Life Lessons Learned at the Barrel

I had breakfast with a friend at the Cracker Barrel the other day. As usual, the second I walked in, all five of my senses simultaneously pulled a gun on my consciousness and forced it against its will to bring up a terrifying mosaic of sights and sounds from when I worked at the Cracker Barrel when I was in college. That I continue to patronize this place is a testament to their amazingly satisfying food.

It's been eleven years since I last removed that cursed brown apron embroidered with my name in yellow cursive and that single blasted star announcing to the world that I had graduated from a sub-human lifeform (no yellow star) to the dung on the bottom of the totem pole on which the management wiped their slip-resistant shoes on the way out the back door to suck down a non-filtered Camel (one yellow star). Ah, yes - those were the days.

My wife and I started working there 3 months after our wedding. We had somehow survived that first quarter with only the income from my minimum-wage part-time job at the school bookstore. As the Hamburger Helper began to dwindle we were faced with the cold realization that we were going to have to get real jobs. A friend from school told us she made good money at the Barrel. We believed her.

If you or anyone you know have information on the whereabouts of a Deana Armistice, email me ASAP. I have a package for her.

It's truly a sad thing that a four-month period of my life continues to haunt me all these years later. I don't believe in psycho-analysis, but it would be interesting to hear what a shrink would make of the recurring dream I have every two or three months in which I find myself at the Cracker Barrel, stressed to the limit and about to pour someone's coffee, when I realize that I'm missing several crucial articles of clothing. The patron of course declines the coffee and I stand there trying to decide what will put my job in the most jeopardy - failing to keep my tables turning or failing to cover up. I always come to the same conclusion and keep my tables turning and burning while neglecting my own personal dignity until I wake up sucking my thumb and my wife shaking me and saying, "Greg, you have clothes on. It's just a dream."

So, I've decided it's high time I found the silver lining on this ominous cloud of evil. To try to get the monkey off my back, I will brainstorm and share with you some of the important lessons I learned while working at the Barrel. My theory is that if I find something beneficial in that experience, I might be able to avoid having night terrors on the eve of my next breakfast appointment. Some of these lessons may seem obvious, but this is all I've got.

1. Never let a crack addict sleep on your couch. I learned this one vicariously. At the Cracker Barrel in Nashville, Tennessee, c.1996, at any one time there were 5-6 employees performing the daily task of finding a place to sleep "just for tonight." One day, a Good Samaritan single mother-of-one said, "yes." While against all odds she and her baby girl woke up the next morning unharmed, she did find that all her tips from the previous day's double shift had vanished, undoubtedly converted into an illegal substance coursing through the veins of her beneficiary, whom she would never see again.

2. In the restaurant business, if you are not addicted to nicotine you will forever be on the outside looking in. The first time I walked into the break room, I instinctively stopped, dropped, and rolled. No one was visible above the chest and yet they were all laughing and yucking it up as if they knew who else was in the room. When I asked if there was a break room for the nonsmokers, I was met with cold silence. I can only guess how many people were giving me the evil eye. Someone said, "This is the break room for the nonsmokers." From that day forward I was treated as a segregationist.

3. When working with illegal aliens, you will need to learn their language in order to get anything done. This was only a temporary setback since my wife took four years of Spanish in high school and taught me the necessary phrases. Only now does it strike me as ironic that I was living in America and learning Spanish so that I could work side-by-side with Hispanics.

4. Tears will get you nowhere in the blue collar world. How I learned this one is not important.

5. Never assume that a broad-shouldered, heavily-muscled individual with a military-short haircut and a name tag reading "Tommy" is a male. And not your boss. Kinda got off on the wrong foot with the general manager. Things went downhill from there. And I'll go ahead and admit she played a crucial role in my learning lesson #4.

6. The notion that a customary tip is 15% is a lie from the bowels of Sheol. A tip is a dollar. If you wait on one person and all that person orders is a sugar packet, a tip is a dollar. If you wait on a party of 20, they take up all your tables for the whole night, and every single one of them orders a t-bone, three 34oz. rootbeers, a chocolate cobbler, and a pound of fudge from the gift shop, a tip is a dollar.

Again, if you or anyone you know have information on the whereabouts of a Deana Armistice, email me ASAP. I have a package for her.

7. The health inspector in Nashville, Tennessee is a blind, deaf-mute sociopath with a nasty disdain for humble countryfolk. A lot of this I've blocked out because the food tastes so good. The World's Fattest Man still haunts me. All I'll say is I never order sweet tea, grits, sugar-cured ham, dumplins, stew, salad, or ketchup at the Barrel. And I never send my food back if the order is wrong. Oh, people, please - trust me, just eat whatever they put in front of you. Please.


My goal is to have ten lessons here, so give me a minute.

Okay.

8. There is no reason on earth to call a locksmith if you lock your keys in your car in the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel. The cooking and dishroom staff have all the tools and skills necessary to get you on your way, regardless of the year, make, and model or any security system you may have installed. This one saved me and my young bride about $50 late one Sunday night. Thanks again, Jesus Gonzalez and Tucker Brown.

9. I'm sorry. I can't think of any more.

There. I feel better. Of course, the real test will be next month when Dave and I meet again for breakfast.

Man vs. Wild (Wings)

I've just finished watching Bear Grylls survive in another extremely unforgiving environment. It occurs to me that he is surviving in ridiculous situations that almost no one will ever experience. I can survive anything he can - and with less energy. It's easy - I don't go to exotic places.

Anyway, I've decided to use my own expertise to try to prepare some of you for a situation you are much more likely to encounter. You see, I'm somewhat of an avid indoorsman. I've spent entire days in a movie theater. I've climbed to the top of a bunk bed and dozed for 14+ hours. And I've gone years without so much as a hint of color in my skin. And I'm going to show you what you need to do to survive an entire weekend vegging on the recliner. You can call me Bird Wells.

The key here is planning. If you fail to assemble the necessary equipment and supplies, you run the risk of finding yourself in a truly desperate situation. There are five pillars of survival in this kind of adventure: equipment, sustenance, elimination, shelter, and entertainment.

We start with equipment. Trust me, on an adventure like this one, you will live or die by your equipment. Of course, first of all we'll need a mini-fridge, at least a waist-high model. Those little knee-high jobs will never cut it. Even better, if you have the resources, a full-size fridge will give you the best odds of having a successful vegg. Also, placement will be key - it must be right next to the recliner so that you don't have to get up to retrieve food and drink. And make sure when it opens the door doesn't block the TV. Next, we'll need a microwave. The best place to put this is on top of the fridge. That way you have all your sustenance equipment right at your fingertips.

Now lets talk sustenance. First, a primary concern during this ordeal is to stay hydrated. It takes focus and determination to consistently replenish your fluids. It is so easy to underestimate how much liquid you're going to need for a whole weekend. Not long ago, there was a chap in Raleigh attempting a long weekend in the recliner. He failed to stock pile enough Kool-Aid and by the last day he found himself so thirsty, he had no choice but to get out of the recliner and go to the kitchen for some tapwater. I could tell story after story just like this one. Don't make the same mistake. Just pick your favorite drink or two and secure two gallons for each day of the vegg. I prefer Mountain Dew and coffee (I put the coffee maker on top of the microwave.)

Next, food. Really we want to think about what will maximize our enjoyment of the weekend. I think most of us immediately think of Buffalo Wild Wings. The protein will be crucial for the kind of endurance we're looking for. The varied intensities of the sauces will bolster our morale as our eyelids get heavy late in the evenings. Now I know some of you prefer the original wings on the bone, but we've got to be smart here. We must conserve energy any way we can. That means only boneless wings, so that we're not wasting valuable calories stripping the bones. I know something like that may seem silly, but take it from me, little details like this can mean the difference between leisure...and work.

Now, as far as the quantity of wings, only you really know what you will need per meal. You should keep in mind, though, that we have to walk a fine line between the hint of hunger on the one hand and the complication of our elimination game plan on the other. I personally can eat four boneless wings and 8-10 buffalo chips per meal. With any luck my digestive system will behave in a characteristic fashion and I won't be eliminating any solids the whole weekend. Some of you may not be so lucky. But don't worry - there are solutions. If your bowels are reasonably responsive to pharmaceutical suggestion, you may be able to get by with a double dose of Immodium every six hours. (Consult your physician.) For some, that may be all you need. For others, you may be forced to eliminate. My brother-in-law, The West Virginian, is a home healthcare nurse, and tells me there are a number of high quality portable thrones that you can place right next to your recliner. I realize that our objective is to not leave the recliner for the whole weekend, but worst case all you need to do is shift your weight a foot or so onto the stool, eliminate, and shift back into the recliner. In situations like this, you just have to reach deep inside yourself and do whatever is necessary to survive. Challenges like this can bring out the worst in us, but they can also bring out the best in us. You get to decide.

Okay, liquid elimination is, of course, far easier to deal with, especially for the blokes. As you work your way through the beverage jugs, you then simply use them as elimination receptacles. This is vegging survival 101 and shouldn't be a problem unless you have company.

Next, shelter. Actually, this just entails gathering blankets, a fan, and possibly a change or two of underwear. The key is that you don't want to be too cold or too hot at any time. Your blanket will keep you warm in case of an evening chill. The fan will cool you if the sun hits the nearest wall of the house during the heat of the day. Remember - you won't be able to adjust the thermostat from your recliner. Be prepared for the elements to challenge your determination.

Last, entertainment. This is huge. This is another facet that requires serious planning. All of the other preparations are completely for nought if you spend the weekend bored. I recommend a variety of forms to ensure that endurance doesn't become a factor. If at all possible, get satellite TV with a DVR. That way you can be taping things for several weeks before the adventure. For me, it's several hours of Ultimate Fighting, 6-10 Clint Eastwood movies, the Star Wars Saga (sans all the scenes in Episode 1 not involving Darth Maul), and Lassie. But you pick. Football? Baseball? Judge Judy? Whatever you find engaging. Also, I'd like to add that there is nothing in the world wrong with reading - many DVR's also offer the capability of surfing the internet right on the tube, offering you unlimited reading material.

There you have it. All the things you should have in order to beat the odds and survive this ordeal. One last word on safety, though. Every 3-4 hours, plan to roll onto one side for 30 minutes. After the next 3-4 hours roll onto the other side. This is crucial as bedsores could threaten your ability to cross the finish line. Also, keep a phone within arm's reach for emergencies. It's not uncommon on your first excursion into extended lounging to miscalculate a need or two and be forced to call a friend or relative to bring you food or drink. The last thing you want in a situation like that is to not have your phone right there. In fact, have your cell as a backup for the landline.

There are some of you who will fail. Not everyone has the fortitude to expend 72 hours of their life with absolutely nothing productive to show for it. Don't be ashamed. You're in the majority. But if you fancy yourself a thrill seeker, you will relish the opportunity to test yourself, pushing yourself to the limit as you burn 3 entire days eating, drinking, sleeping, and watching TV. Good luck.

More Soup, Anyone?

My wife's friend has an acquaintance . The acquaintance recently had a baby. At the birth, the acquaintance made an unusual request of the hospital staff.

Brainstorm for a second. What could it be? What's the most off-the-wall thing any birthing woman could request?

Earphones for the TV? A mani/pedi while she pushes? A clean, drug-free, and painless delivery?

Wrong. The acquaintance requested the placenta to take home to use as the secret ingredient in a soup to be fed to the family.

My wife asked, "What? Are they cats?" (She has a very sensitive gag reflex. You wouldn't believe some of the things that have caused her to dry-heave. I know she can't help it, but sometimes it really hurts my feelings.)

Apparently, TomkatCruiseholmes decided to eat their placenta when Surly was born. But that's the kind of thing we expect from them. We hear Tom talking about playing golf with extra terrestrials and we accept it without pause. That's where Tom lives. It's his world. But here in the Midwest, it's a bit out of the ordinary to hear of people eating afterbirth.

I did some research on this and found that Southeast Asians find this quite appetizing. In fact, they're not even picky about whose placenta it is. They can it over there like Campbell's and sell it in stores. It's not even a delicacy to them. It's Placenta Helper. In some Chinese markets, you can find large fresh placentas for US$12. Now, define fresh - I mean, it's been floating inside a human abdomen for nine months. (My wife is gagging.)

I'm definitely going to think twice before I eat anymore Ramen Noodles. At least until I find out what Ramen means.

Have we crossed a line here? I know its supposed to be nutritious, but so is coleslaw. What's wrong with a multi-vitamin? I'm serious, I have to wonder about people so eager to reject social norms. Just play by the rules, for goodness sake. Eat some Kashi. Drink some V8. You'll feel great. But don't eat something that's been in your own body.

Who came up with this? I don't know why but I have this picture in my mind of the aftermath of such a birth with a big, burly custodian cleaning up the mess, licking his chops, looking up at the mother and saying, "Hey. You gonna eat that?" Surely, I'm not the only one balking at this.

I personally saw with my own eyes each of my four kids' respective placenti, and I'm telling you, it didn't give me the munchies. On the contrary, the arrival of a new child usually precipitates the loss of a few pounds.

Then my wife told me that some people I actually know kept their umbilical cord, boiled it, and drank the water like tea. Do they have no Tetley? That is repulsive. Still, the placentavores probably look down on these cord people as pansies. "What are you, a little girl? You only drink the water? Come on! Put that thing on Triscuits and throw down!"

This, like many other things, is a slippery slope. May I remind the world that decent folk at one time viewed the veggieburger as completely unnatural, the quintessential oxymoron. Now you can find otherwise moral people voluntarily ordering and enjoying this frankenstinian concoction at almost any dining establishment in the union. I'm afraid if we don't put a lid on this, your gonna have your neighbors firing up the grill and offering a choice of placentaburger or umbilicaldog.

As I write, my wife tells me of a girl in the news who just had a ten-pound ball of her own hair removed from inside her stomach.

I don’t have the energy for that one. Not today.

My Friend, Jed

My friend's name is Jed. Jed's a marine. He was a marine even before he was a marine. This post is dedicated to him.

Jed hit full-blown puberty at six months gestation and came into this world with a full beard, chest hair, and an adam's apple the size of a tennis ball. When his dad started handing out cigars at the hospital, Jed snagged one, fired it up, and inhaled. Sucked the whole thing down with one toke and then announced his own Apgar: "Ten, baby!"

He was a member of Mensa before he was five, played Division I football in the second grade, and once killed a Sasquatch for not honoring a bet. I met him when we waited tables together in college.

He'd been working there a while when I started and was one of the server trainers, a genius move on the part of the management. They used him to weed out the weak and wayward. My wife also worked there and had him as a trainer on her first day. She has no memory of it.

Jed used to carry five glasses in one hand just because he could. I don't mean shotglasses - I'm talkin' 20-ouncers! He could handle eight tables, keep the cooks stocked, haze the newbies, and still manage to pump out 15-20 one-armed push-ups in the dish room every time he bussed one of his tables.

He had marine written all over him. So I was thrilled when he called to say he had enlisted.

Basic training is supposed to be hellish. You're supposed to be overwhelmed by it. Wish you were dead. Jed was in heaven. He was having the time of his life. At last he was in a place where it was acceptable to make grown men cry. But the drill instructors had to ask him to go a little easier on the other recruits because their retention rate had plummeted.

Of course, he didn't stay an enlisted man very long. They made him an officer and immediately made good use of his reputation by utilizing him in psychological warfare.

Remember when we caught Saddam cowering in that rat-hole in Tikrit? Rumor has it that he had just heard that Jed was being deployed. They didn't show this on the news, but Saddam had soiled himself multiple times and was mindlessly muttering, "vill be good boy naw, vill be good boy naw."

And that Abu Ghraib thing? When I heard about that, I knew the military brass had nothing to do with it. I'm telling you, if they wanted some prisoners abused, there's one man they would have called and I know for a fact he was in Oklahoma at the time. Still, a lot of those pictures bore a striking resemblance to some of the things I saw while waiting tables at J.Alexander's.

He actually did deploy a couple of months ago. He likes it so much he's got his eye on a summer home in Fallujah. I don't know if you noticed the lack of bad news about the war in the media. Apparently, the "troop surge" is working. Just happened to coincide with Jed's arrival.

I've started a letter writing campaign to get Jed reassigned. It's high time we got our hands on Osama. With Jed on his trail, I guarantee Osammy wouldn't be holed-up in some cave - he'd be running like a scalded dog. Jed smells fear and cowardice as if it's bloated skunk roadkill, so it would take him about .5 seconds to zero in on him and introduce him to the toasty hereafter. It's a wonder to me they haven't already sent him in there after him. Of course, it may be that they want Osama alive.

I know you've never met him, but I can tell you with pride that I sleep better knowing that Jed and others like him are out there fighting for those who can't. If I were a terrorist over there right now, I'd be getting blond highlights and converting to Christianity in a New York minute. Evil is not safe around this man and I suspect things will be wrapping up before long.

Jed, if you're reading this, may the Lord bless you and your family. Please bring me a nuddy-butty.

And oh, yeah..."it puts the lotion on the skin."

The World's Fattest Man Lives in My Heart

The time has come to reveal my 2007 New Years Resolution. (I've found that if I make my resolution within the last 6 weeks of the year, I'm much more likely to keep it until the new New Year.) This is a big one.

This Thanksgiving, I will not eat myself into a catatonic state.

A little history.

My two sisters and I have always shared a very special bond. It's hard to describe. It's like we always know what the other two are thinking. For example, at family get-togethers when someone outside our small circle stops eating even though they still have food on their plate, the three of us look at each other and immediately engage in single-elimination Paper-Rock-Scissors. Whenever we eat together we employ an intricate combination of technique and finely-tuned situational awareness to ensure that the plates and mouths stay full. If one of us runs out of something, without looking up we all sense it and communicate via non-verbal cues to quickly and seamlessly correct the situation. It's a ballet of sorts.

I'm not quite sure where we got this - our parents are normal. The only thing I can compare it to is the phenomenon known as "twinspeak," where twins speak a language to each other that no one else can understand. But with us, it's "eatspeak."

Obviously, Thanksgiving is our time. It's our World Series. We coach each other like someone spotting a powerlifter.
"Push it! Push it! Push it!"
"I can't - I just hit the wall."
"Don't think about it, just keep truckin'. Work through the pain."

We were a bit nervous when we became old enough to start marrying, not knowing how new people might disrupt our dynamic. Each potential mate was regarded with a combination of suspicion and latent resentment. Will this person be a compliment or a detriment to our way of life?

The woman who is now my wife was the first to enter the fold. To our surprise there were no waves. She could hold her own. The only thing now barring her from complete acceptance is her freak-of-nature metabolism.

Then came my brother-in-law, The West Virginian, my older sister's husband. Dude's got game. Fit in from day one. I think if we all were being honest, we would admit that we look up to him. I mean, we're good...but he's good. He brought with him a number of innovations that made us more efficient and increased our endurance. From pre-meal stretches to wind-pants with elastic waistbands, he revolutionized the way we think about eating.

The day my younger sister brought home a suitor to meet the family, is a day we remember well. These first-time encounters always take place on our turf, Mom and Dad's house. When we arrived, he and my sister were already there, which totally threw me off. I caught sight of this fellow just as The West Virginian nudged me and whispered, "Who's the bean pole?"

"Surely that's not the newbie."

Proper introductions confirmed that my little sister was actually going to try to pass this guy off as a contender.

He started entertaining the kids by walking on his hands. When he was upside down, his shirt fell, exposing his midriff. You've heard of six-pack abs? Try twelve. He had a whole case.

I said, "Alright, send this one back - there's no way he's gonna be able to throw down."

You don't get abs like that by eating. You get abs like that by not. The odds of this guy fitting in were infinitesimal. The West Virginian can inhale a twelve pound turkey without taking a drink of water. The newbie was way out of his league.

Then came mealtime. The newbie could eat. He was not intimidated.

"Where's he putting it?"

"More importantly, how is he keeping it there?"

He had a twenty-nine inch waist back then. He has a twenty-nine inch waist right now. He is our very own Kobayashi.

So, we successfully integrated the spouses. We all click. It's amazing. A couple of years ago the IFOCE (International Federation of Competitive Eating) approached us with a 6-figure contract to star in an instructional video for young talent. We were of one mind in our reply, "we don't do this for money - we do it for the love of the game."

Fast-forward to last summer. My wife and I were watching a show on The Learning Channel called, "The World's Fattest Man." It was about the world's fattest man. It's a guy in Mexico who at one point weighed something like 1,300 pounds. He looked like Jabba the Hut, but more carefree and with a smaller mouth. I remember being repulsed watching this man eat. And he could eat. I said to my wife, "That is just sinful. He doesn't need that much food."

I know. It hit me right then. If it is sinful for someone to eat more than they need, is it not also sinful for me to eat more than I need? He may have a bigger problem than me, but we have the same problem.

I realized that the World's Fattest Man lives in my heart.

Right about that time I heard about a book proposing the crazy idea of only eating when you are hungry, then stopping when you are full. Insanity.

But I was convicted about my gluttony, so I repented and started this ludicrous plan. This was huge. I was amazed at how little food I really needed. I was finding myself satisfied after 2/3 of a Happy Meal.

It has been several months now and I've lost about 20 pounds, mostly in my head. But I've known for sometime that Thanksgiving was coming - the real test.

With some reflection I now see how hypocritical it was for me to Give Thanks for all God's blessings, say amen, and then desecrate my body for the next hour by methodically shoving gibblets down my gullet until I am pressing right up against the threshold of my gag reflex. Is God honored by my spending the rest of Thanksgiving day with a sweat-soaked, furrowed brow; swollen beet-red lips; my pants undone; a barely-audible, perpetual moan; unable to think, move, or respond to verbal or visual stimuli? My children refusing to look at me, asking their mom, "Is Daddy gonna die?" Is The Lord blessed by my loss of my sense of smell for 2-4 weeks? I'm afraid not.

So. This Thanksgiving, I'm going to give thanks. Then I am going to eat the equivalent of a Happy Meal. Then I'm going to spend the rest of the day thanking the Lord that I can feel my legs.

And here's a hearty shout out to the World's Fattest Man.

Follicular Discrimination

Okay, you're going to think I have hair on the brain (after the beard thing) and you're right. I do. I was sitting in class not long ago and during a dry patch in the lecture I started to notice the variety of coifs in the room. I began to wonder how the human race came to hold such significant prejudices about people based solely on the location and thickness of their hair.

Do you know a bald man? A bald woman? Do you laugh at them behind closed doors? Be honest. Do you stand in front of the mirror admiring your own flowing mane and pray, “Thank you Lord that I am not like the balds, who have no hair”? Are you proud?

Now – do you have back hair? If so, do you use conditioner on it? Gel? Butch wax? Highlights? Do you blow dry it? Perm it? Look at it in the mirror to make sure it is presentable? No? Exactly.

My purpose in this post is two-fold: 1) to expose the discrimination and hypocrisy inherent in the world of hair, in which having certain kinds of hair is admirable and having other kinds of hair is repugnant; and 2) to change the pervasive pro-headhair mindset of our culture. I understand that to most, my ideas will be revolutionary and paradigm-breaking. And while I will be the first to admit I’m no Copernicus, I would like to one day be a household name, known to all as the man who dared to declare “the world is not flat” as it pertains to hair.

I’m going to challenge everything you believe about hair. And I’m going to give you the opportunity to leave the Hair Matrix – that man-made illusion in which head hair is good and back hair is evil. If you choose to stay, that’s your choice. You can continue to live with blinders on, a pathetic pawn of the Man. The Hair Man. Or you can join the Revolution and celebrate your hair no matter where it happens to grow.

Before you assume that I’m a bald man with an ax to grind, you should know that I have a full head of thick hair. In that respect, I would be considered “acceptable” to society. (I am not without my own personal oddity, though. While I am well-covered with hair, I have no facial hair. I can grow a beard anywhere on my body but my face.) In a sense that makes me the perfect person to preach this message– I’m not motivated by any psychological factors.

First, the universal importance of the location of our hair is ludicrous. Question: why isn’t head hair repulsive? How would I be regarded if I had thick, nappy hair growing out of the palms of my hands? Would you shake my hand? I didn’t think so. What if I had dreadlocks on my calves? Would I be welcome at the public pool? What about a long pony-tail coming out of the back of my swimming trunks. I’d be arrested. Even if conditioned, healthy, and shiny, my calf-locks and hiny-tail would never be regarded as anything other than a medical mystery at best or a social suicide at worst.

But if I have head hair, I’m the belle of the ball. Look at me – I’m Fabio (minus the tan, muscles, height, and charm)!

It makes no sense! Hair is hair! Look at it under a microscope and it all looks the same!

There is even discrimination among head hair. It’s not enough to be head hair - you have to be the right kind of head hair. How appealing to society is the prominent mono-brow commonly seen on men (and women) of Middle Eastern and Mediterranean descent? There is a major industry out there offering services to remove these things. What about ear hair? Do you have a grandfather? If so, the odds are he either plucks that hair, or he looks like he is hosting a woodchuck in his ear. When you see the woodchuck, does it give you warm fuzzies? (No pun intended.) See?

And then there is nose hair. What is so wrong with nose hair? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing. But we have been culturally conditioned to dispose of our nose hair. It is considered shameful to have a tuft peaking out of your nose.

I'm here to tell you God gave us nose hair and He expects us to use it. It does serve a purpose: it keeps our brain and sinuses warm.

But what if you have the right kind of head hair, but the wrong kind of body hair? Have you seen the Mexican dog-boys on the TV news shows? They are a family of Mexicans who are like Teen Wolf, but for real. They work in a circus because its the only place they can find any kind of acceptance - albeit in a cage next to the Elephant Man. The dog-boys are a literal circus sideshow. I have to be honest, my own cultural conditioning made it very difficult to look at these chaps without coughing. But when you think about it, it’s just hair. They are very well groomed. And the interviewer was asking very personal questions and treating the dog-boys like freaks. Then it came to light that one of the dog-boys has a girlfriend. A “normal” girlfriend. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Here is someone who gets it – it’s just hair. The dog-boys are people, too. But the interviewer almost passed out. “Doesn’t his hair bother you?” “Don’t you feel self-conscious being with him?” “Do you have an intimate relationship with him?” I wanted to scream, “You could use a shave yourself, Barbara!”

I understand that the dog-boys are an extreme example of hair discrimination but they make the point. Why is it that thick hair on your head is okay, but thick hair anywhere else will get you on TV?

And we attach significance not only to the location of hair, but to the quantity. Got hair on your head, but only twenty or thirty of 'em? You're an outcast. You're not getting a date, a job, or a Barbara Walters special.

This particular prejudice has caused all manners of desperate behavior in those who are "bald." (It may be appropriate here to tell you that I have personally rejected the term "bald." These people aren't bald - they have hair. Somewhere. And I refuse to participate in the discrimination inherent in such an inflammatory term. I now refer to baldness as "an alternative hairstyle.") Know anyone who wears a toupee? Overcome with fear of the stigma of the alternative hairstyle, these poor fellows have jettisoned all common sense. They aren't fooling anyone. Our society of hair worshipers can spot that rat carcass a mile away. The irony is that these folks, who are so desperate to fit in with the hair elite that they knowingly wear dead animals on their heads, are even more marginalized than the regular alternative hairstyle crowd. It's sad, people, and its got to stop.

Then there's the comb-over. There is debate as to whether this is a step up or down from the toupee. Either way it's mind-blowing. "I want people to like me so I'm going to apply Miracle-Gro to my arm pits, grow a three-foot long pit-tail, and use starch and puzzle glue to fashion it into a four-inch diameter disk placed on my head that a NASA satellite might mistake for natural hair growth."

My point is that people should be free to enjoy their hair wherever it happens to grow. No more shaving, plucking, or Rogaining your way to acceptance. No more looking down on those with a full-body beard. No more marginalizing those of the alternative hairstyle.

No more follicular discrimination.

Dog People

The kids want a dog. To be honest, I want one, too, but I'm just scared to death of becoming a dog person. Before I offend anyone, I should probably flesh out what I mean by 'dog person'.

Dog people are individuals who have allowed their domesticated canines to brainwash them into thinking that dogs are people. I believe that dogs are dogs. The reason I'm scared of becoming a dog person is that I've seen in my own family how a dog can suck the dignity right out of a person.

Take my in-laws. They used to have a filthy poodle - named Chelsea. The original owners didn't want her so they gave her to my in-laws "for free." This dog turned the in-laws backyard into a feedlot.

Wait. Did I say "backyard"? I meant to say, "back and side and side and front yard." They don't have a fence, so the animal took the liberty of moving its cornucopial bowels wherever it pleased.

Whenever we would visit, the kids would inevitably ask if they could go out and play in the backyard. Before we could say yes, my father-in-law would jump up, shouting, "No wait. Give me about ten minutes." What followed was a ritual so degrading I hate to even write about it. The father-in-law called it "Poop Patrol."

"Poop Patrol" entailed my father-in-law, a socially-adjusted, highly intelligent man with a doctorate in theology, taking up a spade and a five-gallon paint bucket, and methodically scouting out, bending over, and picking up every last tootsie roll in the yard. Let us not lose the full weight of this image, as it is perhaps the saddest example of what it can mean to be a dog person. Here is man, made in the image of Almighty God, policing up the excrement of a four-legged beast.

To put this in perspective, let's suppose for a moment that the fecal minefield is actually composed of man-poo. If my father-in-law knew that the dung on his lawn was produced by another man, do you really thing he would gather up another man's stool? Of course, not. No one would do that for another human. So why, I ask you, would anyone voluntarily lower themselves to be "poop patrolman" for a species that doesn't know its water bowl from a toilet bowl? Are you starting to see the point?

I can hear some of you saying, "Well, what is he supposed to do? Just let the kids go out and walk in it?" I'll answer your question with a question: Do you and your brood go around pooping in every room of the house? On the kitchen table, in the beds, in the shower, behind the TV, and between the couch cushions? No? Then why should you allow your dog to squeeze one on every square foot of the yard? While training the dog to catch a frisbee, why not also train it to be a little more discrete about where it relieves itself? Designate one corner of the yard as the doggie potty.

But far worse, the indoor breeds are the ones that can really pull a role reversal on you. Once again, to find the most disturbing cases, I must look no further than my own family.

My paternal grandmother is a wonderful woman. Kindhearted. Doting. Grandmotherly. So it was not a surprise that when her new toy poodle acted lethargic at mealtime, my grandmother would offer to feed the beast by hand. It was charming and cute. But it soon became evident to everyone but Ma that she was being played. After establishing a routine of the hand feeding, the animal decided to act uninterested once again - unless the food was first soaked in water. The situation eventually deteriorated to the point that Ma was required to soak and microwave every meal prior to hand feeding it to the dog. Ma continued to serve her master until it's timely demise seven sweet years ago.

My maternal grandmother takes this sordid parade to places I'd rather not go. At least, my paternal grandmother fed her animal dog food. My maternal grandmother's dog must suffer no such abuse. Believe it or not, Ma-Maw rises at the crack of dawn every day to scramble an egg for her dog. Do you understand what I'm saying? She walks over to the refrigerator, pulls out a perfectly good egg, and cracks it into a clean frying pan. And cooks food. For a dog. She claims that an egg a day produces a noticeably shinier coat.

Here in the great Midwest, a dozen eggs will generally cost you $1.29. To make this simple, let's say that one egg costs $.10. As you know there are 365 days in a year. My grandmother spends $36.50 a year so that her dog will have a noticeably shinier coat. Does the dog even care how shiny its coat is? Does it long to have the neighbors stand back and admire its Noticeably Shinier Coat, secretly pretending the dog belongs to them? The answer is no. The dog doesn't care about its coat. It's all about control.

It gets worse.

The maternal grandmother microwaves hotdogs for her animal on a daily basis. (This is a woman who has lost a husband and two dogs to colon cancer. The only common denominator in the three deaths is - you guessed it - microwaved hotdogs. Apparently, I am the only bird in the family tree to have made this connection, because no one else has raised the slightest objection about her continuing to serve nuked pork by-product to her loved ones.) The dog gets what it wants - not simply people food, but people servitude.

The kids want a dog. But I'm telling you, that's a slippery slope, man. There is much to fear. One day you're the master of the house, the next day you're owned by a dog. I'm gonna have to think about this.

Beard Envy

I have beard envy. This isn’t easy for me, so bear with me. For all intents and purposes, I have the perfect life. Beautiful wife. Beautiful kids. Warm bed. Tons of debt. Only one thing is missing. Facial hair. It’s not that I don’t have any. I do. And it grows at a normal rate. It’s just that it’s thin and patchy. Really thin and patchy.

I wasn’t very old when I noticed I was different. When I was in high school I went camping for about a week with some friends. It was understood that no one was to shave – we were ‘roughing it.’ By the end of the trip, they all looked like Grizzly Adams. I looked like the business end of a newborn. They noticed. Made sport of me. Its difficult to talk about...but at that point, I was only 17 and I held out hope that over time I would become more heavily whiskered.

I am now 32 years old and all hope is gone. I have scoured the internet and haven’t found one verifiable case of someone my age finally hitting facial puberty. I’ve googled things like “how to grow a beard” and “face rogaine”. Nothing. The medical community assures me that if I haven’t been able to grow a beard by now....yeah.

The cruel irony is that I’m quite well whiskered on my neck. It is doubly cruel in that my younger sister, known for her unforgiving commentary on other people’s physical imperfections, has for years teased me about my ‘neck-beard’. Go a day without shaving my neck and I run the risk of my sister noticing and belittling me. “Love the neck beard.” “When are you gonna shave your neck?” Et cetera.

Some might say, “Life has handed you lemons, man – make lemonade. Grow that neck beard!”

If I wanted a dicky, I would buy a dicky. I want a beard.

I feel like a genetic comedy – and the whole world is in on the joke. I swear, everywhere I look I see beards – it’s like people are taunting me. All the men in my family – all the men in my family – toy with me. Growing beards. Then shaving beards. Regrowing beards. Just because they can. My dad is probably the hardest to take, not because he relishes it, but because I came from his gene pool and apparently picked up all his undesirable recessive traits. (That’s a complete blog in itself. Stay tuned.) He used to be one of the Wise Men every Christmas at our church. Stopped shaving about a half hour before the first show and was completely believable by the time the music started. I was a 20-something chosen to play the baby Jesus.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the most socially adept person, but I’ve begun to even make myself uncomfortable with some of the things I say to people before I can stop myself:
“You have a magnificent beard.”
“Wow, when was the last time you shaved?”
“Wish I could grow a beard.”
“Lucky.”

The other day a mustachioed woman came into my shoe store. This was the last thing I needed. After the usual shoe talk I mindlessly asked, “How long did it take you to grow that?” That was the last thing she needed, apparently. She left and didn’t buy any shoes. I’m just kidding. She bought shoes.

I know I have a lot to live for and I am grateful for what I have. But heaven is gonna be awesome. I’m gonna do it all. Father Time. Fu-manchu. Handlebars. Lambchops. That curly-cue thing.

Man.

But until then, I’ll just have to live vicariously through others. So, to all you men (and women) out there who can grow a beard – Live! Live for me!

Man, do these guys know how to play hardball, or what?!

Forget the baseball players strike of ’94. Forget the air-traffic controllers strike in Reagan’s day. Forget the New York City transit workers strike whenever that was. This is serious. Beginning yesterday, Nov. 5, 2007, the Hollywood script writers walked off the job. That means no new TV scripts! The entertainment industry will be crippled. Our nation will be crippled. November 5, 2007 is going to be burned forever on the consciousness of the American soul. It sounds like just a normal date, but after this, Nov. 5 will never be the same. 20 years from now people will ask each other, “Where were you on 11-5?” And everyone will know exactly where they were.

I ask you to pause and consider what life will be like if this cataclysm is allowed to go on. How will we teach our children that adults are stupid and should only be spoken to with short sarcastic retorts? How will our women and children know that their husbands and fathers are nothing more than overgrown baboons in heat motivated only by food and sex? How will we poison the minds of the next generation? I ask you: how will we learn that moral filth and base vulgar humor are normal human behavior. We’re gonna be lost, people.

And think about this: what on earth are we gonna do with all this free time? Do you realize we’re going to be practically forced to READ! We’re gonna be put in the ridiculous position of sitting in a room with our families talking to one another. Some of us may even resort to helping the neighbor get his house ready for the winter. Or feeding the poor. And...I know you’re thinking it, so I’m just going to say it...some people may exercise. It’s going to be pure insanity.

Sound the alarms! Call your Congresswoman! Vote Democrat! Do whatever it takes!

JUST GIVE THEM WHATEVER THEY WANT!