THE TOURIST SEASON

Every year at about this time my asthma starts acting up, my head becomes congested and my nose starts running, and I have to walk faster to keep up with it. At first I thought it was allergies, or maybe I caught a cold. With me it’s hard to tell, since I am allergic to people with colds. But then I realized the real cause: the onset of the Tourist Season. My symptoms were psychosomatic, my way of processing the misery and frustration of dealing with millions of foreigners clogging up the streets of New York City. It’s bad enough in the winter, when millions of foreigners clog up the streets of New York City- they are the ones that live here; in a month or so they’ll be gone for the summer, either to the Hamptons or upstate New York where there is an inpatient rehab facility. But for the meantime we are all here together, struggling to co-exist in a barren, post-apocalyptic world (in case you haven’t noticed I am thinking of pitching this as a movie treatment).

By the way, aren’t all head colds psychosomatic since the symptoms are all in your head?

There are several ways to recognize which people are tourists. First, they are always travelling in the opposite direction than the rest of civilized society. People say that firefighters are heroic because they are the ones rushing into a burning building when everyone else is rushing out. Well tourists are just as heroic; if a building is on fire it’s the best time to go- there will hardly be any crowds.

Secondly, they are holding an expensive camera. No native New Yorker would ever own a camera that only takes pictures and can’t call anybody. I see a dad taking a photo of the Empire State Building, but unfortunately his family is cluttering up the frame. He is struggling to get everyone in plus all 102 storeys of the skyscraper. I decide to help by telling him that he can compose the shot better if he takes the picture from Hoboken.

Sometimes I see a group that has to take five separate photos, each one missing the member that is snapping the portrait. I offer to take the photo so that they can all be in it, but they are worried that I will run off with their Nikon, so I offer to let them hold my driver’s license, which they notice is suspended. They ask if I have any outstanding warrants. Of course I am flattered, but I modestly insist that they are just run-of-the-mill.

If I am left to take their photo with an iphone, ipad or ipod, that’s where I start to worry. I can never find the ibutton that takes the ipicture, and then the iflash never goes off and i get an ilook from the wife, who is rolling her i’s at me. I heard something click- it was either me snapping the image or dialing 911. I tell them to check and see if the photo is there- if it’s not, start pretending you’re having a heart attack- I don’t have time to explain.

Thirdly, they are usually consulting a map, and often the map is upside down. The husband is pointing vigorously, and the woman is shaking her head in an exasperated fashion, the international symbol for, “That’s where we JUST WERE, you nut. I never should have married an Azerbaijan, but that’s all they have in Azerbaijania or whatever the hell it’s called.” When I see a scene like this I seize the opportunity for help, and I walk over and grab the map. I have never figured out where the subway entrance is on 57th Street, so I thank them and give them their map back.

Last and most importantly, their clothes. For instance, I see a man wearing tight blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up, carrying a purse. I ask him if he is gay or straight. He looks at me closely, assessing my appearance, attractiveness and motivation, and says, “Straight.” Then I know he is a tourist, or someone with only average taste in men.
 

Incidentally, the man who founded the taxi company that is responsible for the yellow cars that Manhattan has become famous for was none other than John D. Hertz, who went on to rental car fame. He called his yellow cab company, not surprisingly, the Yellow Cab Company. Started in Chicago in 1915, the franchise became iconic in New York City. The rumor is that Hertz, a Hungarian immigrant born Sandor Herz, read that yellow was the easiest color for the eye to see. I would have found more information on the study, had it been written in yellow.

THE BASEMENT TAPES

Sometimes people ask me if I’m in a band or doing anything musically. The answer is that I’ve been holed up in my basement recording my music. Apparently I am the only one in their basement who hasn’t killed or kidnapped anyone, but that’s mostly due to lack of space. So here is a four-song EP from the Rickster & the Nefarians basement tapes, and this is a self-indulgent blog about it. If you check them out please listen with headphones and NOT on laptop speakers, you have to promise me. My production values will suffer irretrievably otherwise.

Two of these I finally just finished; I always joke that I write the melody and arrangement of the song in about 20 minutes, then finishing the lyrics takes 2 1/2 years. I always think my lyrics are horrible, and I beat myself over the head with a two-by-four, then I hear a song by Steve Miller or Neil Diamond, with those ULTRA horrible lyrics, and I think of how much money they made, and I have to go look for the two-by-four again.

But I finally finished the lyrics, and I'll tell you a little secret: I have a new theory about writing them and it's much faster. I call it the Donald Fagen method. Lyrics in Steely Dan songs I most admire. I know them all by heart, even though I can't remember ANY words to ANY songs by anyone else, even my own. I listen to The Royal Scam, all nine minutes or whatever it is and at the end of the song I go, "Wow- that was a hell of a story. What was it again?" So my new approach is to think of a good tale to tell, then don't tell it. Let the listener figure it out. If you asked me what the song was about (I doubt you would) I would tell you, but it would probably change every time I told it.

Another thing is that I always notice that I can't sing AFTER the damn song is recorded, when it’s too late. At the time it sounds fine, usually because I have been drinking before just about every vocal track. My voice needs to be loose, like the rubber band that holds your asparagus together. Once it's loose, I realize that something like my voice should not be running around loose. On some songs I sound actually pretty good, but that is almost always in the shower, where it is dangerous to record.

The notes give me trouble are never the ones I thought would be difficult. The high note on Play it Again was the easiest one to sing on key, and a random stinking little note in the middle gave me fits and it's still not quite right.

I always thought I could sing on key, but I double my vocal tracks in who Needs Love, and I found that I couldn't sing it twice exactly the same. I ended up leaving it alone because I liked the detuned effect, kind of like a flanger.

I understand the production values are quite unprofessional. They say that only a poor craftsman blames his tools. That is only for craftsmen, not musicians of course. I blame my poor equipment for my poor sound.

The drums are the hardest to mike well; aside from the wide dynamic range, the tonal spectrum is difficult, from the bass drum to the high frequency of the cymbal's overtones. And because it's the first one you record, you have to have the whole song in your imagination before it has been recorded. Usually I play a guitar track to a metronome, then record the drums while I listen to that in my headphones.

The process of putting all the layers of the tracks together is my favorite part, and the satisfying thing is that they usually come out exactly as I have them in my head. Whatever it is in my head may be good or bad, but it's pretty cool to have something in mind and realize it to its fruition. I wish I could do the same thing with fruit.

I like the songs themselves, and the arrangements, once I get past the vocals and the non-professional sound. I include Real Life from my Real Life television cable access show from the 90's as a contrast. That was recorded in my friend Doug's studio, and mastered very well I thought. By the way I like my lead break in that one, I think it's the best one I ever did. I have to play the lead break exactly as I have it in my head, or I could never learn it- I am not a deft enough guitarist.

I do believe that in another lifetime I may have made a good producer. If I was a cat I would spend four of my lives as a producer. The first two I would spend as a tightrope walker and an explosives detonation squad member. I might as well, since I have seven other lives in the bank. People would say, "He is a damned good producer, for a cat, even though he can only communicate by taking a dump in different parts of the room and leaving us to figure out what he meant. But you can't argue with the sound."


Incidentally, the videos are silly, but you need to have something on Youtube these days to link to everything else (Blogspot does not link to MP3s for example). I wanted to do a video that would be quick and easy (they were neither). I did not show my face for obvious reasons if you have seen my face. Most of the photos in the backgrounds are pretty landscapes that my wife photographed. I would love to hear a comment if you care to leave one here or at Youtube. I understand if you cannot be reached for comment at this time.

MARCH WEIRDNESS

Every year Cinderella makes it to the ball, but it’s hard to dance wearing only one shoe. People love to root for the underdog, and then when the underdog wins they’re left with a bracket sheet suitable for doggy’s house-training. Those number two and three seeds fell like hotcakes in the first & second rounds.  You probably think I mixed up my metaphors when I mention the hotcakes but you’ve never seen me make breakfast.

By the way don’t you think Cinderella was brave to wear glass slipper? If it breaks the handsome prince is going to get grossed out by all the blood. Also unrelated: Did you ever drink champagne from a ladies shoe as a gesture of adoration? I tried it just to see without telling my wife; it was cheap champagne so the flavor was actually enhanced, but she complained about her wet shoe and I had to make something up that was even worse than the champagne. Next time I want to get romantic I’m going to make a bong out of it instead.

Anyway, everybody’s brackets were toast by the second weekend of the tournament. Ironically the shooting percentage of people hitting the wastepaper basket with their crumpled bracket sheets far exceeded that of players on the favored teams. MY prognostications, however, stood up remarkably well. I don’t like to toot my own horn unless my wife is away for the weekend, but three of my Final Four teams are in, the only one I missed being Wichita State. 14 people chose Wichita State in the semis, all moms whose sons are on the team.

March is a great time for lesser-known schools to do some much needed public relations. For instance, the last time Wichita was mentioned out loud was in 1968 during a Glen Campbell song. The school is called Wichita State, but which state? Both Texas and Kansas have Wichita Counties.

FGC hit the sports pages with stunning upsets over Georgetown and San Diego State. The school is located on the beach, and the coach is married to a former Maxim Magazine cover model. By the way, FGC stands for “Florida Golf Course.”

Then of course there are the team nicknames: some teams are named for birds, such as the Lousville Cardinals or Creighton Blue Jays. A St. Louis player is known as a “Billiken.” I’m not sure what that is, but I think I was almost attacked by one in Key West one time. St. Mary’s missed the perfect opportunity to call their team the Virgins, and settled for the Gaels instead. So many teams were named the “Tigers” that the things couldn’t possibly be endangered. Southern University fields the “Jaguars,” named after the car.

The “feel good” story of the tournament was undoubtedly the aftermath of the compound fracture to Louisville player Kevin Ware, although it probably didn’t “feel good” to him. The injury was gruesome, but his courage during the mishap showed what he was made of. Next time I don’t really need to SEE what he was made of, you could just tell me about it.

This year there were a lot of teams that realized that they were not going to get too deep into the tournament, and decided to make a big splash based on the ugliness of their uniforms. One team (it was not Army) sported a camouflage motif, as if an enemy might suddenly attack and possibly control a strategically located basketball arena. Other squads, probably with an athletic director that went to college during the ‘70s, opted for “day-glo” colors, which look particularly groovy under an ultraviolet light. These uniforms are best enjoyed in conjunction with a bag of Fritos, a Jimi Hendrix poster, and about an ounce of pot. One team, I think it was Cincinnati, debuted an outfit that looked like the players had jumped into a vat of mucilage then rolled around on the floor after a New Year’s Eve party. I was at a New Year’s Eve party this year, but I steered clear of the mucilage vat.


Incidentally, the sports team nickname for my alma mater, Syracuse, is the “Orange.” During the reign of Netherland’s King William III of the House of Orange, Albany, New York was known as Fort Orange. Nassau, Bahamas and Nassau, Long Island were also named in honor of his family’s heritage. On behalf of his wife, Queen Mary, the College of William and Mary was also endowed in 1683, the second oldest American college. Syracuse apparently had nothing to do with any of that, they just liked the color.

THE PAPAL CONCLAVE

The Papal Conclave has begun, and people seem pretty revved up about it. They love their religions, and they are fiercely protective of them. People of different faiths are warring all over the world, because they have faith that their faith is more faithful than your faith. Sure, they may commit an atrocity or two here and there but it’s absolutely okay, since God rules much the same as my parents did: “Go play outside and don’t do anything stupid.” Religions only exist because no one wants to believe that after you die is probably not that much different than before you were born. So everyone is struggling to make a good impression before judgment day.

And now the Papal Conclave will sequester itself for a period of time, and the cardinals will finally emerge as a butterfly. Or am I thinking of a pupa? No matter.

What people do agree on is that the church is going to have to change with the times in order to survive. How will the church move into the 17th Century and remain relevant? Should Catholics practice birth control even if they are good at it? Should there be women priests? Should there be male nuns? Should the church allow abortion, especially for couples who meet on Christian Mingle? Do we want a more active pope or just a guy sitting around pontificating?

What about the pope’s mode of dress? The hat makes him appear taller, which is good. But the chasuble is not very slimming. How about in addition to papal vestment, a papal sweater-vestment? Maybe a fleece (like Governor Christie’s) that reads, “POPE, World Spiritual Leader.”

Also, how do we deal with the miracle situation? These days, there are security cameras EVERYWHERE, and when somebody says that they parted the Red Sea, you can just check the video tape, and BANG, it’s only a fat guy doing a can-opener into the deep end. Looking back at the paintings, it’s obvious that Moses can’t even part his hair, let alone the Red Sea.

During the conclave, rising out of the Vatican will be either black smoke signifying that they have not elected a pope, white smoke signifying that they have, or blue smoke signifying that one of the cardinals has accidentally lit their hair on fire.

Rumors flew that Regis Philbin or Dennis Rodman might be elected. Archbishop Dolan was considered, but in the end, seemed just a little too happy to be at the party, as if he might put a whoopee cushion under somebody’s seat.

On TV they showed a ceremony where all the cardinals stand in line for about 45 minutes so they can touch a page of the bible. This takes place in the Sistine Chapel, which I visited once. It was an incredible sight, or so I am told. I couldn’t see anything since they keep the lighting at the level of dusk, so that Michelangelo’s ceiling will be preserved. The whole scene is very serene, and very peaceful, except for a security guard yelling, ‘NO PHOTO! NO VIDEO!!!!”

Just getting into the place was hard enough, since they have a strict dress code. Once we cracked the code, we realized my wife’s dress was too short, and she had to buy a pair of paper pants for five dollars. Inside, every single work of art contains either a nude woman or a little baby penis, so go figure. Walking around in paper pants with all those candles around, they must lose a couple hundred tourists a year to spontaneous combustion.

During the conclave the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel were brightly lit for the television cameras, and seeing them thus, they seem a little gaudy- maybe it’s time to redecorate? Maybe something a little less busy up there.

Then it happened: The new pope was elected. The crowd in St. Peter’s Square erupted in rapturous rejoicing because they now had a new spiritual leader. Thank goodness, because for two days I noticed a lot of unled spirits heading for the casino, or over to Goldfinger’s. Especially excited was the Argentinian contingent, who thought that soccer was somehow involved. I see no pressing reason to rejoice. I joiced once and see no reason to do it again.

This man is now one of the most powerful people in the free world. He can go anywhere he wants at any time, travel in a bulletproof glass vehicle that also has little saws that come out of the wheel hubs that can flatten the tires of any enemy vehicle that pulls up next to it, although I may be confusing that part with a James Bond movie.

He can say anything he wants at any time and no one will question him, unless they want to know what the heck he said, since he talks in Latin. Nobody but the pope speaks Latin anymore, despite the fact that everyone listens to Latin music.

Now the pope is now waiting to be installed, which is a union job. The Pope is always so old that if you look closely, you realize that during any speech he is screwed to the podium by about twelve toggle bolts, or else he would keel right over.

It all seems like a bunch of silliness to me, but the bottom line is I am keeping my options open, depending on how things are going when I am about to drop dead. I may rot in hell in one religion, but be reincarnated as Lindsay Lohan’s lawyer in another.


Incidentally, Catholics recognize St. Peter as the first pope, unless he is wearing a disguise. The term “pope” comes from the Latin word for “father,” and did not come into use until 366 AD. At least 20 popes were martyrs, which means that they were killed because of their religious beliefs. By the way one of their religious beliefs was that people should never be killed because of their religious beliefs. Another 14 popes were “allegedly” murdered, meaning that it was difficult to tell if they were actually dead.

WHAT DID YOU DO FOR VALENTINE’S DAY?

Valentine’s Day came and went, and I wanted to share a little bit of the magic with you.

Of course somebody brought those little candy hearts to work. I took one, but couldn’t read what it said without my glasses- I think it was, “Happy Valentine’s Day: You’re OLD.” What a challenge it must be to find meaningful phrases to print on those candies. It has to be succinct- whatever diatribe you put on Twitter in 140 characters is “War and Peace” compared to what you have to work with here. It can’t be too gender-specific, so “I HEART THE KNICKS!” could fall into the wrong hands.

Some of them have changed with the times- I saw “TEXT ME.” Don’t be so quick to replace “FAX ME” for those of us who do not text. Don’t forget the cover page.

The traditional messages still get right to the point: “BE MINE,” “KISS ME,” “LOVE YOU.” One said “LOVE HER.” Interesting, could be for a lesbian. I saw one that said, “PICK ME,” which may have been sent to me by my nose. I picture a big fat guy with a beard and a tattoo stamping these little hearts with tender messages. By the way, his aim is not too good. One just said “HAPPY.” Either fill in the blank yourself or maybe it could be secret love messages to the seven dwarfs. “WILL YOU BE MINE” is nice, but makes it seem like ownership of you could be transferred by next February.

How about we get a little more realistic with the phrases. “ORAL PLEASE!” or “DO ME” work nicely for both men & women. How about, “EMBEZZLE WITH ME!” I think “embezzle” is a cute, fuzzy-sounding word.

Giving candy for Valentine’s Day says to a woman: “I may or may not love you fat, we’ll see.”
Flowers are always a hit because they symbolize all that is alive and vibrant and colorful about a woman. Don’t read too much into the fact that the posies are dead in two days.

I prefer to give the gift of myself for Valentine’s Day, and do something fun with my wife. Once I thought it would be fun to go to the Botanical Gardens, we had never been. Here’s the thing: surprisingly little is in bloom in February. They did have a wonderful exhibit called, “Dead Things that are Still Beautiful,” or something like that.

I will take my Valentine to dinner for sure. But not every relationship is in full bloom when Valentine’s Day happens to come around. Some are on the upswing, and some in rapid decline, like a home that is just about to be foreclosed upon. The pressure of spending an entire meal together might be the last thing they need, and by the time they are done with the salad fork they have separate checks and separate cabs.

How about a movie? Careful. Once I took the Mrs. to a Coen brothers film. Rated 4 stars, seemed campy, what’s not to like? Well it turned out “No Country for Old Men” was not really a chick flick. We enjoyed some romantic moments during the trailers, but after that, one body after another dropped dead with alarming frequency, and I got a special look from my Valentine that said, “Yours will be the last body they scrape off the floor with the used gum.” From now on the perfect date movie is porno.

I also remember to give a card, and I slip a five dollar bill in there too, so she can pick up something just for her. We made Valentines in elementary school, a skill that I have honed during the years. I learned to write whatever sensitive feelings I had at the time, such as: “Roses are red, violets are blue, in which case why did they call them violets?” You had to make a card for everyone in the whole class (maybe even the boys? I can’t remember), when who I really wanted was the teacher, Mrs. Franz. Even as a kid I could tell she was harboring some smoldering secrets. I was kind of a teacher’s pet, which was why I had to eat from a separate bowl. I ended up with this friggin’ assembly line of red construction paper, doilies & glitter; back then there were no robotics. By the 25th one my handwriting was so illegible it either said, “Be My Valentine” or “Belly Vaseline.”

So if you forgot Valentine’s Day it’s certainly not too late. Well actually it is; I just found this out the hard way. So if you forgot too, just do what I did, and say, “Baby, to me EVERY day with you is Valentine’s Day!” Then RUN LIKE HELL. By the way, before you give the gift of yourself, first find out if she might prefer candy.


Incidentally, based on my hasty hagiography, Saint Valentine died on February 14th  (no one seems to remember the year). When people celebrate the day of your death it makes me think that they didn’t really like you as much as you thought. He died on the Via Flaminia in Rome, and I can vouch that the traffic on that road is murder. Saint Valentine is traditionally associated with the concept of “courtly love,” which essentially refers to hanky-panky between members of royalty and women not their wives. Courtly love these days usually results in a number of court appearances.

OUT FOR COCKTAILS

I like to go out and have a cocktail on a Friday night, but I can't stand the fact that everyone at the bar is half my age, and they seem disdainful that people older than they are cluttering up the place. I feel vaguely like a chaperon for a school field trip, like I should be over near the door checking everyone’s permission slip. Every generation thinks that they will be the first one not to age.

So I Googled "over 30 bars," and through the magic of the internet, over thirty bars came up. I changed the search to “bars for older alcoholics and/or people that don’t know how to use their own cell phones” and came up with a bunch of jazz bars and wine bars, totally inappropriate for me. I ended up at the same place I usually go, and I realized that “over-30” is still 20 years younger than I am.

Once in a while I see a mother out with her daughter for one of their birthdays, posing for self-photography with an outstretched camera, a timeless memento featuring both of their faces and one of their forearms. Mom looks at me as if I was planning to eat her young, and I scoff at her. I’m not going to eat your stupid baby, lady, I have gum.

I asked a girl if she wanted to dance, and to my surprise she said yes. She was pretty good at it so I watched her for a while, then found myself a beer at the bar. I don't dance very often, usually only if someone is shooting at my feet, or if a Michael Jackson song comes on, an old one that he recorded when he was still alive. It always amazes me how many songs people come out with after they are dead. I flail around on the dance floor in a haphazard way, moving various body parts to perfect rhythm in conflicting and disturbing directions, like a traffic cop at a twelve-way intersection.

In the tiny bathroom I am trying not to make eye contact with the attendant; the bathroom is
THE most inappropriate place for small talk (“Sooooo… How’s it hangin’????). I wash my hands and he hands me a paper towel. I tip him a dollar and I realize that paper towels in nightclub men's rooms are the most expensive anywhere. He looked thankful that the bathroom did not have a hand blower instead. What would I tip him for a blow in a nightclub men's room? Remind me to look that up somehow.

A chick came up to me and yelled, "TOM PETTY!" Jesus, really? Have you taken a good look at
Tom Petty? I may have the hair, but the guy has buck teeth and no chin; he looks like a chipmunk. No offense, because he is one of the most prolific songwriters of my time (Tom Petty, not the chipmunk), and when all is said and done people will realize how many great hit songs he had. They will also realize how little we got done.

I'm always getting told I look like a famous person. Someone once said I looked like Todd Rundgren. Seriously- Todd has a long, rubbery face that looks like it was made of Play-Doh then left for many years on a planet that has much more gravity than ours. The last time I saw him he was wearing a skirt, which was fine, but for god’s sake SHAVE YOUR LEGS. A guy recently said that I look like Paul McCartney, and I’m not kidding you can ask my wife. The only thing I have in common with Paul McCartney is that during the 70s we were both rumored to have been dead. Even a cartoon character I apparently look like: Shaggy from Scooby Doo, Where are You? I had an animated response to that one. A couple times I was told I look like the guy from “Dumb and Dumber.” “Jim Carrey?” I asked. “No, the dumber one.” Thanks.

Incidentally, the part of Scooby-Doo was played by voice actor Don Messick. “Mom! Guess what! I got the title lead in a network show!” Not content with that, he landed several other major network characters, notably, Astro the dog in The Jetsons, Muttley the dog in Wacky Races and Boo Boo the bear in Yogi Bear. Scooby-Doo’s name was originally to be Too Much, but programming executive Fred Silverman changed it, reportedly after Frank Sinatra’s scatty ending to “Strangers in the Night.” Thank goodness Fred Silverman was not a huge Little Richard fan, or the show would have been named Whomp Bomp a-loo-Bomp, a Lomp Bam Boom, Where are You?

THE YEAR IN BRIEFS

Let’s take time out this New Year to be thankful for the many wonderful things that happened in 2012. They were truly a blessing, but to be honest I don’t remember any of them. What I DO remember are the weird, wacky and wild stories that made us all cringe, the ones that made you glad that you were not vacationing in a foreign country when they broke, so that you didn’t have to fake a bad British accent so that people wouldn’t point a finger at you and whisper something snide in another language. Let’s relive those moments.

The Tanning Mom
If you could picture a catcher’s mitt with bright coral pink lipstick, you still couldn’t do justice to that face, a face incredulous against the scrutiny of a “concerned public,” a face that anthropologists long believed existed but never had seen. After this story, it was apparent to most responsible Americans that all catcher’s gloves should have coral pink lipstick on them so you can see where the hell you are throwing the ball.

Clint Eastwood Talks to Empty Chair at Republican Convention
No one has ever mentioned the possibility that someone had been sitting in the chair, and that after Eastwood rattled on for about 20 minutes about nothing, got up and left. I call him Chairman of the Bored.

“Fifty Shades of Grey”
When I first heard about this, I thought it was a book about my hair. Instead, it’s about a woman who falls in love with a 26 year-old billionaire who spanks her. I laughed, I cried, I was never the same afterwards, and that was just doing my taxes; I haven’t read the book. By the way, I have never seen a woman reading the actual book. Instead, they read it on Kindle, where you every book looks the same as “War and Peace.” I once had a girlfriend who was into that kind of B & D stuff- she eventually gave me a restraining order and I didn’t’ know what to do.

Squid Inseminates Woman
While eating a partially boiled squid in North Korea, a woman reported a burning sensation in her mouth, and went to the hospital. There doctors found that the squid had squirted its spermatophores into her cheeks. If she had eaten an ovulating female squid right before that, she would soon be expecting the pitter-patter of little tentacles around the house. At least she took the squid to dinner first. By far the most disgusting aspect of this story is that the squid must have been SUPER turned on by being eaten, and it was the strangest sexual experience the squid had had this year, except for a couple of dates from ChristianMingle.Com.

Lindsay Lohan Breaks Every Law in Alphabetical Order
This was not a great year for the struggling actress, but it turns out to be a FANTASTIC year for her lawyer. Her usual defense is that she is a target for those looking to get their “15 minutes of fame” by picking a fight with her. Lindsay is smarter than that now, and never spends more than 10 minutes in any one place. Overall, she has been sentenced to 186,452 hours of community service. But have you seen her community? The place is SPOTLESS! Every weed in the park is plucked individually with an eyelash tweezer.

Daredevil Jumps to Earth from Stratosphere
In October stuntman Felix Baumgartner became the first man to jump out of a balloon in outer space and fall safely to Earth. It was thought that he may burn up when passing through the blogosphere and Twittersphere, or that he might spin out of control like a Kanye West quote and be powerless to right himself, or that at the last minute someone might stick a trampoline underneath him, sending him back into space. The jump, however, was successful, and upon reaching the ground without incident his first words were, “I just KNEW my luggage was somehow going to end up at La Guardia.”

Tightrope Walker Traverses Niagara Falls
When I read my own headline I thought: OMIGOD he fell? But then I remembered he did not; Nik Wallenda became the first man to cross directly over Niagara Falls, the voice of his father calmly talking him through. How Dad resisted the urge to yell, “LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU! HAHAHAHA!” I will never know. Wallenda was forced to use a safety tether by ABC, who threatened to refuse to televise the event otherwise. He made the journey across to Canada without mishap, but then was killed by the mob when they found out he was wearing a wire.

Incidentally, the most talked-about story of the year is one which thankfully did not take place. On December 21st the end of the world was scheduled on the Mayan calendar. The Mayans actually used a system of three calendars, the Haab, a 19-month, 365-day solar count, the Tzolkin, a 260-day system, and the Long Count, which was used to track longer term astronomical events.  Naturally most Mayans put off their Christmas shopping until the last minute. Many people spent the 21st in bomb shelters, hoping that it would only be the end of the TOP of the world. Others phoned up girls that they normally would have NO SHOT with, hoping to catch them at a vulnerable moment. There are still approximately sixty-two ends of the worlds that we still have to get through, predicted by various prognosticators. By the way, “Congress Appreciation Day” is also on the Mayan calendar, and that never happened either.