2006: The Year In Review (aka My Left Thumb)

This is the week of every year that I hate to watch television, read magazines, or go online. There is not a single media outlet that can resist the year ending "Year That Was" piece in some format or other. Being no better, or worse than the media, I hereby present to you my Year in Review. Of course as with any year of our lives my year had it's ups and downs, but there was one very strange constant throughout 2006 for me. My left thumb. Due to a series of accidents throughout the year there wasn't a day that I wasn't reminded very specifically about my left thumb.

January 2006: I moved into my new house. While putting baseboards in the dining room I smahed my left thumb with a hammer, rendering the nail bruised and bloodied underneath for the next 4 months until that grew out. Rarely did a day go by for the next 4 months that someone didn't say, "What happened to your thumb?"

May 2006: I was building a shed shortly after the nail of my left thumb had finally begun to look normal again. I hit my left thumb with a hammer, again leaving a purple bruise under the nail. Yes, by now I know you are probably assuming I'm exceedingly clumsy with a hammer. I contend that isn't the case. Based on the number of nails I pounded during the past year it's amazing that I didn't hit my thumb more often.

July 2006: Playing catch with a baseball without wearing a baseball glove my left thumb is hit directly by a good, hard throw. As far as I can tell the thumb was broken. I don't know for sure because I never went to the doctor. At the time the big Golden Boys weekend was coming up and I didn't want some doctor ruining my golf game by putting a cast on the thumb. I still can't bend the thumb all the way anymore.

Oct. 2006: Putting a new floor and baseboards down in one room of my house I hit my left thumb with a hammer again. Just this week the mark from that is finally growing out as is the year of 2006.

I find it absolutely bizarre that just one part of my body absorbed so much abuse so consistently throughout the year. And so me, George Bush, and our thumbs say good-bye to 2006 with hope for a less painful 2007. Come back on Monday for my New Years Resolutions post.

He Said, He Said

My local newspaper has a column in the sports section titled, "My Turn at Bat." It's where anyone can send in their opinions on anything in the world of sports. Two weeks ago I sent something in that made the cut and was used in the My Turn at Bat column last week. It was all in good fun, or so I thought. The local soccer writer took issue with a joke I made about soccer and attacked me on his blog which is on the newspapers website. Needless to say, I was thrilled with the additional publicity. First I'll post what I wrote, then at the bottom I'll provide you with the link so you can see what he wrote about me.

My Top Ten Holiday Sports Wishes

10. An AARP membership for the New York Yankees. They're definitely getting older, but not necessarily better.
9. A pair of binoculars for the Pittsburgh Steelers. The Super Bowl champs need them to see the top of their division from where they are.
8. I wish that another desperate housewife would marry Sidney Crosby so that someone in America would pay attention to the NHL.
7. Another shot at the Tour De France for Floyd Landis. He doesn’t have enough testosterone to grow a decent goatee much less cheat at a bicycle race.
6. In an effort to reduce the number of violent incidents involving youth sports parents, I would like to see a law banning parents from coaching or attending their own children’s sporting events until the children are in college.
5. A successful fashion design career for the Williams sisters. Their outfits have looked better on the court than they have the past couple years.
4. I wish Congress would pass a law banning soccer in the United States. We’ve been told for 20 years that because the rest of the world likes soccer that we should. As our mothers’ all said, if our friend jumped off a bridge does that mean that we should do it too?
3. A happy and healthy retirement for Barry Bonds…as soon as possible.
2. A Hubble Space Telescope for Cowboys wide receiver Terrell Owens. With a view from outer space he might be able to see that he's not the center of the universe.
1. I would like to see the current BCS system of choosing a college football champ to continue indefinitely. If there were a playoff with a definitive winner every year our water cooler debates, talk radio shows and favorite sports columns would be empty. Long live the BCS!

Here is what he had to say: Link As you can see from the date on the page, he felt that bashing me was important enough to leave it up on his page for over a week. Here is the best part. In over a week, he only got one comment on his blog, mine.

Happy Holidays To All!

Whether you just finished Hannukah, are gathering with family for Christmas, or eating yourself silly in preparation for Ramadan later this week, everyone here at The Phil Factor would like to wish you and yours a happy and healthy holiday season

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO JESUS

That title is what it says on a sign in my neighbors yard. First of all, it's wrong. His birthday isn't for two more days. Would it be bad karma to sneak over there and paint it over to read HAPPY BIRTHDAY PHIL?

6 Weird Things About Me

I was tagged by Jmai and I promised I'd do it, so here it is. 6 weird things about me. Thanks for tagging me Jmai. It's nice to be thought of.

1. I have never eaten a pickle and unless I'm offered an exorbitant amout of money I never will. I would be a great contestant on Survivor or Fear Factor as long as they didn't find out about my pickle problem. I'd eat goat intestines long before I'd consider a pickle. I also feel the same way about mustard.

2. Within the next week I will write a post about my left thumb.

3. I once spent several hours handcuffed to a penguin.

4. The older I get the less I think I know.

5. I can still do a perfect cartwheel and if no one is looking I ocasionally do one in the hallway at work.

6. I pride myself on the fact that as far as I know, I've still never heard a Hootie and the Blowfish song.

Happy Holidays From Gooby

Sad huh?

Stop It Already!

Do you know what I’m tired of? Mountain climbers. As a group I’m becoming more and more convinced that they are a bunch of egotistical, selfish jackasses. Yes, I know the country was gripped by the frantic search on Mt. Hood for the three lost climbers. That is exactly what my problem with mountain climbers is. Mountain climbing is a hobby right? No one makes their living climbing mountains right? Mountain climbing is an optional activity. But people do make their living rescuing mountain climbers, and sometimes the rescuers are risking their own lives to save an idiot who wasn’t smart enough to stay the hell off of a mountain in the middle of winter. If your hobby risks your own life, fine, enjoy yourself. If your screw up of an entirely optional activity could result in the death of others, then you need to either quit that activity, or leave a waiver form with someone at the bottom of the mountain absolving anyone of any responsibility for rescuing you when you screw it up. And why go in the winter? If I’m going to climb a mountain I’m waiting until it’s as warm as possible. There is absolutely no need to maximize the risk by going in the middle of winter.

Mt. Everest is the worst example of this. Over 50 people have died on Mt. Everest this year. Why? I just don’t see the thrill. It may be the highest mountain in the world, but it’s been climbed hundreds of times now. There is no longer any sort of exclusive club of people who have climbed Everest. The sherpas that guide expeditions go up and down that mountain daily. They might as well be herding people onto Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disney World. Virtually every mountain in the world has been climbed many, many times. Why go? The view? Is any view worth risking your life for? If you pick the wrong day to climb it just might be the last view you see. Of course I’m told that the view from heaven is spectacular, but that doesn’t mean I want to climb up there today.

I do not feel badly for the climbers who perish on their climbs. I do feel badly for the people who risk their lives and probably occasionally lose fingers and toes to frostbite while rescuing lost climbers. I also feel badly for the climbers families. One of the climbers family members said, "He died doing what he loved." Apparently he loved it more than his family because now they have to spend the holidays grieving for him because of his hobby. If you have a single person in this world related to you or who cares about you, why would you risk your life for just a nice view, leaving your family behind to suffer the waiting, worrying and loss? Climbers, quit being selfish. Take up ballroom dancing or something. At least there you'd have a chance to meet women.

Random Phil Stuff From an Interesting Weekend

I guess I got my wish in being named TIME Magazine's "Person of The Year." I don't think the picture does me justice though. I'm not kidding when I say that I think someone at TIME read my blog and came up with this idea instead of using YouTube.

I went to a party Friday night with several people of varying degrees of sexual orientation. Well, I didn't go with them, but found myself in their company at the party. They were a fun crowd. I also ate goose.

Something I wrote is in the sports section of my local paper today.

I coach a youth basketball team of 9 and 10 year olds. Last week after we had our first official game following a scrimmage the previous week, a parent e-mailed me to complain that her son wasn't passed the ball enough. In yesterdays game her son got a defensive rebound turned, shot, and made a basket...IN THE OTHER TEAMS BASKET!!! I was tempted to e-mail her and say, "That's why we don't pass to your son," but I didn't.

The city I live in is mentioned very specifically in the classic holiday movie "It's a Wonderful Life." Unfortunately I'm not mentioned in the movie, yet.

TIME Magazine's Person of the Year

Later this week Time Magazine will unveil their annual Person of the Year. Rumor has it that the two leading candidates are: 1) the crazy North Korean dictator with the shiny, new, nuclear bomb or 2) YouTube. While both were certainly noteworthy and newsworthy in 2006, let's face it, they're not me. For all my longtime blog friends this post certainly comes as no surprise to you. That's right, I am pushing my 11th hour candidacy for Time Magazine's Person of the Year. The obvious question that you're all asking yourself is, "Why does Phil think he should be Person of the Year?" Thanks, I'm glad you asked. Allow me to explain.

First of all, as much as I enjoy YouTube, it's not a person. I clearly am. Time Magazine purports to name The Person of the Year. If they name a thing as Person of The Year, then I plan to sue on behalf of the entire human race. If YouTube is eligible to be Person of the Year, then I want to be eligible for Motor Trend Magazine's Car of the Year Award as well as for the AKC Dog of the Year Award. If we're going to let things compete against humans then I plan on entering a remote control car in the next Olympic Marathon. (As a point of interest, thanks to Gooby, video of me from 15-20 years ago is on YouTube. And yes, the nudity was integral to the plot.)

That covers why I am more deserving of the award than YouTube, but why do I think I deserve Person of the Year more than a crazy dictator? Thanks, I'm glad you asked. I'm a mental health professional. I make my living examining people's moods and motivations. I may be a bit egocentric and attention seeking here on my blog, but that's generally harmless. We all know people who thrive on seeking negative attention from others. Due to their lack of self-esteem these people seek to make waves in any way possible. The worst possible thing you can do is to give them the much sought after attention in response to their stupid behavior. The crazy North Korean dictator with new nuclear capability and David Blaine are exactly these types of people and both should be ignored. If the Korean dictator is positively reinforced by getting a magazine cover he'll only get bolder. Just as we should do with David Blaine, the world should collectively shrug it's shoulders, yawn, and walk away. My self-aggrandizing behavior, however, is harmless and won't hurt anyone if you give me positive reinforcement. Despite all my nonsensical ramblings here, not once during the past year have I done anything that made the whole world nervous. I'm saving that for when I become President. In fact, I like to think that maybe, just maybe, by making fun of things, simplifying male-female communication and suggesting improvements for how the world should be run, my blog has made the world a little better place.

I'm On The Pill !!!

Ok, I'm not on the pill, but the important thing is, I could be. Scientists have reportedly finished developing a birth control pill for men. This development may completely revolutionize dating. I imagine that unless I was near death it would be impossible to get in to see my doctor right now because of the number of men clamoring to get a prescription for "the pill." I'm sure most women are thinking, "No thanks. Are you expecting us to trust men to remember to take a pill every day when they can't even remember to call us the next day?" On behalf of all men I would like to respond to women's skepticism by saying, "Of course you can trust us to take the pill! This is important!" Again, at the risk of being ostracized by my fellow men, allow me to enlighten women about how the male mind works. There are two things that motivate us. Two primal instincts that are hardwired into our brain. We like sex, and we like really cool toys, especially if they're loud, go fast, or blow things up. We like our sex that way too.

The difference between those two things however is equal to the difference between...hmm...let me think of how to put this into terms that women will understand. The difference between our love of cool toys and gadgets and our love of sex is like the difference between getting a new blender for your anniversary or getting a dozen long stemmed, red roses, a box of Godiva Chocolates and a diamond necklace for your anniversary while you're out for dinner at a nice restaurant drinking magaritas. My point is, nothing motivates men more than sex. If taking a pill every day increases our chances of having sex, then you can bet we would remember to take that pill before we remembered to feed ourselves. Or breathe.

Many times you see women almost shy, demure around men when it comes to discussing birth control as if it is an embarrassment to consider planning ahead for the possibility of sex. In the past when a single night, or relationship was progressing to the point where birth control becomes relevant a usually awkward conversation ensues. "Umm..do you got something?" "Uh..no, do you?" With the new male birth control pill that uncomfortable moment with be gone forever. Also gone will be lame pick-up lines. Men everywhere will just approach women and say, "Hi! I'm on the pill!" If men have anything to do with the marketing of the new male birth control pill each prescription will come with a t-shirt that says just that.

Who I feel sorry for is the young women with unresolved father issues. Take a middle aged man, add the pill and an erectile dysfunction medication that may cause a woody lasting several hours and these poor young women searching for a replacement for daddy's lack of attention when they were young won't have a chance to catch their breath. Also, much the way that programs on Lifetime and The Oxygen Network are filled with commercial breaks espousing the wonders of wings and plastic applicators, mens' sports programming will soon contain only ads for The Pill and beer. In fact, the ads will probably show men taking their pill and washing it down with a cold, refreshing, amber beverage made with crystal clear water taken from mountain streams. The ads will also probably show a lot of scantily clad women. That's generally a given regardless of the product.

Please Shoot Me If I Ever...

How many times have we all said that phrase to someone to express our belief that if we ever displayed the specified behavior that we would essentially have lost all self-respect or reached our rock bottom of moral destitution? How many times would we all deserve to be shot if anyone took us up on that? Here is my list of Please Shoot Me If I Ever…

1. take a job as a clown
2. sing along to any George Michael/WHAM! songs
3. write a paper check in line at the supermarket
4. laugh at an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond
5. play Dance, Dance Revolution
6. stop professing my love of Canadians
7. announce my engagement to Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, or Brittany Spears
8. go to a tanning studio

What's on your "Shoot Me If I Ever..." list?

Another Strange But True Phil Story

It was Tuesday evening, my day to work late. I was one of the last people in the building and I left the office alone. The security guard had offered to walk me to my car, but being of the male gender I cheerfully insisted there was no need for that. With the setting of the sun a fog had crept into the city. Although it is generally a shelter from the weather, the entrances and sides of the parking garage are open. Tonight the fog seemed to be slithering into the garage of it's own volition, like a snake extending it's tongue to sniff for prey. By 7 pm the dimly lit parking garage was virtually empty. If ever there was a place where something bad could happen without anyone else noticing, this was that place. My footsteps echoed off of the concrete walls. The entire level where I had parked was empty with one exception. There was one car besides mine. It was parked immediately next to mine. In the dimly lit atmosphere the car next to mine appeared perfectly ordinary and perfectly empty. The night, the fog, and the empty garage had all joined forces to create an atmosphere that had me on edge. I took out my keys and hastily shoved them in the lock. Fortunately I had no slasher movie tremors or fumbling to prevent me from quickly gaining the safety of my car and locking the doors.

The engine roared to life easily and I quickly navigated the angular corkscrew path that was necessary to exit the building. The ride home began uneventfully enough, although it was quite eerie to cross the elevated bridge over the river in this fog. With everything around me obscured by the fog and the cars ahead of me disappearing into the mist it appeared as if the bridge was suspended in the middle of nothingness. Needless to say however I crossed the bridge without incident and contiued my normal commute home on the expressway. About two miles from my exit I pulled into the right lane, content to coast along without urgency. I was behind another car that was going just a little slower than I would have preferred, but being relatively close to my exit I didn't bother to pass. Then I noticed a car had pulled in behind me and flashed his highbeams. At first I thought it might just be a momentary flash, or an impatient driver indicating his desire for us to speed up. Then he flashed the high beems again. I ignored this, figuring that he'd pass eventually if he was in such a hurry. The flash from behind filled my rear view mirror yet again, and yet he remained firmly behind me despite my leisurely pace. With the glare of the headlights obscuring my view I couldn't see the driver or determine the make and model of the car.

Finally I arrived at my exit, signaled to leave the expressway, and noticed that Mr. Highbeam had done the same. There are two lanes that turn left off the exit ramp and as usual I chose the furthest right, hoping Mr. Highbeam might choose the left and pass me. He didn't. As I steered my car into the right lane he did the same a moment after me, despite the fact that the lane on the left was shorter, giving him the chance to pass me, whom he had found so maddeningly slow on the expressway. The light at the top of the exit ramp was red. I waited patiently, but now with a growing feeling of nervousness. The fog was a little less dense out here, but still creepy when I was sure I was being followed. I had to be imagining that he was following me. A few identical turns didn't mean anything. He might just live in the direction I was going right? The light turned green and I intentionally went a little slower, hoping that Mr, Highbeam would choose to pass me. He didn't. Now I was sure I was being stalked. I began to run through scenarios in my mind. I could pass my street continuing around a few other streets until I reached the nearest police station. I could pull into the next well lit gas station to see what he would do. I could turn onto my street and then race unpredictably through the labrynthine suburban avenues hoping to lose him. One thing was certain. I didn't want to lead this nutjob straight to my house.

As my street approached I decided to continue past it. I would turn right at the next light. I watched in my rear view mirror as I signaled for the right turn. My pursuer did the same. This was insane. Why was he dogging me? Who was this? There were two lanes. The one on the right merged into the other in about 50 yards. I took the right lane, and to my surprise my pursuer swung wide and was forced to pass me. It was a gray Jeep Cherokee with tinted windows. I couldn't make out the gender or identity of the shadow at the wheel. I slowed down. It was possible he intended to stop, blocking my way somewhere. The other, north entrance to my street was ahead. The Jeep continued ahead of me at a steady pace. He passed the entrance to my street and at the last moment before I approached my street I signaled for my turn. Literally a split second after I signaled I saw his breaklights flash and he signaled to turn into the plaza just past my street. I gunned my engine, hoping to get far enough into my neighborhood that he would have no hope of catching up, or even of finding my car in the driveway. I continued to drive the twists and turns as if I were in an Indy race. One eye always on the rear view mirror. I arrived home safely and rushed into the house. I cautiously peered out the window, waiting to see the Jeep come trolling along slowly.

As far as I know I lost him. Nothing strange has happened since and I haven't been followed home from work, that I know of. BTW, do you enjoy these kind of stories, or is it just a bunch of insipid self-indulgent drivel that bores everyone?

99 Bottles of Water on the Wall, 99 Bottles of Water...

Get one in the mail, pass it around, 98 bottles of water on the wall!

Everyday on my way to work I pass a bus stop shelter that has an advertising poster covering the entire end. What is says is this: 99BottlesofWaterForFree.com

Sounds great right? You just go to the website, give them your address and they send you 99 bottles of water. Millions of people spend money buying bottled water every day. What could be better than getting it for free right? I know what I'm giving to all my friends for Christmas and Hannukah!

I hate to be a cynic, but does anyone else think that this sounds like a disaster waiting to happen? Or perhaps a terrorist plot to poison us? One employee doesn't wash his hands after using the restroom and we've got another e-coli epidemic just in time for the holidays! Or perhaps Osama Bin Laden met with his flunkies to come up with this scheme.

Osama: Well, the Americans, they have the airports and borders covered. Can anyone else think of a way to bring down the capitalist infidels without actually entering the country?

Flunkie #1: How about we get them to come here? We can just set up a resort, get it listed on one of those travel sites and behead the American dogs one by one as they enter. We've got plenty of sand. We could call it a beach resort.

Osama: "Flunkie #1, that is the worst idea I've ever heard. The Americans, they are not stupid. They won't come to the middle east for vacation. Off with your head, it's obviously not good for anything! (Schwing, lop, thud, rolling sound) Somebody clean that up, I can't look at that! I'm right in the middle of my creme brulee'

Flunkie #2: "How about a website? I hear these Americans love this new internet thing. Maybe we could get them to buy something from us that would kill them! How about water, that's cheap! We could even make them pay the shipping and handling."

Osama: "Brilliant idea Flunkie #2! I think I'll use it. Off with your head! (Schwing, lop, thud, rolling sound) Clean up on aisle 3!"

I've linked the website in the text above. Feel free to try it if you're feeling brave.

Invisible World

"There has to be an invisible sun
It gives its heat to everyone
There has to be an invisible sun
That gives us hope when the whole days done"--The Police

Is it just me, or are others out there disturbed by the way our world is disappearing before our eyes? Every day more and more things are changing from tangible objects that we can have and hold into tiny bits of electrical data that fly through the air from place to place.

I recently read some summary of a scientific study that said people become emotionally and physically excited by the sight of money. Where the hell does anyone find money anymore? I have a job. I used to get my paycheck in the mail, take it to the bank, deposit some money and then ask the teller for several rectangular pieces of green paper that respresented currency. Now my job electronically sends my money to the bank and when I want to spend some of my vast fortune I just slide a plastic card through a little machine everywhere. I don't even write checks anymore. I can just use my computer to tell the bank to send my electronic money to the bank that owns my car and house!

When I was a kid I remember that my parents had a telephone that was actually attached to the wall by a cord! How did they ever call their friend from the mall with that thing? I used to get a newspaper, but why bother when my news is in print right on my computer, sent to me as millions of tiny bits of data that my computer re-assembles into a picture and words. In fact, I'm so old that remember way back when your computer had to be attached to a cable or phone jack. Books? Why read one of those big, heavy ones made of paper when you can listen to them in your car or read them online?

I haven't done any scientific studies, but it is my impression that there is probably a significant number of people who communicate with others by electronic means more than face to face. With technology advancing by quantum leaps every year it's entirely possible that face to face talking will soon be a thing of the past. It's almost as if real, physical people are becoming invisible little by little. Will we eventually become a society that lives safely in our little techno-domes pushing buttons to control the world around us without ever getting our hands dirty so to speak? What will become invisible next?

I Have An Announcement To Make

I have been adopted by Brad and Angelina. Evidently, everyone will get a turn eventually. I had no idea it could happen, but apparently it's like jury duty. You get a letter and the next day they show up and carry you off. There's nothing you can do about it. I'm looking forward to breast feeding. I hope my new mommy and daddy let me continue blogging.

Random Phil Thoughts

1. It's snowing here today. I hate that. Screw Al Gore. Global warming can't come fast enough.

2. Why haven't I been posting as often lately?

3. Why isn't there a peanut butter flavored gum? Who wouldn't love that?

4. Wash your new towels separately. You know how new towels won't absorb a damn thing until you wash them once or twice? I bought new towels, washed them before using them. Unfortunately I washed them with a red blanket that had never been washed before either. I stepped out of the shower today, dried off, looked in the mirror and found my body covered in red fuzz. I thought I had had an allergic reaction to something. Wash your new towels separately.

5. Thank you to every one for you comments on my last post. I'm sorry I was too busy to get in responses over the weekend.

6. Will Phil be posting his hysterically funny annual Things I'm Thankful For post again this year? Yup. You can count on it Wednesday.

Walk This Way

“So I took a big chance at the high school dance
With a missy who was ready to play
Was it me she was foolin'
'Cause she knew what she was doin'
And I know love was here to stay
When she told me to…” Aerosmith

The world is a wonderfully diverse place and with the holidays fast approaching much of that wonderfully diverse place will be crowding the stores and shopping malls. I love Christmas. I love giving and getting presents. What drives me absolutely crazy though is the people who don’t know how to walk properly. Walking is a very simple task that most of us completely master by the time we’re 18 months old. Some people however seem to completely forget that they are not alone in this world. They walk as if every store, every mall, or every sidewalk is their own personal space.

Now before you go painting me as an impatient, type A personality Scrooge, consider this: If you’re driving a car down a street would you ever consider just abruptly stopping in the road to look at something on the side? Would it be Ok to drift back and forth across both sides of the road? If you are on a highway during rush hour is it appropriate to drive significantly slower than the rest of the cars just because you want to look at the scenery? Now you see my point, right? I don’t want to rear end you, and you probably don’t want to be rear ended by me. At least not until we’ve gotten to know each other better.

In the grand tradition of The Overlaughers, I would like to identify the three most irritating types of walkers:

The Slow Walkers: This is the simplest and most common type. We all know these people. They always seem to turn up at the most inopportune times, like when you're hurrying to get to a restroom, or when you've got one item and you see an open cashier at the supermarket and it's you versus Aunt Bea with a shopping cart packed to the brim angling to see who can get there first. Invariably you will be blocked by a Slow Walker with hips as wide as a city bus who prefers to walk down the center of the aisle, effectively blocking your path to freedom.

The Meanderers: Yes, that is a real word. The Meanderers of this world seem to blissfully combine two types of walking with ignorance and the result is a walk which induces boiling blood pressure and frustrated looks of fury from the rest of us. The Meanderers enjoy slow walking combined with the tendency to drift aimlessly back and forth as things in their peripheral vision catch their attention. I can live with the occasional Slow Walker because you can usually pass them eventually. The Meanderers make passing them almost impossible with their unpredictable forays to both sides of the aisle. It's as if they have a sixth sense. The Meanderers can't see dead people, but they can sense when you want to get by and abruptly change directions into your path without even glancing back.

The Stoppers: There really is no other name for them. They're not slow or aimless and they're impossible to identify until it's too late, and by then you've accidently been very intimate with them. You may think that your shopping trip is rolling along fine as you coast through the mall towards your destination. The flow of humanity surrounding you seems to be in sync and all is right with the world. Then it happens. The person walking in front of you abruptly stops dead in their tracks. You either run right into them and get a mouthful of their hair and an idea of whether or not they've got buns of steel, or, in an effort to avoid them, you fly into gyrations reminiscent of when you walk face first into a spider web.

It is the frustration from coping with the inordinate amount these people in the malls during the holiday season which causes me to stay home and do my shopping online. Needless to say, all of these types of walkers drive their cars in the same manner in which they walk, so just re-read this and substitute driving for walking and we'll pretend I already wrote that post. By the way, which version of Walk This Way did you like better, the original Aerosmith version, or the collaboration with Run DMC?

A Nice Thought

..."books, they offer one hope---that a whole universe might open up from between the covers, and falling into that new universe, one is saved."
"Oh yes, I think so. I really do," Aunt Queen responded almost gleefully. "It ought to be that way with people, and sometimes it is. Imagine---each new person an entire universe. Do you think we can allow that?..." --Anne Rice, Blackwood Farm

I Have Big Boy Shoes!

I'm an adult. The birthdate on my drivers' license says so. The United States of America even pretends that my vote helps to decide who is President. I can walk into a bar and buy a beer. My company even gave me business cards! By virtually any definition available, I'm an adult. When I got my first "real" job after college I still felt like a kid wearing a big suit like David Byrne in the "Same As It Ever Was" video and fooling everyone into thinking that I had grown up. The funny thing is, that despite all the evidence to the contrary, I've never felt like a true adult. Unless you're one of my regular readers, maybe you've never picked up on this, but I think I still have a kid brain trapped in an adult body.

That all changed two days ago when I went to buy shoes. On most days I do wear a shirt and tie to work, or if I'm really trying to look grown up, a sport coat. Do they still call them "sport coats" when it's just a jacket that isn't part of a matching suit? That's what my Dad always called them and he's been an adult for my entire life. He's really good at it. Despite trying to look like an adult, two parts of my attire have had a hard time growing up. You know how every office has that guy with all the zany ties? That's me. I'm that guy. I have a collection of over 100 ties, at least 75% of which have a cartoon character, work of art, or some other inane subject matter, such as a Slinky. Some people are so foolish as to believe that because I work with kids I wear the ties for the kids.

The other part of my wardrobe that has never fully grown up is my shoes. If I can get away with the khaki pants, blue oxford shirt, and white sneakers look, I do so as often as possible. On the days when I have to talk to adults and can't get away with sneakers, my concession to adulthood has been loafers. They're kind of adult shoes in that they're shiny, made of leather and have small heels, but they still satisfy the kid in me because they don't have laces and I can just slip them on like that comfortable pair of sneakers we all have that fit so well that we never bother to lace them up. A couple days ago I decided that I needed a new pair of dress shoes. After a year or two of dedicated service my loafers were finally looking kind of ratty. I went to a couple stores looking for a nice pair of loafers just like my old ones. In one store I found a pair that were similar, but just didn't look nice enough to be worn with adult clothes. Right next to them on the shelf for a little bit more money was a nice looking pair of dress shoes with...gasp...laces! They were black and shiny with narrow, almost pointy ends. They looked like the kind of shoes sharp dressed businessmen wore. "Damn," I thought to myself. "Those would look really good at the bottom of a nice pair of dress pants that has a crease so sharp you could cut yourself." The shoes sleek lines would go well with a shirt and tie outfit or with a suit, if I ever bought one. "I'll be fit for the cover of GQ," I thought. So I bought them.

I took them home and put them on to wear around the house all evening so I could break them in. Then, the next day I wore them to work. After ten hours in my new adult shoes I had blisters. Despite their classic style and professional look, the shoes and adulthood still seem to be a poor fit for me. I wonder if I can return them both?

It's Election Day!

Only two years until my coronation as President. In celebration of that mark I'd like to introduce a new Phil Law. The new law is in regards to the quarterly State of The Union address and political ads. I believe that the Presidential State of The Union broadcasts should only be broadcast on one channel and never during the prime time viewing hours between 8:00 pm and 11:00 pm. With all the options available on cable television no one who doesn't want to watch the broadcast does anyway, so why disrupt our favorite shows? That only serves to make us angrier at the President. To be fair to everyone the broadcast could take turns, rotate through the major networks. Also, for those that don't have cable television, unless they just want to turn their t.v. off and spend the evening like Amish families, they're stuck watching the President drone on. Of course when I am President you can bet that my State of The Union adresses will be a lot more entertaining than any previous President.

As for the time of the broadcast? Put it on during the evening news. That will be the next days top story anyway, so why not just make it that nights live news?

I also believe that political ads should not be aired during family shows or childrens shows. Our children will have enough time to learn that politicians aren't trustworthy, why cram it down their throats every 8 minutes during Dancing With The Stars and Spongebob?

It's Time To Share

Yup, I'm doing another tag. I guess I've grown to appreciate the positive in sharing my sincere thoughts and feelings. Either that, or I haven't had any time to write anything. I got this from Natalia's blog.

1. Explain what ended your last relationship? I was too much man for her of course.

2. When was the last time you shaved? Which part of my body?

3. What were you doing this morning at 8 a.m.? Working on a cure for cancer.

4. What were you doing 15 minutes ago? I was in the shower. See question number 2.

5. Are you any good at math? I grew up with a mental block regarding math stemming from my difficulty with division in Mrs. Walker's 3rd grade class. Much later in life, like after college I figured it out.

6. Your prom night? The usual.

7. Do you have any famous ancestors? I'm the one all my relatives point to as their famous ancestor.

8. Have you had to take a loan out for school? Yes, and I paid it off using the riches I earned from writing this blog.

9. Do you know the words to the song on your myspace profile? Myspace?!!? Are you kidding? That's a meat market for pedofiles. I don't go there.

10. Last thing received in the mail? My Cheese of the Month.

11. How many different beverages have you had today? It's only 7:30. I've had coffee.

12. Do you ever leave messages on peoples answering machine? Yes, very clear and concise ones, unlike Kater Bannix.

13. Who did you lose your CONCERT virginity to? Michael Jackson. Oh wait, did you say CONCERT virginity. I'm sorry.

14. Do you draw your name in the sand when you go to the beach? No, other people draw my name in the sand with their toes. I find it everywhere. It's kind of creepy.

15. What was the most painful dental procedure you have had? I had one wisdom tooth in my entire head and they had to break it out piece by piece with a small hammer and chisel.

16. What is out your back door? A timeless void that leads to other dimensions. I never know where I might end up.

17. Any plans for Friday night? Not yet, who's offering?

18. Do you like what the ocean does to your hair? I wonder if the ocean likes what my hair does to it.

19. Have you ever received one of those big tins of 3 different popcorns? No, I send them to everyone who reads my blog. Get ready for Christmas!

20. Have you ever been to a planetarium? Yes, I like the "you are here" sign.

21. Do you re-use towels after you shower? Yes I do. I make elaborate sculptures out of them much like origami.

22. Some things you are excited about? Comments on my blog.

23. What is your favorite flavor of JELLO? Green of course.

24. Describe your keychain(s) A ring with keys and a flash drive on it.

26. Where do you keep your change? Anywhere but on my person.

29. Do you sleep with the door to your room open or closed? It depends ; )

For those of you who want to know what it's like to have a conversation with me in real life, this is essentially it. I'm a smart ass 24/7.

30. Did U read this far? Consider yourself tagged (you know, if you wanna do it)!!

It's A Hands Free World

The new Lexus LS commercial where the car parallel parks itself got me to thinking about how lazy the human race has become. Over the last 20 years many simple, almost effortless daily tasks have been taken over by technology. Television remote controls mean we don't even have to put down the Cheetos to make the long trek across the room to change the channel. Our cars apparently can look up directions, parallel park, and tell us if they're having mechanical difficulties by sending us an e-mail. Because the process of reaching into our freezer to get ice was so labor intensive we now have refrigerators that pour ice right out of the front of the door. In fact the other day I saw a refrigerator that has a television built right into the door. I have satellite radio in my car. It came with a remote control in case it's too difficult for me to reach all the way over to the radio to change the station. Goober Grape? Peanut butter and jelly in one jar means I don't have to open 2 whole jars to make a sandwich. The time I save on that alone has probably added years of pleasurable activity to my life.

You know how over the course of evolution species often gradually change shape and size to meet the changing needs in their environment? I imagine that if technology continues to take over menial day to day tasks for us we'll eventually have no use for our arms and legs, making us into an entire planet full of slug-like Jabba The Hut creatures. In fact, I've heard of women who often try to use technology to replace men entirely. That is why only men should be taught math and sciences. No good can come of this.

Happy Halloween with a creepy true story

As usual, when I was at my cabin by the lake I woke early, almost before the sun. The chill of the late fall night had begun to seep indoors while I slept. I made a pot of coffee to warm myself and threw an old flannel shirt on with my pajama pants and t-shirt so that I could take my dog outside. As I stepped out of the door I felt as if I'd stepped into another world.

Although the clock had told me that it should be daylight the world outside looked and felt as if it had been lost in some sort of lugubrious netherworld in which natural light was forbidden. A thick, dense fog had settled over the area. The sun surely rising in the east could not penetrate the oppressive blanket of moist air. Breathing felt as if I were trying to pull a milkshake into my lungs. Either the lake behind me was completely still, or the fog had effectively muffled all sound. Not even a morning bird chirped in song. My dog disappeared into the swirling mists and returned a few moments later. After she had her breakfast I threw on a pair of jeans and we headed out the door once again. The fog had not abated and the dreary gray-ness of the air seemed ominous. It wasn't like regular fog. It seemed as if the whole world was in it's grip, slowly suffocating.

My black lab and I hopped in the car. I needed my Sunday paper and it was only a short drive into town to the small gas station that opened at 7 on Sundays. My headlights offered no help, but fortunately I knew the lonely back country roads well and other travelers were usually few and far between at this hour. I drove slowly, my eyes alert, searching the fog ahead of me for movement. This time of day it wasn't other drivers I was worried about, but deer, who with a few hundred pounds of fur and hooves could wreak horrific damage to a car should they stray into its path.

As I passed the small golf course, where only a few months earlier The Golden Boys had enjoyed a night to remember, I noticed a car parked at the edge of the lot by the entrance. The headlights were on. This seemed odd. I couldn't imagine attempting to golf in these conditions and I couldn't imagine that the course was even open this early after Labor Day. A half mile later I arrived at the gas station, picked up my paper and headed back the way I came.

Approaching the golf course, this time it was on my side of the road, I noticed that the car with it's headlights on was still in the same spot. That's when I saw it. Although I was driving relatively slowly, it was still difficult to make out details through the fog while my car was moving. It looked like a body, a person, lying on the ground next to the car. By the time my brain had processed what it had seen I was past the golf course and 100 yards up the road. "What should I do?" I thought to myself. What if he's dead? What if he's not and he needs help? How did he get there? The thick fog still casting a foreboding pall over the world did nothing to ease my apprehension, my sense that something was wrong. I couldn't ignore a person who might need help. I pulled over and made a U-turn. If I was watching a horror movie this is the point where I'd be in your seat yelling for the person not to be so stupid. To just get away while they can.

I used the second entrance to the parking lot, the one furthest away from the car, and the body. I parked about 20 yards away. Whoever was lying there on the ground didn't even stir at the sound of my wheels on the gravel. I paused before I got out of my car, looking for any sign of movement or life. I saw none. I took a deep breath and stepped out into the gloom. The body didn't even stir at the sound of my car door closing. This wasn't good. Then I realized that the car that the body was lying next to was running. Hmmm...a parked but running car, with headlights on. A possibly dead body on the ground next to it.

My cell phone was in my glove compartment, but just like the dopey teens in horror movies, I didn't think to use it. I decided I wanted to investigate. A little part of my brain was thrilled at the opportunity for this kind of adventure. The fog, the aloneness of being out in the middle of nowhere, and finding a body. Stephen King would have been hard pressed to conjure up a scenario more fraught with peril. I slowly began to walk towards the body. It still did not stir at the sound of my footsteps. Then as I got closer, perhaps ten feet away I saw something on the ground next to the body. A cell phone.

Had he been trying to call for help before he was assaulted? It couldn't have been a robbery or they would have taken the phone too I thought. The car continued to idle, it's headlights stabbing out into the fog. The world remained silent. Not another car passed. There was no one there to help me. What do I do now? Though this poor man had obviously been smart enough to take out his cell phone, I still wasn't. Then, reprising my role in my own real life horror movie I decided to reach out and touch the body. I had to see if he was alive. I took a step closer, crouching down. Still, no movement. "Sir?" I said aloud. Nothing. I reached over, my hand inches from his shoulder...

They're Doing It...AGAIN!!!

Does everyone remember about 7 months ago when I bemoaned the fact that President George Bush and Hilary Clinton seem to visit my town with inordinate frequency? In the 7 months since I wrote that post Hilary Clinton has been back and Vice President Cheney also paid a visit to my fair city, (causing me to take an extremely circuitous route home that evening because the Secret Service didn’t want me and Vice President Shotgun on the same road at the same time. That was probably more for my protection than his). Now comes the straw that finally broke Phil’s back. (Yes, I did refer to myself in the third person)

I have scheduled a Halloween birthday party for my son at my house tomorrow. Last night one of my sons’ friends’ parents called to say that her daughter would be attending the party tomorrow but she wasn’t sure how she would get to our house because she assumed the road might be blocked because President Bush’s wife, Laura, was going to be at the Senior Center reading to old people at the exact same time as the party. In my head I was screaming, “What?!!? You have to be freaking kidding me!” I immediately reassured the parent that I did not invite Laura Bush to the party and would make every effort to ensure that her daughter wouldn’t be exposed to a member of the Bush family. It may be a Halloween party, but I don’t want it to be that scary.

I swear that aside from Washington D.C. there is no other city in the world that these dolts spend as much time visiting as they do mine. As you can see from my little profile thing in the upper left corner, I live in New York, but not in New York City. I live a full 5-6 hours from New York City. There is no logical reason for all the people in charge of running the United States to be visiting my town that often. We really don’t have all that much going on here. So I got to thinking, what could their reason be? Why are they here so often? What is the one common denominator running through all their visits? That’s when it hit me. It’s got to be me! I’m the common thread. I may not be directly involved in any of their visits to my town, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not on the agenda. The visits appear to be a perfect cover for the Secret Service and Homeland Security Agency to be in town so they can check up on me. Obviously my frequent blog references regarding our current administration have made me a “person of interest” and I may possibly be labeled as a “subversive element.” In fact by commenting upon this post you will likely be considered under suspicion as a member of my cell.

With Mrs. Bush’s visit here tomorrow, my references to President George Bush, First Lady Laura Bush, aptly named Vice President Dick Cheney, and Senator Hilary Clinton will have triggered whatever internet filters the Secret Service and Homeland Security Agency use to monitor for threats. As always, I just want to give a big shout out to all my fans at the Pentagon and in Washington D.C. You guys and gals are doing a great job. If dignitaries from our nation’s capitol are going to continue to visit my town I’d like to put in a few requests: As I’ve said before, Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice is a nice piece of political eye candy and George and Laura’s twin daughters appear to be total hotties who like to party. If you can get any of them to visit I might even vote Republican this year. Just leave former Congressman Mark Foley home this weekend, I’m having a kid’s party and he sure would make for one creepy clown.

*This won’t seem as funny to me tomorrow if the Secret Service shows up during the party with a “cease and desist” order regarding my blog.

This Is A Test...

This is only a test. If this had been a real blog post you would be told where in your area to tune to for emergency blogging information. This is my narcissistic side talking because I imagine that since I said I'd have a new post today you all came back looking for it. I promised a brand new blog post today and there will be one, just not until tonight. I wrote a post at work yesterday but forgot to e-mail it home. I refuse to blog from work since they can track my online usage. Believe me, the post I wrote is worth coming back later for. I made myself laugh with this one.

P.S. A television programming note: It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown is airing on ABC tonight. It's worth watching every time.

Classic Phil: Cell Phone People (The Original Start of the Series)

Hi everyone. I've been sick and pressed for time this past week. I hate not posting. I have ideas, but haven't had the time to sit down and organize them, so here is the original, the first, kind of the pilot episode of my long running cell phone rant. I wrote it on May 15th 2005. If you haven't read it before, enjoy. If you have read it before, just suck it up. You'll survive. I promise a new post on Friday.

CELL PHONE PEOPLE

Yes, we all have cell phones, but some people use them differently than others. There are those of us who have our cell phones and use then occasionally if we are going to be away from a land line for a while. That's fine with me. Then there are those who use their cell phones as if they're on some organ donor transplant recipient list and every call could save their lives. But of course these dolts are never on a transplant list. They also seem to think that because they're on the phone no one but the person they're talking with can hear them. And apparently the person on the other side of their phone call is always deaf because the cell phone people are always talking really loudly. Usually their conversations involve the trials and tribulations of their trivial little lives. "So then he tells me that he can't go to my cousins wedding with me because he already made plans with his friend. You know what the plans are? I found out from his friends' sisters' roommate that they're taking Carl to a strip club in Canada for his birthday." I especially hate the cell phone people who are on their cell phones at work. They're walking around a building in which they have an office with a desk with a real phone right there. What the hell is so important that you can't wait until you've walked to the other end of the hall to make that call? Or how about when you're in line at a store and the cashier is on the phone with her friend? I always make sure to ask some inane question just to interrupt. How about the people who walk around all day with the hands free headset on whether they're actually on a call or not. Look, unless you're a pilot, an air traffic controller or the kid at the McDonald's drive thru window there is no freakin' reason you need to be wearing a headset. Take it off. We're not impressed. There is nothing in your life that important and everyone else already knows it. To all you cell phone people I would just like to say that I hope the rumors of cell phone caused brain tumors are true. I'd love to see an MRI of one of these dopes heads. It would be hysterical to see a cell phone shaped tumor right there wouldn't it?

The Blockbuster Hello!

As I approach the entrance, unconsciously I begin to tread more slowly, more softly, hoping that my presence will go undetected. My head intentionally turned, using the age old children's technique of hoping that if I don't make eye contact I'll become invisible. I brace myself, take a deep breath, and push open the door in a rush, diving forward and simultaneously throwing what I'm carrying through the hole, hoping to create a moment of distraction that allows me to pass unnoticed. It never fails. The moment I stand up, all my evasive manuevers spent, in a painfully piercing high pitch I hear: "Hello! Welcome to Blockbuster!" I resign myself to the polite smile and wave.

These people are working on the weekend for minumum wage. There is no way that they can be this painfully cheerful. What kind of mind control drug does Blockbuster have them on? Just once I'd love to hear an honest greeting from them. "Yeah, yeah, I see you coming in. Look buddy, it's Friday night, I'm 29 years old and I live in my parents basement. I don't have a date and I've got no prospects in sight. I make minimum wage and this blue vest gives me a rash. If I have to fake one more cheerful hello I just might go postal on someone. Just pick your friggin' movie and try not to bother me too much." That would be kind of refreshing to hear. All that insincere cheerfulness is awkward for all of us.

Random Phil Thoughts

1. On Wednesday off the coast of Florida a stingray jumped into a boat and when the 81-year-old driver tried to remove it, the stingray stabbed him in the chest with his stinger. Between this incident and the Steve "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin incident I think the stingrays are trying to tell us something. They’re pissed and they’re not going to take it anymore. From now on, if I run into a stingray anywhere I’m just handing over my wallet and running away. Forget Jason, Freddy, or Scream, the scariest costume this Halloween has to be a stingray.

2. Another Phil Law: From this day forward there should be a separate lane at the supermarket for anyone using coupons. Also, if you find yourself in line behind a coupon user and there is a problem with one of their coupons, you are legally entitled to fire off a warning shot to help speed the process along. Needless to say, I’m going to be wearing a flak jacket to the supermarket when this law takes effect because there’s always a problem with coupons. The person invariably has a cart full of groceries and 800 coupons, and there’s always one coupon where the person has bought the wrong size or number of product, they haven’t bought the item for which they have handed the cashier a coupon, or they insist they have a coupon but can’t seem to find it after an exhaustive 20 minute search of their change purse.

A Blog Party Update

Thank you for all your additions to THE BLOG PARTY in your comments. I will be gradually adding them today. In the future, please E-MAIL me your additions to the story so I can add them with a seamless bit of transitional material if necessary. E-mailing me your additions to the story will allow me to add transitions from one person to the next and will make the next paragraph of the story a surprise to all but you. Once you've arrived at the party you can send me stories of you meeting other bloggers that those bloggers can then choose to play off of, or you can create events within the party. One person complained about the music in their comments. Keep in mind that this is a party with no timeline. The B-52's are the opening act of what will likely be many bands. I just thought "Love Shack" would be a perfect opening song. How can you not dance to that?

If you're just reading this, read the post below and you'll know more about THE BLOG PARTY. After today THE BLOG PARTY will be it's own freestanding entity with no further updates on this blog. If you've either written your introduction in the comments of the last post here, or e-mailed me your intro, head over to The Blog Party. You're probably already in the story. Just read down from the top, it keeps getting longer as I add things. If you haven't already, go join the party, it's already started! (Have I given you enough links to click on?)

The Blog Party

The idea began as a blog post by Phil last Christmas in which he wrote the story of a fictional party he threw for all his blog friends at a lavish hotel in New York City. This time it was for real. Following his stunning lottery win Phil had quit his job, published his book, and rented out the entire Ritz-Carlton Hotel in New York City. Online he gave the call to any blogger who read his blog. "Come one, come all to the first ever blog party!" His curiosity about what fellow bloggers were like in real life had been the impetus for this party, and he also wanted to thank them for their support and encouragement that had kept him writing.

The hotel was quiet as Phil paced about the ballroom. The band, The B-52's were busy setting up their equipment behind him. According to the e-mails he had received over a thousand bloggers from all over the world would be attending the party. There would however be one twist: No internet during the party. The bloggers would have to interact as people and not just electronic images. "Ahem..." The doorman clearing his throat shook Phil from his thoughts. "Mr. Factor, the first guests appear to be arriving. A limosine has pulled up in front of the hotel."

The Blog Party will be real but virtual. I envision a collaborative story created by all the bloggers who want to join. If you're the first commenter and want to come to the party, just e-mail me an installment of the story that follows this one. Make sure to include yourself as the first character in your installment so everyone reading will know who wrote it. After that you can all go to the blog party, read and e-mail installments that I will add as they go along. This could be fun that lasts on long time with each of us playing off of each other and our personalities, or this could bomb. Let's have fun and try to make it work.

Stick To What You Know

The longer I live the more I believe that once you become very proficient at a certain set of skills it is unwise to dabble in other areas in which it takes professionals years to become expert. I am a professional children's therapist. I consider myself quite good at it. I have no plans to try dentistry or nuclear science as a hobby on the side. The results of that would likely be disastrous.

I am dreading the day when I become so famous that my ego convinces me that I am capable of dabbling in other professions which are dangerous to even the most seasoned professionals. Two examples of this phenomena occurred fairly recently. New York Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle apparently flew his plane into the side of a New York City apartment building Wednesday afternoon. (My first thought was “I wonder if those people will get their security deposit back?”) About four weeks prior to that Steve Irwin, aka The Crocodile Hunter, was killed by a stingray. First and foremost, both deaths were tragic because these were men with a lot of life left ahead of them and who left behind wives and children. Secondly, they were both situations in which each was dabbling in an area out of their expertise.

Flying airplanes seems to be a very popular and very deadly hobby for the rich and famous. Cory Lidle, John F. Kennedy Jr., John Denver, Buddy Holley, Thurman Munson etc. The list could obviously go on. Those are just the ones off of the top of my head. My opinion is that if one mistake leads to your death, it probably shouldn’t be just a hobby. Aren’t hobbies supposed to be fun? There is very little chance I’ll die from a blogging accident, but if I were to take up flying I think my chances of death would increase by at least double. But then again, as I’ve already made clear, I’m not going to die.

Back to my premise: everyone should stick to what they do best. It’s what makes the world go round. If I need someone to throw a fastball high and tight, I call a baseball player. If I want someone to fly me across the country I call a pilot. If I find a stingray in my bathtub and I’m flipping through the yellow pages do I go looking in the crocodile section of my phone book? Absolutely not. I go straight to the stingray section.

The Name Game

Honestly, I've got nothing today. My head is empty. I don't have two thoughts to rub together. It was either this, or posting a re-run. What never fails to put a smile on my face though is The Name Game. I was deprived as a child and never learned The Name Game until I was a college student working in a day care center. When I'm elected President or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, I intend to make The Name Game our national anthem. When the flag is raised everyone will stand up and sing The Name Game with their own name. Pledge allegiance to me is what we will be saying. As President I will start each nationally televised State of The Union address by leading Congress and the congressional pages in singing The Name Game. That's the kind of country I want to live in. Singing The Name Game together will show the world that we are a country of individuals united. Take that North Korea! Let's see your citizens try to sing the name game in together! No one would dare bomb a country that can sing The Name Game in unison! I'm going to put my name in The Name Game here and I want everyone who reads this to do the same with their name in the comments.

Philly philly bo billy, banana fana fo filly, me my mo milly... Philly!

Ok, now it's your turn. And don't chicken out, because I've got Statcounter so I'll know if you visted my blog and didn't leave a comment.

You Want To Do What?!!?

I’m sure many of us at one time or another has wished we’d chosen a different career. You’re having a bad day or a bad week at your job, bills are piling up and you wish you made more money, or perhaps you’re working hard and getting no recognition for your efforts, so you start to daydream about what could have been if you had pursued the other career you had entertained thoughts of all those years ago. In this day and age when nothing is our fault and there’s always someone you can take to court to solve your problems, don’t we all have someone we wish we could sue for giving us bad advice?

Think about it. Who helps you pursue that first job or pick your first college major? A high school guidance counselor. High school guidance counselors have the easiest job in the world, yet not once have I ever heard of a high school guidance counselor telling a kid to pursue a career as a high school guidance counselor! They get summers off and they sit around all day browsing college catalogs and telling kids to pursue their dreams. Pursue your dreams?!!? What the hell kind of advice is that? Sometimes kids are stupid and their dreams suck. When you choose your first job or college major you’re a kid. Not even old enough to purchase a single beer and yet you’re considered old enough to choose your path in life for the next 50 years?

I think I may start a new career as a high school guidance counselor. Here will be my advice to my future students:

Be a high school guidance counselor. Whatever you do, don’t listen to the dolts still running around saying “go into computers.” The job of Bill Gates is already taken and there won't be another opening at that position, possibly ever. Computers are old news. Everyone can operate one now. I don’t think the I.T. guys who have to crawl under desks on their hands and knees to plug in someone’s ethernet cable are too happy with their career choice, and judging from their wardrobe I don’t think they’re making millions as a technology wizard. Just because you can score 10 extra lives and 8 power up packs on Halo 2 does not mean that a company will hire you to design video games. Oh, and this just in: the position of Tony Hawk has already been filled. Tony has made billions off of being a great skateboarder, but you’re not going to. No one else is going to either. You can play sports, but you’re probably not going to make a living as a professional athlete unless you’re some sort of glandular freak who won the genetic lottery. If you’re in the 8th grade and a major college hasn’t already started recruiting you to play sports for them, then you should probably pursue your plan B, which if you’re smart, is to be a high school guidance counselor.

The Phil Laws

In the immortal words of Billy Blazejowski, “I’m an idea man Chuck.” In my last post I used my now familiar phrase, “When I’m elected President or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first…” A comment by ChooChoo made me realize how often I have uttered those words on this page. In an effort to further my candidacy for both of those positions, I have compiled, to the best of my knowledge, all of the laws that have followed the phrase “When I’m elected President or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first…” I also will throw in a few others that popped up in other contexts on my blog, but which will be implemented when I’m elected. These laws will henceforth be known as The Phil Laws.

1. No more Leap Year extra day. Make all months exactly the same length.
2. No more Daylight Savings Time.
3. The elderly will only be allowed to drive motor vehicles or use supermarkets during certain hours of the day.
4. It should be perfectly legal to fire off a warning shot at any driver who slows his or her vehicle to gawk at an accident.
5. You may not use rhetorical questions in a public setting unless you have been tested and deemed competent to do so. If you use or respond to a rhetorical question improperly any willing observer has the right to punch you in the forehead.
6. The pope should wear a baseball hat backwards instead of that giant dunce cap he always has on.
7. A 1-year ban on Britney Spears “news.”
8. You cannot use a cell phone if you are in your own office building. Walk down the freakin’ hall and pick up your desk phone you moron.
9. It will be perfectly legal to punch a cell schizo in the mouth if they annoy you by walking around gesturing wildly and talking aloud to no one while wearing a cell headset.
10. Pregnant women should not tell their male co-workers how dilated they are.
11. Supreme Court Justices will wear jeans, sneakers, and t-shirts. No more robes. That’s just stupid. The dress code is the reason I’ve never become a Supreme Court Justice.
12. Congress will no longer be able to waste their time and our taxpayer dollars investigating cheating in sports or making laws about what men can and can’t do in an effort to meet women.
13. Hurricane names must be something scary, not just a normal name. Who’s going to flee something like Hurricane Ed? I believe that far less people would have perished if Hurricane Katrina had been mamed Hurricane Deathtron. You flee a storm named Deathtron. No one was scared by Katrina.
14. Anything you can play while sitting at a table or drinking alcohol is not a sport. Also, if the winner is subjectively chosen by a panel of judges, it is not a sport. All the aforementioned activities have no place on television.
15. The only place you can be nude in your local gym locker room is in the shower. The rest of the time, wear a towel.
16. Celebrities from other countries cannot criticize a government other than their own.
17. Funerals should include drinking and entertainment.
18. Schools need to request parental permission before exposing your child to a mime.
19. No putting bible verses on Halloween candy.
20. A ten-year ban on reality shows.
21. All evidence of the television show Everybody Loves Raymond will be obliterated from existence.
22. All public bathroom stalls will be as big as the handicapped stalls.
23. No more horseback riding.
24. No saying “See you next year” on Dec. 31st.
25. No more writing paper checks. Get yourself a debit card and stop holding up the lines at the supermarket.
26. The word ‘whatnot’ shall be struck from the English language.
27. From this day forward everyone will ignore David Blaine.
28. Future Presidential elections will be done American Idol style.

There it is. If you read it all then you definitely qualify as my new best friend and possible future Vice-President.

Why Shouldn't You Answer A Rhetorical Question?

Don't answer that. It was a rhetorical title. Is it just me, or does everyone get annoyed with rhetorical questions? If you already know the answer, and the person asking already knows the answer, then why does this moron even bother to ask the question? What is he or she hoping to accomplish? What would they do if you actually answered it? Has anyone noticed that, including this one, I've now asked five consecutive rhetorical questions? Are you wondering if I intend to write an entire post rhetorically? The answer is no. While rhetorical questions have a useful place in writing, it is my opinion that rhetorical questions have very little usefulness in real life. The places we are most often tortured with inane rhetorical questions seem to be college classes, work trainings or seminars, and in meetings at work. For me, there are two specific types of people who at times seem deserving of some sort of physical retribution for their handling of rhetorical questions. I believe that there should be some type of competency test and licensing procedure before one is allowed to walk freely spouting rhetorical questions. Don't you agree?

The first type of person who just drives me batty with their inappropriate use of rhetorical questions is the person who actually expects and waits for an answer to what should be a rhetorical question. For example:

Boss: "Well team, I hate to say it, but for our department to remain financially viable and avoid lay offs we are either going to have to work harder to increase our profit margin or we will soon find ourselves on the unemployment line. So what's it going to be? Work harder or unemployment?" (Question is followed by 30 seconds of silence) "I said people, what's it going to be? Work hard or unemployment?"

Group of employees: (tremendously unenthusiastic response coupled with arms folded and eyes rolling) "Work harder."

The second type of person who deserves a good, swift punch to the forehead is not the person asking rhetorical questions, but the person who insists on responding to them. These doormats have such low self-esteem that they revel in their ability to come up with the correct answer in front of what they imagine is an impressed audience of their peers. For example:

Teacher/Instructor: "In the 2000 presidential election, possibly due to some voting irregularities in the state of Florida, George Bush won the electoral college vote despite not having a larger number of popular votes than Al Gore, and we all know how that turned out don't we?"

Student: Yes. The war in Iraq is this generations' Viet Nam, gas prices are out of control, and inflation is on the rise!

When I am elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, I intend to pass a law legalizing the punch to the forehead as the appropriate response to anyone who asks an unnecessary rhetorical question or who unnecessarily answers a rhetorical question. Speaking on behalf of all men however,I would like to inform women that there is one rhetorical question that is always O.K. and will never result in a punch to the forehead, and we all know what that question is, don't we?

The Guy Code of Conduct: Public Bathroom Etiquette

As is well known, women have the “never go to a public restroom alone” rule. Women also have several other rules devoted to their bathroom habits, but to imply that I know them would say something bad about me. I’m not sure what, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be good. Despite what women believe, we are not complete barbarians. There are some rules we live by when it comes time to answer the call of nature. In fact, The Guy Code of Conduct has an entire chapter devoted entirely to how, when, and where men eliminate metabolic waste. Here are some of those rules:

1. If you are intoxicated and it is after dark, it is entirely acceptable to urinate anywhere outdoors, just look out for other men who also might be out there urinating in the dark.

2. In a public restroom never use the urinal immediately next to another man if it is possible to go elsewhere, like two urinals down the row, in a stall, or in the sink. Whenever possible you must attempt to keep a three foot buffer zone between you and other urinating men.

3. In a public restroom never use the urinal next to another man unless there is at least one of those little dividers. If there is no divider and the stalls or sinks are full, just wait your turn.

4. If you are using a urinal immediately next to another man just stare straight ahead and do not speak.

5. Speaking while urinating is allowed under only two circumstances: a)if two men are peeing outside and there is an appropriate buffer zone between them, or b) if two men are using urinals and there is a divider and one empty urinal between them.

6. Things you should never pee on: the fire, electric fences, other men, women, your food. (This rule was first written by two cavemen named Ed and Thog during the Jurassic period and originally only included the reference to the fire. Over the years through trial and error the list was expanded to include the other items.)

There is also an index in the back of The Guy Code of Conduct which includes world records involving urination, such as distance, from the greatest height, volume, off of famous landmarks etc.

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 who's 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 through my 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 PhD 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?"

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?

Tag! I'm It.

A big sarcastic Woo Hoo for being tagged. If you've read my blog for any length of time you know that I avoid tags like I'd avoid a George Bush family reunion. Question Girl returned from being dead to the world for two weeks and the first thing she does is tag me. This time I decided that it was time you got a chance to see the serious, thoughful side of Phil. The side that likes to refer to himself in the third person. I believe that on some subjects my opinions are worth sharing with the world, so without further ado...

1) Are you happy/satisfied with your blog's content and look? I'm bored with everything about my template except that little picture in the top left.

2) Does your family know about your blog? The only family I acknowledge is my blog family.

3) Do you feel embarrassed to let your friends know about your blog? I'm not embarrased about my blog, but my friends are. Also, because people I know in real life read my blog I do avoid writing some things I might otherwise.

4) Did blogging cause positive changes in your thoughts? Ok, I'll give a serious answer to this one. Yes, I learned that I can write.

5) Do you only open the blogs of those who comment on your blog or do you love to go and discover more by yourself? I read the blogs of those who comment on mine and if I read a funny comment on someone elses blog I'll go to read that persons blog as well. I will also read any blog that contains information about how to start my own cult.

6) What does a visitor counter mean to you? Do you like having one on your blog? I have a visitor counter, but I could give a rats ass what it says. I almost never see it because it's way down at the bottom of the page.

7) Did you try to imagine your fellow bloggers and give them real pictures? Absolutely, and in my imagination they're usually naked because that's how I am when I'm blogging.

8) Admit it. Do you think there is any real benefit in blogging? Absolutely. I'm sure that somehow Blogger is making a fortune off of this. I don't know why they haven't sent me a check yet though.

9) Does criticism annoy you or do you feel it's a normal thing? I'll let you know as soon as someone criticizes me. Well, as soon as I hunt them down and make their life miserable until they take it back. Right after that I'll tell you how I feel about criticism.

10) Were you shocked by the arrest of some bloggers? I was not shocked at all. In fact it was I who turned them in. I was just trying to cut out some of my competition. I also fully expect to be arrested for my blog some day. How long can I make jokes about the F.B.I. without someone losing their sense of humor?

11) What do you think will happen to your blog after you die? Die? Me?!!? What the hell are you talking about?

I have eliminated a couple questions because I found them boring and because this was getting quite long. I am not going to tag anyone because that is the equivalent of passing on a chain letter, but if you wanted to do this tag go ahead and knock yourself out.

An Idiot Full of Sound and Fury

Dear Venezuelan President Chavez,

I hope you enjoyed your visit to New York. Your nonsensical ravings demanding President Bush resign, calling him "the devil," and stating that the podium still smelled like "sulfur" a day after he used it were hysterical. Clearly Robin Williams' new movie about a comedian being elected President is based on your life. It was even funnier a few days later when your Prime Minister showed up at the airport unannounced, bought a ticket with cash for a flight leaving in 30 minutes, and refused to get off his cell phone to answer questions from airport security. Brilliant! Behave like a terrorist then act outraged when you're pulled out of line for closer inspection. That must have taken some clever planning by you two just to get another opportunity to call George Bush "Mr. Devil."

President Chavez, can I call you Hugo? Good. Listen Hugo, I found your antics in New York this week exceedingly entertaining, but you are obviously not the sharpest tool in the shed, and here's why:

1) You are actively antagonizing a member of the Bush family. While I am no fan of their politics and have been known to have fun at their expense, I'm not stupid enough to aggressively provoke anyone named Bush. This family seems to make a hobby out of bombing small countries. Hmmm....Venezuela. Doesn't your country have some oil fields? I wonder, what are the chances that George Bush might decide to bomb a small country over something as insignificant as a little oil? I'm guessing that filling up AirForce One at nearly $3.00 a gallon is getting old fast. And don't even think of trying to talk junk about Florida. First of all, because that's my gig, and secondly, George's brother, Florida Governor Jeb Bush, would probably have no qualms about invading your little country with an army of alligators, rednecks, and giant bugs.

2) My second issue with your pre-adolescent attempt at international politics is that it is directed at the wrong guy. George Bush is on his way out. He's a lame duck President. Virtually powerless. The guy you want to go for is our next President, me. Then again, you might want to think twice on that front. I'm a big fan of expansion. I like the fact that the U.S. owns states that aren't anywhere near our country. We bought Alaska for the oil and for a place to hunt and fish despite the fact that it is basically a province of Canada. Hawaii? C'mon, we needed somewhere to vacation. So we've got a U.S. outpost to the north and to the west. I'm thinking we may need one to the south. How do you feel about Venezuela becoming our 51st state? You may not have a choice. Hey, if scientists can suddenly decide that Pluto is no longer a planet, as President I'm pretty sure it will be relatively easy to decide that Venezuela is no longer a country.

Sincerely,

Phil

*I just want to say a quick Hello to the F.B.I. and Homeland Security task force who are no doubt reading this because whatever software you use to monitor the internet alerted you that I had used the words "President, George Bush, and bombing" in this post. You guys are doing a great job and everyone here at The Phil Factor appreciates you keeping the country safe. Feel free to forward the link to this post to everyone at the Pentagon. I'm sure you guys could use a laugh. And if you see Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice in the hallway please tell her that the whole "brainy chick with power" thing she has going on totally floats my boat.

Just A Little Housekeeping

I added a few new names to my blogroll over the weekend. If your blog does not appear in my blogroll, but you would like it to, just give me a shout here. In all honesty, I'm just buying time right now because I didn't have a new post ready for this morning. I'll have a new, "regular" post later this evening. It will be the best, most shocking post ever, possibly revealing things about me that would surprise you.

T.G.I.Friday!

No, I'm not referring to the chain restaurant known for having real fingers in their chicken fingers. I am of course referring to the wonderful day that for many of us signals the end of a seemingly endless work week. For many of us Fridays also bring on the medical phenomena known as Vacation Brain.

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 4th Edition: "Vacation Brain is a condition marked by a lack of motivation, difficulty concentrating and staying on task, frequent and lengthy bouts of undirected speech, and sometimes extreme silliness. The symptoms mimic those of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and most often occur in the days and hours prior to leaving for an extended vacation. Often less acute symptoms of this disorder occur on Friday afternoons."

In laymens terms, Vacation Brain is when your brain has already quit work for the week in anticipation of the time off. I am a chronic sufferer of Vacation Brain. In fact, I have a handicapped parking pass due to the severity of my condition. That allows me to flee to my car, which is parked just outside the doors, that much quicker in my haste to start the weekend. Vacation Brain is the reason many of my posts get written at work and e-mailed home.

Vacation Brain is also the reason many, many wonderful things happen every Friday afternoon in offices and workplaces across the world. What wonderful things you ask? Invented office games, internet surfing, getting together in a co-workers office or cubicle to talk aimlessly, and a lot of feeding of office fish. In fact, studies show that up to 85% of office affairs began on Friday afternoons. What do you do when you have Vacation Brain?

*Dear American Psychiatric Association, Yes, I made up Vacation Brain. Please have a sense of humor and do not sue me for using the name of the DSM IV. Consider it free advertising. I have a copy. I'm a big fan.

Blogaholics Anonymous

Speaker: Hello everyone. My name is Phil and I’m a blogaholic.
Audience: Hi Phil!
Speaker: I’ve been a blogaholic for over a year now and I’ve come to admit that I am powerless over blogging. It started with greed. I read a magazine article about a guy with a blog who ran Google ads in the sidebar and was making over $100 a month on these pay per click ads. Like anyone else I was desperate for easy money, so I started a blog and signed up for Google ads. At first I was very disappointed. At a nickel per click the money was adding up much too slowly for my liking. At that rate it would be a year before I’d see $100. I was still Ok with it, willing to be patient. I was writing, making jokes, imagining that thousands of people from all over the internet were reading my words and being amused. I had no idea that no one was reading my blog. Then it happened. I didn’t even now it existed, but there it was. In the bottom right hand corner underneath my post it said, “1 comment.” One comment? I clicked on it, and lo and behold (whatever that means) someone had left a comment on what I had written. I was amazed. How did they do this? Was this the tip of the iceberg? I e-mailed this person to thank them, thrilled that I had been acknowledged by a stranger from across the globe. Was it Ok to e-mail strangers? Is that what people did? Was there such a thing as blog etiquette?

The person e-mailed back kindly enough. I clicked on her name in the comment. She had a blog too! I was amazed. There were lots of comments on her blog! It appeared that there were hundreds, maybe thousands of blogs out there! I wondered, how do I get lots of comments? I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to look like a blog rookie by asking, so I kept writing or blogging as I came to learn that this was called. I had a blog and a new verb about it! Then about a week later I had two comments, and then three! My first blog commenter had come back! Yes! It was the ultimate affirmation. The ultimate drug. Someone had liked what I’d written enough to read my words again! So I kept writing for my invisible audience. For months I wrote, only getting 2 or 3 comments per post. It was such a tease, kind of like getting a free sample of crack from the dealer just to get you to come back for more. The blogs I visited had many, many commenters. “I’m funny, intelligent, interesting,” I thought. “How do I get comments like my more esteemed blogging brethren?” I wondered. (No, I’m not dorky enough to use words like “brethren” in real life. The alliteration just sounded good here.) Then I read a blogger who was doing a very funny thing that I had never seen before. She was commenting back to the commenters. Holding conversations and bantering! I didn’t know what I would say, but if it meant more of the sweet, addictive high of comments then I would have to try it.

I began responding. And like bees to honey the commenters returned to express opinions and respond to my comments on theirs. I was hooked. I came back time and again just to read their words, their feedback. I yearned to know what they would think of what I wrote. Although I couldn’t hear their laughter, I was sure it was there. Serenading me silently through the magic of the internet. Now I can’t stop. I feel as if my blog has become a living, breathing extension of myself. I can’t give it up. If I did, what would happen to all I have written? Would my electronic friends cease to exist? How would I know what was going on in their lives if I could no longer visit Blogland? Would they go on with their lives, or would they have a hole in their heart as I would in mine if my blog were gone?

Despite the joy, the high I get from my blog, my addiction as any other, has it’s price. The pressure. The pressure to post something witty,reasonably intelligent, and correctly spelled three times a week. I can’t stop. What will happen if I do?

Audience: Uh, Phil? The meeting ended a half hour ago. You can shut up now. Help me put these chairs away would you?

The Old Man on the Street

As the sun rises in the morning sky he ambles down the dirt and stone road. Few dogs are as big or as marked by life as this one. He stops to sniff a scent near the dewy, wet brush that threatens to one day crawl across to the other side, blocking this glorified footpath. He has no fear of vehicular traffic. The cars that venture onto this wooded lane are few and far between. His casual, confident attitude seems to imply that it is his road as much as anyone else's. The sharp caw of a black crow in the distance causes his ears to prick up. The left ear so ratty and ragged that it may not serve him as well as it once had. He lifts his head and turns his rheumy eyes back over his shoulder. After seeing what he was looking for the black and brown mottled behemoth of a dog turns his muscular shoulders forward and begins to walk slowly again. He favors one of his rear paws as he walks as if it has a thorn that has yet to be removed by a kindly mouse. He has no tail to wag behind him, so it is impossible for a stranger to gauge his mood.

Then, as if attached by an unseen umbilical cord, comes his master. If dogs really do grow to resemble their owners or vice-versa, there likely are very few pairs that demonstrate this phenomenon more clearly. A grizzled, almost claw-like hand covered in nearly transparent skin holds a weather beaten oak cane. The copper tip and duck head shaped handle appear as old and worn by life as their owner. He wears glasses best described as spectacles behind which his eyes seem almost overwhelmed by the wrinkles and folds of skin that have taken on the rough shape of a face. A battered, torn baseball cap, with a shadow where the missing logo had been stitched on, adorns his head, forever leaving it a mystery what lies beneath. To the curious observer he might be as bald as a billiard ball or hiding a thick, lustrous mane of Rhett Butler-like hair beneath his cap. His small, frail shoulders are concealed beneath a khaki colored windbreaker reminiscent of what one might wear when out sailing on a cool fall day. Underneth he wears a plain blue workman's shirt that may or may not have a red and white stitched name tag that is concealed by the jacket. What might such a man's name be I wonder? His feet shuffle along behind the cane in plain, dark brown workboots that were not designed for comfort, but which must be soft and flexible by now from many years of walks such as this one. With a smile and a wave he slowly passes by.

Although impossible, this man and his canine companion appear to be the same age, closer to a century than anything else. If he so chose this man could probably hold court beside a campfire, pipe or cigar in hand as he spun stories of days gone by while his faithful companion stretches at his feet, soaking in the radiant warmth of the fire. In my mind I know they won't live forever. I know that someday there won't be that quiet wave and smile on Sunday morning and I'll miss them both.