mall
Writing Ozzy on a wall
Watch the corn get tall
There’s nothing else to do at all.

Goin’ where we always go
Doin’ what we always do
Waitin’ to turn into the people
We are bound to turn into.
What else do other people do?

Connecticut’s for fucking
It’s the Nutmeg state
If we can’t afford to buy antiques
then we just copulate

Connecticut’s for fucking
And Massachusetts too
I want to climb up the sleepy giant
and have sex with you.

Up in Fairfield
In Old Lyme
We’re just fucking all the time.
Out in Derby
Down in Kent
We’re all busy getting bent
In the Constitution State.

Connecticut’s for fucking
While we’re waiting to
Turn into the people
everyone here turns into.

Connecticut’s for fucking.
There’s nothing else to do.
I wanna listen to classic rock and have sex with you.

We all love to fuck in Connecticut.
We’re all getting fucked in Connecticut.
Let’s fuck!

Here's a little back story. I first posted this almost three years ago and then sent the link to their "Contact us" link on their site just so they knew they had some supporters out there. I got back a sarcastic e-mail. I responded with a kind of "geez, I'm just trying to give you guys a little extra free publicity." I assumed it was just some record company P.R. peon I was dealing with. Turns out it was the lead singer. Since then we have e-mailed occasionally and she gave me permission to reference their band in my novel. About two months ago I got a Facebook invitation to attend their concert in NYC this weekend, so that's where I'll be Saturday night. They are a very funny, and very nice band, so please if you are so inclined, visit their site or download this song or others from itunes. Trust me, if you listen to this song you'll laugh from start to finish.

Cemetery of the Heart

We all have a Cemetery of the Heart that we visit from time to time. It is a place that is unique and belongs to each of us alone. Sometimes we visit when it’s sunny and the birds are singing and at these times we are unaffected by the memories each marker represents, thankful that we are in a better place. Other times we visit our Cemetery of the Heart when the weather is cloudy, cold, and stormy, perhaps mourning the loss of those happy memories that warmed our hearts in days gone by.

We may walk down an aisle, a small, grassy path flanked on either side by those tiny markers that barely acknowledge a person’s passing, viewing the tombstones with varying levels of interest and angst. Some of the smaller stones, barely a marker really, may represent missed opportunities, brief connections with people which never came to fruition or doors we did not open when opportunity knocked. Most are relationships that perished in their infancy. We recognize the names on some of these stones and others we do not. Some are lovers, some are friends and some are strangers we may have met in passing.

In the next row over are tombstones of those loves which may have been ill-fated, but which still resonate poignantly in our memories. The path through this row of grave markers is slightly uphill, but we can still easily make the trek. The stones are tall and strong with the names and dates etched in them as they are forever etched in our hearts. Each one a small nick, or scratch, or crack in the surface of our hearts, which may have changed it ever so slightly, but which also gives our heart some of the strength and character which has brought us this far.

As we turn the corner of the gravel path there are only a few graves left to view. Up the long, steep hill at the far back of our Cemetery of the Heart are the monuments and mausoleums. It is inevitable. Once we enter our Cemetery of the Heart we are compelled to walk the entire path, even when it becomes steep and difficult. There is no way to go back and erase what we’ve carved on each tombstone. The monuments and mausoleums may be far fewer in number, but their size and importance dominates our view of the cemetery.

In some places we have erected enormous monuments to lost loves. Some of them stand so tall and broad that they block the sun, dooming the small flowers we have tried to plant since the monument was built. Some of us are so tired from pushing the heavy stones into place that we haven’t even tried to plant new flowers yet. We hope that in time some hardy plants will grow here naturally in the shade of these memories and with enough time perhaps they will grow tall enough to reach the sunlight with branches where birds will nest and sing again.

Next to our monuments we notice a mausoleum. Some of the crypts are labeled and we fondly pay homage to those who still hold a special place in our hearts, those we still wish to check in on from time to time to see that they are well. Finally, if we choose to look closely enough, we can see that the daylight from outside our mausoleum has crept through the doorway to reveal a few empty drawers at the back. At this realization we smile and leave the cemetery in peace, knowing that the storm will eventually pass.

Jon and Kate Plus Hate

"In the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes."-Andy Warhol

In any bar, on any night, in any town in America, if a 40 year old, doughy, hair thinning, married guy walks in, what are the chances he walks out with a single, 23 year old school teacher and goes back to her place to get jiggy with it? Pretty slim usually....unless you're a reality t.v. star!

Aaaaaah...reality t.v.! How could we live without it? I was nearly a reality t.v. star once upon a time. "What's that you say Phil? We could have known you as someone besides the brilliant and funny blog writer you are?" That's right kids. Sit down and I'll tell you the story:

Many moons ago, about 6 months before the first season of Survivor, I came across a tiny ad in small print on page 2 of my local newspapers sports section. It seems some network was looking for people to volunteer to live on a deserted island for a month as part of some new game show. The winner would get a million dollars. I thought, "Hell, I can do that. I'm not afraid to eat bugs and sleep outside." I was serious. So I proposed the idea to Mrs. Phil. Her reaction was, "No way. You're not going away for a month and leaving me here with the kids." "But honey, it's for a million dollars!" "NO" That was the end of that discussion and the end of my shot at immediate fame and fortune. I have forever held a grudge against Survivor and have not watched a single episode.

Now it seems we have reality t.v. overkill, even without me being a part of it. There are shows about families, shows about fat people, short people, people cooking, people selling their houses, people looking for their houses, people having surgery, people building motorcycles, people sleeping, people having babies, getting married and just about anything else. I made up the one about people sleeping just to see if you're paying attention.

Survivor: Yeah, we get it already. A bunch of self-centered, arrogant, model-type a-holes bicker endlessly in a tropical location. Like E.R. I think this show has overstayed its welcome in our living rooms.

Big Brother: A bunch of self-centered, arrogant, model type, a-holes bicker endlessly in a house. If I wanted to watch a bunch of drunk, immature, 20 somethings stab each other in the back and make every little perceived slight into a volcano of petty drama I'd go back to college.

The Bachelor/Bachelorette: A bunch of self-centered, arrogant, model-type, a-holes bicker endlessly about who gets to marry a self-centered, arrogant model-type a-hole.

Would somebody out there just go back to writing sit-coms? All I want when I sit down at night is to empty my brain and fill it with 22 minutes of insipid one liners that require no thought at all to absorb. Maybe a sit-com about the life of a funny blogger would be good. The Phil Factor could be a very catchy title. Hollywood, are you listening?

The Overlaughers

We all know the overlaughers. We encounter them in everyday life. You may even be an overlaugher. Typically the overlaughers have no idea they are one. Typically, overlaughers also annoy the hell out of the rest of us. I'm five sentences in and you're all still thinking, "What the hell is an overlaugher Phil? Get to it already would you!" If this was your thought, you are probably not an overlaugher. An overlaugher is a person whose laughter is often disproportionate to the stimulus which provoked it. On the one side of this, it is nice that these people are enjoying life so much that they find even the most modestly amusing things bring them unmitigated joy. The other side of this coin is that the rest of us have to listen to them guffaw loudly during meetings, in casual conversations and during movies or television shows. Don't get me wrong, I love to laugh and I love hearing others laugh at my jokes, but even if it is my joke, I still get the urge to slap an overlaugher right out of their fit of hysteria if it is unwarranted. There are three types of overlaughers. I'm not sure which is more irritating.

The first type is the Self Overlaugher, or an Overlaugher Type I. For most of this week I was at a conference for work. Eight hours a day for three straight days I sat in a conference room being lectured at. This first day presenter was a very attractive 28-30 year old woman who had just gotten her Ph.D. the day before yesterday and couldn't wait to enthusiastically share all the brand spankin' new information they had taught her in college, but which has no useful application in the real world. In an effort to spice up her presentation she interspersed jokes and amusing personal anecdotes. Early in the day I was very pleased with this approach. Then I noticed she was an Overlaugher Type I. She found herself hysterically funny. So funny in fact that she often began laughing at her jokes before the audience had a chance to. Sometimes the audience chose not to laugh since she had already done it for them. It is fine to tell jokes, in fact I do it all day long. Sometimes it is even Ok to smirk or chuckle a bit when you say something amusing. A Self-Overlaugher laughs loudly and profusely at their own jokes as if someone else had just said something side-splittingly funny.

The second day we had a different presenter who was a bit more low key. Unfortunately for the rest of us an Overlaugher Type II had taken up residence in the front row. As a performer or public speaker it is wonderful to have several Type II Overlaughers in your audience. Type II Overlaughers seem to have an over-reactive funny bone. They find everything hysterically funny and usually have very little self-awareness regarding the volume at which their laughter emanates from their body. The problem for public speakers and audiences alike is when there is just one Type II Overlaugher in the audience. When there is just one Type II Overlaugher in the audience their laughter, which is either too loud, occurs alone, or outlasts the group response, tends to make a joke seems less funny because of their singularly exaggerated response, which usually causes everyone in the room to look at them and think, "What the hell is wrong with him? It wasn't that funny"

The Type III Overlaugher is known as the Combo type. A Combo Overlaugher laughs loudly and frequently at both their own jokes and everyone elses. The Combo Overlaughers are exhausting to be around and give most of us a headache. These people must collapse exhausted at the end of each day from the sheer energy required to maintain this laughter all day. The Combo Overlaughers strike me as very sad though because you know damn well that no one is that happy 24/7 and if they behave as if they are they're probably hiding something. Like seeing a clown at a bar drinking and smoking at the end of a long day of making ballon animals I imagine that the Type III Overlaughers go home and drink themselves to sleep every night. The one place I do love Overlaughers however is in my comments, so please, feel free to embrace your inner Overlaugher. Which type are you?

Welcome to New York! Not Everyone gets Mugged !

Is it just me, or does everyone think that almost every single state motto is idiotic and outdated? When I'm elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, I vow to pass a new Phil law mandating that each state motto must in some way be relevant to the state. Just off the top of my head, here are a few state mottos and how I would change them:

South Carolina: The state of South Carloina has two mottos, both of which are in Latin. Really? Latin? How many people in South Carolina do you suppose speak Latin? How about something more appropriate such as: Welcome to South Carolina where tobacco is the 5th food group!

New Hampshire: We all know this one, Live Free or Die. Who the hell thought that phrase was befitting of New Hampshire? Was there ever a chance anyone was going to enslave New Hampshire? How about a motto such as: New Hampshire! The other kind of narrow state that looks like Vermont upside down!

California: The California motto is actually the Latin word Eureka! The English translation is "I have found it." Brilliant eh? Somebody stumbles on a piece of land 770 miles long and they want a freakin' motto? How the hell could you miss it? Dora the Explorer finds more shit than that in a 22 minute episode. What the hell is her motto? For California how about the motto: Welcome to California! We don't give a rats ass who our governor is!

Maryland: Maryland's state motto is actually in French, which makes sense because...well, it doesn't make any sense. The English translation of Maryland's state motto is: Manly deeds, womanly words. What the hell, I'm going to leave that one be.

Delaware: Liberty and Independence. Not bad. Sounds very distinguished. But seriously, c'mon, it's Delaware! Have you looked at this state on a map? If the United States has an appendix, Delaware is it. It may be time for an appendectomy. New Phil motto for Delaware: Shhhhh! If anyone really notices how small we are they'll take away our statehood!

I could go on like this all day, but what fun would that be? How about your ideas for state mottos for your own state or others in the comments?

The Comment Police

I appreciate the time anyone takes to read what I write here and I love your comments regardless of whether you do or don't like what I've written. Bloggers are the nicest group of people I know. Only once in the 4 years I've had this blog have I found it necessary to delete a comment. I wonder why so many other bloggers have 'comment approval' enabled. Are you afraid of dissenting opinions? If you're a woman, do you get a lot of inappropriate comments from men? Do you have control issues? Do you fear what other bloggers will think if they read a negative comment? Will they leave you if someone else disagrees with your post? Are you obsessive-compulsive and feel the need to proof-read and spell check everything first? I honestly don't care if you have to check over my comments before they appear on your blog, but seriously, what's the big deal? I don't mean to sound critical if you're a comment approver, I'm curious. If you've got a good reason I'm sure I'd agree. Could someone explain why you do it?

Send In The Clowns

I'd like to address a very serious subject. A malady if you will, that afflicts thousands, maybe millions, of people each and every day. It is a subject of such horror, such an abomination, that those who suffer from this disorder hide it, even from their loved ones. I am, of course, speaking of Coulrophobia. No, Coulrophobia is not the fear of Dave Coulier. If it were, that would be my problem. Well, me and Alanis Morissette. Coulrophobia is "the irrational and persistent fear of clowns." Yes, it is so prevalent it has been given a scientific name by psychologists. Apparently this is a very serious subject because there are hundreds of websites dedicated to discussing and curing this fear. I don't get it!!!! What the hell is so scary about a guy in makeup, big pants, and floppy red shoes? You know what they say, big feet big... I suppose that's why they have to wear the big pants. Do you Coulrophobes think that the squirting flower they wear is symbolic of what's going on in the big pants perhaps? Is it the swollen red nose that suggests alcoholism? C'mon, we all have a lovable, old drunk somewhere in our family tree! And yes, I intentionally put that big clown picture at the top of the article just to freak out the clown-o-phobes. Aside from John Wayne Gacy, can anyone else name a clown that has ever done anyone any harm? (No, Michael Jackson doesn't count!) If you weren't creeped out by clowns before, I'll bet you are now, but in a different way. Enjoy the circus this year everyone!

Selfishly Giving The Gift of Life

Our story begins with our hero walking into the crowded waiting room of the local American Red Cross office. He has a 7:30 appointment, but quickly realizes that he probably won't be taken on time. Every seat in the waiting room is full as he approaches the desk and accepts the obligatory "What You Need To Know Before Donating" packet of information from the 107 year old volunteer. He quickly scans the notebook pages pretending to read. He's donated blood many times before, so none of this information is news to him. He notes with mild interest that there seems to be new questions regarding Mad Cow disease and visiting England in the past 25 years. England, apparently still sore about that whole Revolutionary War fiasco 230 years ago, has been exporting Mad Cow disease to the States. I turn my packet back in to the volunteer and look around, mentally counting how many people are ahead of me. Fortunately two of the waiting room denizens appear to be there as spectators for a young lady who is having trouble maintaining her state of consciousness while donating. I settle in to a recently vacated chair and open my cell phone to play a game to pass the time. The two elderly volunteers, Ma and Pa Kettle as I'm beginning to think of them, lean on the desk making small talk with each other and anyone who makes eye contact.

To my right a young woman speaks up, "Excuse me, but I had a 7:00 appointment and I've been waiting a half hour." Pa Kettle responds with the usual platitudes about how busy the day has been and that she's next on the list and will be taken ASAP. The young woman, who's voice seems to get more grating each time she speaks responds, "Well, what's the point of making an appointment if no one is going to be seen on time? I might as well just walk in whenever I feel like it." The rabble rouser's husband/boyfriend/lap dog chips in, "They always book more appointments than they should because a lot of people don't show up." Again Pa Kettle attempts to placate them, but the young woman is undeterred as she relates the story of her tardy dentist and how she won't schedule with her doctor on a Monday because of all the weekend illness people who back up the schedule on Mondays. Her lap dog of a husband, apparently eager to stay on her good side in hopes that the lack of blood will make her loopy enough later that she'll actually deign to have sex with him, again pipes in with his brilliant theory about overbooking. Pa Kettle offers to let her fill out a survey after she donates. She continues to whine. Like some sort of philanthropic Rainman, lap dog boy again restates his position on their scheduling policy. Pa Kettle tells the woman that he'll include her comments on his end of day report in the "customer concerns" section. This exchange goes on a good 10 minutes as the rest of the waiting room watches, our heads bobbing from side to side with each volley as if we're at a tennis match. By now I'm tempted to raise my hand and say, "Excuse me," pointing my finger directly at her, "if I'm ever in an accident don't give me her blood. I'm pretty sure it's spoiled."

The Modern Worry Stone

Worry stones are smooth, polished gemstones usually in the shape of an oval with a thumb-sized indentation. They originated in Ancient Greece. Held between the index finger and thumb, rubbing them is believed to lessen one's worries. This action is a type of stimulation which can often create feelings of calmness and reduce stress levels.

Of course the ancient Greeks needed worry stones. They were constantly stressing about getting lost in the giant mazes and attacked by Minotaurs, or perhaps getting lured to their death on the rocks by the beautiful Sirens that sang to them on their commute to work. Then, if you were a guy, you had to constantly be on the lookout for one up the Gods coming down from Mount Olympus and trying to impregnate your girlfriend. It wasn't the Gods fault. I mean, seriously, there were only about 12 of them. That's like going to a high school with only 20 kids in your graduating class. Occasionally you're going to have to date a freshman. Or even worse, you hook up with a cougar (hot older woman) and she turns out to be your mom. Bottom line, ancient Greece was a stressful place and some crazy old crackpot with an impossibly long name that ends in "ates" decided that rubbing a stone with your thumb would relax everybody. It was the ancient version of the pet rock. I'm pretty sure it was advertised in the Parthenon by the Sham Wow guy.

I propose that we as a culture have unkowingly created our own high tech version of the worry stone. The cell phone. What decreases worries more than communication? Our cell phones are our links to the entire world by call, text, I.M., and the internet. If we have a question, somehow, some way there is an answer in that little ball of technology we hold in our hand. And don't we often just hold it, perhaps looking at it, feeling the weight of it and the smooth curves of it in our palm, reassured knowing that because of that little device we are never truly alone? Unless of course the battery dies, you can't get a signal, or you've lost your charging cord. That's when Zeus comes down from Mount Olympus and offers to charge it for you with one of his lightning bolts in exchange for sex.

Monk See, Monk Do

So I went to a blood lab to have my blood drawn to see if I’ve finally gotten my cholesterol level lower than my S.A.T. score. I dutifully handed the receptionist my paperwork and proceeded to the empty seat nearest the least objectionable looking person in the waiting room. The little, old lady sitting next to me knitting didn’t look like she’d be any trouble, although I swear she glanced approvingly at my ass as I sat down next to her. Just as long as she didn’t jab me with a knitting needle we’d get along fine for the next 15 minutes. And although she had a weapon, I was pretty sure I could take her in the battle for the shared arm rest.

The waiting room is nearly full and I think to myself, “This is going to be a bit of a wait.” I begin to scan the room looking for a good magazine or newspaper left behind. As my eyes roam, scanning the coat closet, the end tables, and the empty seats I spot something a lot more interesting. Tibetan monks! I had to rub my eyes, refocus and look again to be certain I was seeing what my brain had just told me was there. Sitting across from me, swaddled in orange off-the-shoulder robes and sandals were two Tibetan monks. What?!!? I don’t exactly live in an international metropolis. I live in an average American suburb in upstate New York. Upstate. Not New York City. I’d have to drive 6 hours to get to New York City. There just are not Tibetan monks wandering around my neck of the woods very often.

The monks and I regarded each other warily. There was two of them and one of me. They didn’t appear to be armed, but with those loose robes it was impossible to tell what they might be concealing. I gave them a nod and a slight flex of my biceps as I folded my arms across my chest. If there was going to be any trouble I wanted them to know exactly what they were up against. As the phlebotomist called their names in turn, the monks each went back and returned a few minutes later with a small bandage on the inside of one arm. I was still in my seat, arms folded, maintaining my gaze. By now, I was sure that these two knew just who the alpha-dog in this waiting room was. They spoke to each other in hushed tones as they exited the waiting room. I don’t know Chinese, but I think I heard the words “Phil Factor” just before the door shut behind them. I breathed a sigh of relief as it appeared that the confrontation was over and I thought to myself, “I hope those two morons realize that after Labor Day, the sandals and off-the-shoulder look is completely out of season.”

Phil of the Future

I went to the dentist yesterday. Look Ma, no cavities again! Yaaaa for me. I have an extensive history with dentists dating back to when I broke a tooth in the second grade. That one broken tooth has resulted in all manner of dental interventions from two root canals to several different caps and a post drilled into my gum and I assume the bone underneath. In fact, an oral surgeon once uttered "Oops!" while working in my mouth. That's reassuring eh? I also had a wisdom tooth that needed to be broken out of my jaw piece by piece with a hammer and chisel, while I was awake. Despite all of that, I have no fear or anxiety about dental procedures. In fact, for me the most frightening part of going to the dentist is... receiving the appointment reminder postcard in the mail.

What? Yes, that's right. The appointment reminder card freaks me out. Every time. Again, not because I fear the dentist. I like my dentist. We chit chat about our kids who play baseball. My hygienist is delightful and I've seen her for the past 15 years. It feels like I'm just visiting old friends when I go to the dentist. So why does the appointment reminder card freak me out? It's simple. It's because the reminder card is in my own handwriting. At the conclusion of each appointment I'm handed a postcard on which I dutifully fill out my own name, address, and next appointment. My hygienist then takes the card and five and a half months later mails it to me.

So why the freak out? I'll return home on any idle Tuesday and get my mail. As I rifle through the assorted bills and junk mail suddenly I come across a handwritten postcard that stands out because it's handwritten, as so little mail we receive these days is. Usually when I receive mail with a handwritten name and address I don't recognize the writing. This time however the writing is oddly familiar. I know it, but at first I don't know to whom the script belongs. I think, "why do I know this writing?" It's just a brief moment, but for some reason I hate that moment of knowing that I recognize the writing but I'm not certain whose it is. It's kind of an eerie feeling as if someone is fucking with me. Like it might be a serial killer dressed in a clown costume taunting me by mail before he stalks me in earnest and eventually sneaks into my house to leave my bunny boiling in a pot on the stove for me to discover. Yes, for that one tenth of a second before I recognize my own handwriting, it's that kind of thing that flashes through my mind. Is it just me, or does everyone else hate getting mail from themselves?