Highway To Hell (A Golden Boy Road Trip)

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

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

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

FLAME

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

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

One Golden Boy Short

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

A Golden Boy Wedding

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

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

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

The Nipple Ring Open

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

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

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

Golden Boy Flip

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

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

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

Golden Boy Chuck

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

Golden Boy Gooby

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

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

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

The Golden Boys (from the Best of Phil DVD)

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Very Funny Band, A Very Funny Song

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cemetery of the Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon and Kate Plus Hate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Overlaughers

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

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

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

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

Welcome to New York! Not Everyone gets Mugged !

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Comment Police

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

Send In The Clowns

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

Selfishly Giving The Gift of Life

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

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

The Modern Worry Stone

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

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

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

Monk See, Monk Do

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

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

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

Phil of the Future

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

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

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

Colgan Err,...I mean Air

I hate to pile on here, but I'm thinking it's been a bad week for Colgan Airlines. If you're a regular reader of my blog, both of you, you remember my posts about the Colgan Air flight that crashed outside of Buffalo, NY back in February. As you may recall, I believe I flew on that very plane 5 weeks earlier.

This week it was revealed that the pilot had failed 4 pilot tests before finally passing, but had lied to Colgan Air about at least two of the failures. The co-pilot was a 23 year old woman who was making $16,000 dollars a year! What?!!? $16,000 a year? And she had peoples lives in her hands all day every day! I'm pretty sure there are people that work at my local McDonald's making $16,000 a year and I sure as hell don't want my life in their hands, although eating fast food prepared by minimum wage earners is definitely as risky as a Colgan Air flight. Then, in the midst of all this news from the investigation, a Colgan Air flight was landing in Buffalo and one of the wheels fell off! It just fell off! As the plane was landing. If I add up all the bicycle riding and car driving I've done in my lifetime, I'm sure I've traveled as many miles as that one plane and not once has a wheel just fallen off. If they pay their co-pilots $16,000 a year, can you imagine how little their mechanics must get? If you've got stock in Colgan Air I'm thinking this might be a good time to sell.

When I flew Colgan Air back in January maybe I should have suspected that it wasn't a top rated airline when I had to load my luggage into a trailer hitched to the back of the plane. I should have suspected safety wasn't their top priority when I entered the plane and noticed that all the seats were just lawn chairs duck taped to the floor. I began to suspect I might be on a cut-rate airline when I asked about beverage service and the stewardess, who was wearing a Burger King crown pointed to a piece of notebook paper taped to the wall that had "BYOB" written on it in crayon. Maybe I should have suspected their planes weren't top rate when I saw the crew giving the jet a push start.

Here is what I'd like to ask of modern science: Get to work on that human cloning thing and apply it to Sully Sullenberger, the guy that landed his jet safely in the Hudson River after he lost both engines. Everytime I fly for the rest of my life I want that guy at the controls.

The Top 10 Things You Need to Know About Phil

10. Phil sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized Phil roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.


9. Phil does not use spell check. If he happens to misspell a word the Oxford Dictionary will change the actual spelling of it.


8. Phil lost his virginity before his dad did.


7. Phil doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.


6. Phil doesn't wear a watch. He decides what time it is.


5. In fine print on the last page of the Guiness Book of World Records it notes that all the world records are held by Phil and those listed in the book are simply the closest anyone has gotten.


4. If Phil has five dollars and you have five dollars, Phil has more money than you.


3. If paper beats rock, rock beats scissors, and scissors beat paper, what beats all three? Answer: Phil


2. Contrary to popular belief, Phil, not the box jellyfish of northern Australia, is the most venomous creature on Earth.


1. Through a set of circumstances too complicated to explain, if you don't comment on this post Snuggles the fabric softener bear will die.


Yes, I am now blogging about myself in the 3rd person. I would also like to give credit to all the people across the internet who created many of the Chuck Norris facts that I so blatantly heisted in the name of Phil. But of course I can do that, because I'm Phil.

It's Time to Cut the Cord

Cell phones, PDA's, laptop computers, and ipods. The conveniences of modern life. The results of our ever advancing technology. We can talk on the phone, send e-mail, listen to music, surf the web, and plan our schedule no matter where we may be...until the battery runs out. For all the brilliance and fun our technology has given us, we are still almost as tethered to an outlet as we used to be. We have briefs moments of freedom sometimes lasting a whole day before we have to find a safe place to re-charge our batteries. We're almost like energy vampires who have to return to their coffins at sundown, only we have to return to our outlets at the end of each day. (With the recent popularity of Twilight I had to throw in the vampire mention. It will help me with the search engines) There are even those of us who feel lost, paralyzed if one of their electronic devices runs out of juice.

Charging cords have become the bane of my existence. I have a file cabinet drawer just for charging cords. Part of my nightly routine before bed is making sure that all of my electronic devices are plugged in to charge for the night. (I'm sure some of you ladies do the same) With the advent of the electric car some people have to plug in their ride every night too. Some people tuck in their kids. I tuck in my ipod, my two cell phones, my laptop, and my PDA. When I travel one of my big concerns is remembering all my charging cords. Airport security almost always goes through my checked baggage. I always open my suitcase to find that little pre-printed note that says, "We invaded your privacy and rifled through all your personal belongings. Sorry if we broke anything. Have a nice day." I imagine that they scan the luggage, see all kinds of electrical cords and wonder if I'm building a bomb, so they have to check it out.

As much fun as all of this charging cord nonsense is I yearn for the day, that's right, I said yearn, when electricity will be available for free, from the air. That our devices will become so energy efficient that they will be able to run indefinitely by passively absording static electricity in their environment the way our cell phones search for a signal. Of course the increase in incidents of human spontaneous combustion will be a little disturbing, but all progress has it's price.

Got Sleep?

Sleep. A basic, innate human need. An instinct. Most people spend roughly one third of their lives asleep. Unfortunately I'm not one of them. I view sleeping as a skill. I have many skills, some of them are even useful and productive skills. Sleep, however, is not listed on my resume. I do it every night, just not as much as I'd like or as often as most. Sounds like my sex life, but that's a topic for another post. As I said, to me sleep is such a difficult enterprise that I view it as a skill. I'm good at falling asleep. I'm just not good at staying there. Today I woke up at 4:24 a.m. I'm not sure what that is in metric time for my Canadian and European friends, but in America that's damn early. If I lived on a farm the roosters would be telling me to go back to bed. There are historical anecdotal reports that Leonardo DaVinci got by on catnaps throughout the day. If poor sleep begets artistic genius I ought to have a few masterpieces done by now. I suppose my masterpiece is, I'm sure you'll agree, this blog. Yep, I'm the Leonardo DaVinci of blogs. Hmmm....I may have an idea for a new blog title...See?!!? Without enough sleep I just ramble idiotically. Is idiotically even a word? Maybe that's my sleep deprived genius at work. I'm creating new words like Leonardo created paintings. Like I said, I get to sleep easily and I get 6-7 hours straight, but then my brain just turns on. Unfortunately when my brain turns on it's asking me what I'm going to do at work today or what bills I need to pay instead of ideas for great paintings and sculptures. I'm sure you're also thinking, "Phil's lack of sleep sure as hell isn't giving him and great blog ideas either." Anybody else out there in the same boat as me with your sleep? Does anyone else have non-pharmaceutical ideas for extending my sleep past 6-7 hours?

We're All Gonna Die

“We’re all gonna die!” It seemed very funny to shout that out during a fire drill my freshman year of high school. It was still funny to my friend and I after we realized our only consequence would be a stern talking to by the principal. Yes, when confronted I dragged my friend into it. “He dared me to,” I said. What had really happened was that in the midst of 2000 students being evacuated from our high school I had turned to my friend John Martin and said, “Do you dare me to yell ‘We’re all gonna die’?” Of course John took me up on my offer and unwittingly became my accomplice when I caught heat from the man. At the time I was young and foolish with no concept of my own mortality. I thought death was something to be laughed at. I no longer think death is funny.

I generally still do not believe in my own mortality, but I’m starting to hedge my bets in this regard. Just because it happens to other people doesn’t mean it will happen to me. As my mother always said, “If your friend jumped off a bridge does that mean you have to also?” Much to my mother’s eternal satisfaction I am answering NO. If you want to die, go ahead and do it, but I refuse to be a follower.

My problem is that earlier this week scientists with a telescope larger than a third world country observed a black hole destroying a star in another galaxy. The way it was described in the article was that the star, which is of course a much larger object than our Earth, was essentially snorfled up by the black hole the way you and I would snorfle a glob of jello off the spoon, or plate if you’re in the mood. I may not believe that I am going to die, but I’m not completely unrealistic. Let’s just say that a black hole eats our sun first, then I imagine it would suck up the planets all in a row like we would inhale mini M&M’s through a straw. (For my wonderful Canadian readers M&M’s = Smarties) If a black hole were to pop up right next to Earth and snorfle my planet then what becomes of me?

Who I’m really angry at is the scientists. Damn them and their ever inquisitive minds! Why did they have to tell me this? Did anyone here really want to know that getting eaten by a black hole is a possibility? In this case ignorance was bliss. Why couldn’t the scientists just leave well enough alone? My entire life I’ve been at the top of the food chain and that has been a pretty secure feeling. Now this. Now I have to spend the rest of my life staring up at the night sky looking for black holes and asteroids. Yes, I worry a little about asteroids too. In general I figure that if a really big one hit the Earth I’d be fine as long as it didn’t hit me directly in the head.

Maybe all this is why the scientists developed the male birth control pill. They just figured that if “we’re all gonna die” then we might as well start gettin’ jiggy with it. Yes, that’s right, I said jiggy. In fact, that’s probably the new science geek pick up line. “Hey baby, you know we might get eaten by a black hole any minute, so why don’t you just go ahead and sleep with me?” Obviously I'm cool enough to say jiggy, but the scientists aren't.

The Culture of Narcissism

Almost 40 years ago the avant garde artist Andy Warhol stated that, "In the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes." Dude was seriously spot on wasn't he? Between Youtube and reality t.v. shows an obnoxious personality is a ticket to fame and a b-list career for just about anyone. Now with blogging, Facebook, Myspace, and Twitter virtually anytone has a potential worldwide audience for their every fleeting thought. As a blogger I certainly have no problem with this as I've certainly expressed my share of pointless thoughts here. I admit I love the feedback, the comments. With a worldwide audience we can all find someone who agrees with us regardless of how baseless our opinions may be. We are but a herd of sycophants in a big ego orgy. That's all fine. We are all willing particpants and recipients and it makes us all feel good. With a few creative ideas and a little regular blogging we all feel like a celebrity with our fans and followers. What I don't get is when the real celebrities try to horn in on our two-bit ego trip. On both a Facebook page and on Twitter I have two different somewhat b-list type celebs among my friend lists. These two people must update their status every two hours! As if they would die of suffocation if I didn't know their every stray thought or dental appointment! What is wrong with these people that they need this constant validation? They already have some semblance of fame. Isn't that enough? The internet theoretically is a finite space and they think their every thought is important enough to waste electricity, megabytes and whatever other units of measure apply. I propose a new Phil law. When I am elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, there will be a separate internet so the famous people can tell each other how great they are without wasting the bandwidth of the real internet that the rest of us are using.

Seeking SWF

Wanted: Single white female. I'm a charming, handsome man appearing to be in my early twenties. I love nights out on the town with my favorite gal, but also prefer the solitude of somewhere quiet to spend some quality one on one time. Like most men I'm flawed, but I make up for that with my passion and taste for life. I'm a hopeless romantic and I promise that with me you will soar to places you previously thought were impossible. I also might kill you at any moment in a fit of tempestuous rage or passion. I've killed all my previous girlfriends, but trust me, you're special. But please overlook that, nobody's perfect right?

Sincerely, Edward

Would any woman really respond to this ad if it were real? Why are so many woman just nuts over Twilight? I'm pretty damn sure that if I had a girlfriend and I found out she was a serial killer that had murdered all of her previous boyfriends that I might find some way to end the relationship: "Really, it's not you, it's me. As tempting as it is to risk death every day, I just have too much on my plate right now and a lot of baggage from my previous relationship. It wouldn't be fair to you. Feel free to look me up on Myspace or Facebook though." And you can bet your ass I'd send that by text message. You know with a vampire you couldn't really fake your own death to get out of it because they'd only find that to be a big turn on. I suppose this is just another case where chicks totally dig the bad boy.

I'm on a Mexican Radio...!

I'm not really on a Mexican radio. That was just the first musical reference that came to mind on the subject of radio. As a function of my job I drive from place to place quite a bit. I have satellite radio which I enjoy very much. I enjoy both music and sports talk radio. Part of the reason I pay for satellite radio in my car is because I absolutely DESPISE radio commercials. You get an idea of how much I despise radio commercials by the fact that I took the time to italicize and bold the word. On the music stations there are no commercials and I love it. Unfortunaly the sports talk radio is syndicated and thus has commercials. Unfortunately it only seems to have three commercials which seem to be played back to back to back every break. The first is for ...ahem..."male enhancement." Every single commercial on this subject is almost identical. The one I heard yesterday had a supposed "man on the street" type interview format where apparently random women on the street were shown before and after pictures of the anatomy of men who had used this product. Women responded with superlatives and requests for the phone number of the photo subjects. How many of you would respond like that? If they really were able to get a few women to give those 'sincere' responses it must have taken hundreds of attempts to make the commercial. I want to hear the outtakes of the times the interviewer was maced, arrested or kicked in the groin. That would be good radio. The second type of commercial is the predictable "you can buy cheap viagra over the internet..." The third type is the one that just makes me change the station immediately. It starts "Hey guys! Did you know that at any time you may have 5 to 25 pounds of waste lining your colon walls like spackle or paste?" Not only didn't I know that, I didn't want to, and now it's too late. I can't get that phase out of my head: "5-25 pounds" and "spackle or paste." I could lose my lunch just hearing that. I'm not going to mention the company here because I'm hoping they will go out of business and take their commercials with them.

And if anyone can name the band that sang the song this post is titled after WITHOUT looking it up you win 10 Phil bucks good for use at the Phil Factor giftshop.

The Present Tense

In the past I've used this space to point out the differences between men and women. How we communicate, what's important to us, and the inequities of societal grooming expectations are all ways men and women differ. Another great divide between the sexes is our views on presents. Anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine's Day, and Christmas all can make or break a relationship from a woman's perspective. Before everyone paints me as a misogynist for that last statement, let's look at two examples:

Example 1:
Guy: “Happy Anniversary honey! Here's a card, a dozen roses, and I've taken out a second mortgage so I can fly you to Paris for a candlelight dinner on top of the Eiffel Tower!”
Woman: “You are so sweet! With all my work this week I didn't have time to get you a present. I'm sorry. How about if I make it up to you (wink, wink) back at the hotel after dinner?” (sly smile)
Guy: “YAHTZEE!” (fist pump)

Example 2:
Woman: “Happy Anniversary honey! Here's a card and a present!”
Guy: “An Ipod! Thanks baby, this is great! With all my work this week I didn't have time to get you a present. I'm sorry. How about if I make it up to you (wink, wink) in the bedroom tonight?” (sly smile)
Woman: “You forgot! How could you be so thoughtless?!!? You can sleep on the couch tonight! (storms out, door slams)

Sometimes even the presents themselves can mean different things to men and women. Here are some examples of presents men might give, how we mean them, and what they mean to women.

1. A romantic card with breakfast in bed, flowers sent to your work, and a nice dinner out.
What men are trying to say: "Will you sleep with me?"
What women think: "He's a sweet, thoughtful guy."

2. A safety kit for your car with road flares, tools, and a shovel.
What men are trying to say: "I love you and I want you to be safe."
What women think: "What a thoughtless, un-romantic oaf."

3. Lingerie
What men are trying to say: "I think you are a beautiful, sexy woman."
What women think: "That selfish bastard is thinking with his little head instead of his big head."

4. Any kind of home appliance
What men are trying to say: "I've noticed how hard you work. I want to make your life easier."
What women think: "If this isn't grounds for justifiable homicide, I don't know what is!"

THIS IS NOT GOOD

Apparently I have just figured out how to blog from my cell phone. It is not good for two specific reasons. 1) If you have followed my blog for any amount of time you are well aware of my ongoing rant against "cell phone people." I now am apparently becoming a member of their cult as I have also learned to Facebook from my phone as well. More evidence that my brain has turned to mush is the fact that I am using words like 'blog' and 'Facebook' as verbs. 2) This is also a bad development because no matter where I am or what I am doing I know have the ability to post my thoughts immediately, uncensored here online almost as soon as I have them. That will at some point in the future probably result in my involuntary commitment to an institution.

Phil-Harmony.com

We've all heard and seen the ads for e-harmony.com, the internet site that allows you to meet your perfect match after you fill out a questionnaire that rates you on 29 personality variables. What?!!? I'm a guy. I'm pretty sure I don't even have 29 personality variables! I have maybe 4 tops. Now for women, I don't think 29 personality variables is enough. In fact most women seem to have more than 29 complete personalities. The old crackpot that runs this site has got to be making a fortune. His kindly, old, grandfatherly, "I want to help you meet your perfect partner" schtick is sucking people in just the way Ronald Reagan sucked the whole country in until he was voted in twice. Well I want part of that gravy train. I'm younger, smarter, and more in touch with what the young, single internet daters are interested in. First of all, if you're someone who uses the internet regularly, you don't have the attention span to answer a long quiz. In fact, I'm sure most of you think I've rambled enough already today. Stick with me my lovelorn friends. Secondly, my personality quiz won't waste time evaluating the unimportant, nit-picky personality characteristics. If you're paying an internet site to find you a date then you're already way past being picky about the little things. My quiz will just hit the high points. Even if you're not looking for love on the web, you can use this quiz when meeting new dates.

1. Are you married?
2. Have you ever seen a Star Wars movie at the theater within one week of it's release?
3. How many pets do you live with?
4. During sex, have you ever requested something that caused your partner to break up with you and/or call the authorities?
5. Are your parents or grandparents biological siblings?
6. Did you think the movie Fatal Attraction was a comedy?

If the person you are speaking with answers yes or "more than one" to any of these questions then run for your life. If they answer no to all of them then anything else is just minor details you can live with.

Final Destination

Death. I have to say, I'm not a fan. Thursday night just outside of Buffalo, NY a Continental Airlines/Colgan Air flight en route from Newark, NJ to Buffalo crashed into a house killing all aboard and one person on the ground. The plane was reportedly relatively new. An off duty pilot was one of the unfortunate passengers. 36 days prior to Thursday I flew from Newark, NJ to Rochester, NY, which is about 75 miles east of Buffalo, on a Continental Airlines/Colgan Air flight on the exact same model plane. One of the passengers across the aisle from me on my flight was also an off duty Continental pilot who chatted with the stewardess about the plane we were on being a new plane. Chances are, the plane that crashed Thursday was the very same plane I rode five weeks ago. Considering all the circumstantial evidence it may very well have been. I'm a little creeped out. Especially since I have to fly again in 6 weeks.

Have you seen those Final Destination movies where the people that were supposed to die, but survive are stalked by Death until it finally gets them? What if 5 weeks ago Death had forgotten to turn the page on his date book at the beginning of the new year, and missed my flight?

Female Bodies

I used to work in an office. I worked with a lot of women. That is generally not a bad thing. Often I happened to be the only guy in the office with about 8 women. That can be a bad thing. I have to say, I'm a big fan of female bodies. Maybe one of the biggest. What I have discovered, however, is that when men aren't around women are waaaaay too comfortable talking about their bodies and the various functions of them. Apparently if a man leaves the room, women immediately begin talking about their biology. Women also seem to have no idea that a man may return to the room at any moment and hear part of their conversations. Some of these conversations have the same effect as catching your parents having sex. You want to run from the room screaming and gouge your eyes out to hopefully remove the image that is burned upon your brain. A memo to any pregnant women out there: If you are in the late stages of your pregnancy and still at work, your male co-workers do not want to know how dilated you are or how your water may break and "come out in squirts." Also, if all these women are retaining as much water as they say they are, why don't we hear that squishy sound when they walk? Especially if they're retaining it in their ankles. Also, PMS does not stand for Persecute Men Syndrome. We didn't cause your periods, so don't take them out on us. Yeast is used in baking right? Why do women constantly get infections from it? I've been in the kitchen before. I've baked cookies, but never once have I been so intimate with the ingredients of what I was making that I ended up with an infection in any orifice of my body. And you know how when a group of women spend a lot of time together whether it be at work or in a college dorm their menstrual cycles sync up? How the hell does that happen? Are their uteruses(is that the correct plural? Is it uteri?) sending invisible hormonal microwaves across the room to each other? Or do you ladies just talk and decide to have your periods at the same time? And if there are invisible uterus microwaves criss-crossing a room while I'm there, what the hell could they be doing to my testicles? It's a good thing I got out of there I suppose. Ladies, you know how there's all that dirty, metal junk under the hood of your car? The same way that you just want your car to start without knowing how an internal combustion engine works is exactly how guys feel about your bodies. We just want them to turn on when we put the key in. We don't want to know how they work.

Previously on 24...

If each episode of 24 is an hour in Jack Bauers' life, then what happened previously was only an hour ago. Why would they have to remind us? That's the trouble with time travel, too much irony. That's why humans don't do it. It is absolutely impossible that virtually every hour of Jack Bauers' life is crammed with fighting terrorist plots. He can't possibly be doing that every day. Every now and then, why isn't there an episode where we see Jack plunging his toilet for 45 minutes and then cleaning up the mess? Where is the episode with Jack walking his dog? When will we see his wife nagging him for not taking out the garbage? How about an episode that begins with Jack walking down the hall in his boxers and a wife beater tank top carrying the newspaper into the bathroom. The next 45 minutes could just be the camera pointed at the closed bathroom door. That would be reality television.

"I Could Bite Your Face."

To paraphrase The Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song, I'd like to say: All the stupid people, where do they all come from? I found myself helpless witness and finally participant to two incredibly idiotic conversations this week. At one time I was in the waiting room of a medical office and seated near me was a couple that would make the folks on CMT's "Redneck Wedding" look like the height of haute couture. This couple had more digits than teeth and their attire would make an Amish grandfather look trendy. So the woman, who was reading a magazine, People or Us or some similar intellectually stimulating tripe, says, "Look, a composer, that would be a good job!" I'm thinking, "Yeah honey, you check the want ads for that one. I'm sure there's a big market for a gal with your resume."

Later in the week I'm in another office, one that has both a psychiatrist and an internal medicine doc. Two roughly 18 year old girls come in, check in, and sit down near me. One starts reading a People Magazine and soon thereafter points out to the other member of her Mensa club an article about a female jogger who survived a bear attack. First they debated at length whether or not there are any mountains in New York state because if there were they would avoid said mountains to avoid being attacked by bears. Then the debate raged on regarding whether or not you could escape certain death by playing dead when attacked by a brown bear or a black bear. Of course the inevitable discourse of what type of bear is native to New York ensued. I believe they concluded that brown bears fall for this ruse but black bears do not. Girl number 1 informed girl number 2 that the jogger survived the attack by poking the bear in the eyes while it was biting her face. Girl number 2, whom I'm fairly certain did not work for NASA, then speculated that a baby bear might not be able to harm her because its jaw might not be large enough that the bear would be able to open it's mouth sufficiently wide enough to bite her face. To this Girl number 1 replied, "I could bite your face." At this point I burst out laughing and added, "And don't you forget it. You don't want to make her mad." The girls then stopped talking for the remainder of their time in the waiting room.

Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors

I can't shake this feeling I've got
My dirty hands, have I been in the wars?
The saddest thing that I'd ever seen
We're smokers outside the hospital doors
The Editors

I work in the field of addiction and yet I still wonder how smokers can continue their addiction. Many very nice, normal, intelligent people smoke. Don't worry, this isn't going to be some holier than thou diatribe against smoking. Mostly I just love the song I quoted. You should look it up and add it to your iPod. (Editors you can thank me later, perhaps in the form of a tiny royalty check) If people want to have cancer, bad breath, and smelly clothes 'm fine with that. I have friends that smoke and I've never said a word to them about it.

What got me to thinking about the incredible grip that nicotine addiction has on people is the weather. I live in the Northeast, yeah I know that seems as stupid as smoking already. This week it has been unbelieveably cold. Single digits or less, fahrenheit with windchill temps around 20 below zero. (For my Canadian friends that's a hell of a lot colder than your zero. See? The United states is better than you at yet another thing) Yesterday as I was driving around I was passed by a smoker who was driving with her window open so she could flick her ashes out of the car. In the summer, fine, but when it feels like 20 below and you're going 60 miles per hour I have no interest in any air from the outside touching me. Yet smoking drives people to do this and often, because of the laws that prohibit smoking in public buildings, they stand outdoors smoking in all kinds of weather. I used to be a second hand smoker but I gave it up by chewing used nicorette gum.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Like the title? I made it up myself. It was just as clever almost four years ago when I first used it for a blog post. Few things in life inspire as many stories and "I know that feeling" shakes of the head as travel. This past week I was forced to go to Newark, New Jersey by my employer. Really, who wouldn't want to visit lovely Newark in the dead of winter? I travel by plane a few times a year for my job, so in general I've got the hang of it. Unfortunately not everyone else does. As an educational public service I hope that some of the more novice travelers will read the rest of this post.

People Movers: Almost every airport has them now. These strips of moving floor that are intended to help the you traverse the airport a little more quickly without having to run. My impression is that you're supposed to walk on the people movers so that your speed is doubled without you having to run, preventing many collisions. I love the people movers. Even if I'm way early for my boarding I still like to get where I'm going faster. I do not love lazy people on the people movers. These idiots hop on the people mover as if it's an escalator and just stand there. By doing that they're not going forward any faster than if they had walked. They're just lazy! It's a good thing that security doesn't let us carry handguns on flights because I would probably shoot these non-moving people on the people movers and then step over their bodies as I happily sped on my way to my gate. I'm convinced that's why we can't bring guns in our carry on luggage, not so much to prevent hijackings as to prevent the normal, intelligent sane passengers from killing the morons with whom we find ourselves trapped for several hours in a small enclosed space on our flights. There ought to be a test before you purchase your tickets and if you fail you're not allowed to fly.

One of the questions on the test will be "When on a plane is it ever appropriate to take off your shoes?"
A) yes, it's important to be as comfortable as possible on a long flight.
B) Only in the event of some foot related emergency such as needing to plug a hole in the fuselage with my toe.
C) Absolutely never. And especially not if Phil is on your plane.

Yes, I got on my plane and a guy sat next to me and immediately took off his sneakers. And there was a definite foot smell. Ugh. Fortunately the universe sensed my need and sent relief in the form of the flight attendant announcing to the plane, "We need four passengers to move to seats behind row 14. Any volunteers?" My hand went up so fast I almost popped my shoulder out of the socket. Aaaah, sweet relief! I moved to the back of the plane and had a row to myself to stretch out. Life is good I thought. Then I thought, I'm not real keen on the fact that our plane needs passengers to move to different parts to keep it balanced while it's in the air. What happens if someone upsets the delicate balance by getting up and going to the bathroom, which might be on the opposite side of the plane from their seat, and they leave an enormous...ahem... deposit? The planes balance could be thrown off and I could die because somebody likes a little too much fiber in their diet.

Happy New Year! My predictions for 2009

It is the first of January 2009 and I'm blogging already. That's got to be a good sign. A good sign of what I don't know. The two or three of you who have occasionally visited my blog over the past 12 months as it has eroded to the point where you may have thought I had died are certainly appreciated and hopefully I'll be able to be a better blogger over the next twelve months.

I'm sure that blogland is full of posts about New Years resolutions today, but this won't be one of those posts. I do have resolutions, but I'll keep them to myself. Ok, I'll share one. I'd like to revive my blog to the point where it is again somewhat interactive with all my blog friends. Instead of resolutions, using my infamous psychic abilities, I will post a list of my predictions for the coming year.

1. President Barack Obama and his wife will divorce. Being the most powerful man on Earth has it's perks, (and I should know) and one of those is power groupies. Prez Barry won't be able to resist a little extracurricular nookie, perhaps Hilary Clinton who is looking to get revenge on Bill, and will stray from his wife while on a business trip. Michelle Obama will get the White House in the divorce settlement and Barack will then have to rule our country from a cheap apartment full of rental furniture that he was forced to hastily go to after returning from the Middle East to find his clothes and belongings in a pile on the curb in front of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

2. The economy will effect entertainment magazines and the rain forest. People Magazine, Us weekly and all other entertainment magazines will make the editorial decision not to glamorize celebrities because the "regular" people don't want to hear about the millions they make per picture when we're worrying about keeping our jobs, houses, and retirement funds. So, without any Brad, Jen, and Angelina news on their covers the magazines are reduced to being 47 pages of advertisements that no one buys. The magazines go out of business and the resulting reduction in trees cut down to make the paper saves the rain forest and reverses global warming.

Jesus H. Christ!

No, I'm not mad. It's time to pimp my favorite band once again as they released a new CD about two months ago. Jesus H. Christ and The Four Hornsmen of the Apocalypse may have one of the longest band names in the world but they are also one of the funniest bands in the world as well.

About 2 1/2 years ago I posted the lyrics from a song, "Connecticut's For Fucking," from their debut, self-titled album. That song may be one of the funniest songs in music history. I sent the link from my blog to the "Contact us" link on their website (which you can find at the bottom of my blogroll on the left). Soon thereafter I received a somewhat sarcastic e-mail back. Assuming I was corresponding with some record company flunkie, I of course responded in kind and soon discovered that I was actually corresponding with Risa Mickenberg, the lead singer of the band. She turned out to be a very nice and very funny woman who once even sent me a link to a writing job opening for a new music magazine.

Their new CD, "Happier Than You," released in late October is again music for your funny bone. But this band is not just adept at writing clever, humorous lyrics however, they also are a musically talented bunch who puts their wit to sharp, pop/rock music with a brilliant horn sectior, The Four Hornsmen, adding a catchy oomph to every song. That's right, I said oomph. My favorites on the new CD are "Liz the Hot Receptionist" and "Alcoholics in My Town." Both songs are brilliant because of the truth behind the humor. All of us will recognize the characters in "Alcoholics" as people we knew and grew up with in our own Everytown, U.S.A. The band doesn't have a big record company behind them and produces their CD's independently. They all probably have day jobs that they tirelessly slave away at to support their music. Let's help them out by visiting their website, (bottom of blogroll on the left) or by looking them up on Itunes and downloading a few songs, if not the whole CD.

2008: The Year In Review

No, just kidding. I'm seriously not going to review the year either personally or in music, movies, or news. I love the holidays, but I hate watching t.v. this time of year. There isn't a single media outlet of any kind that can resist the obligatory "Year in Review" piece. Why? We all know what happened! We don't need the events ranked for us. And I'm not one to send one of those form letter Christmas cards: "Dear ____________, 2008 was a wonderful year for my family. I started a new job, little Johnny learned to poop indoors and that rash on Susie's face cleared up...blah, blah, blah...." If you're a friend I've talked to you throughout the year and you know what I've been doing and I know what you've been doing. So lets look ahead. Why not list what we'd like to see in the coming year. Here is my list of things I'd like to see in 2009:
1. With the government bailing out the automakers and Wall Street, I'd like them to bail out all the citizens too by eliminating federal income tax for a portion of the year to put more money in our pockets and thus stimulating the economy. Also, the government was so offended that the heads of the auto companies came to Washington in private jets to ask for money. Hippocrites. I'd like to see the President, Senators, and Congreesmen all agree to take pay cuts to balance out my proposed federal tax hiatus. See? I don't just complain. I've got ideas. "I'm an idea man Chuck." If you get that movie reference you win $10 in Phil bucks that can be spent in The Phil Factor Gift shop. Just in time for the holidays.
2. More time. I'd like the physicists to find a way to give us more time every day, or make time travel possible or something. There's ways to get more of everything else except time. It's a non-renewable resource. I'd like a life DVR so I can do somethings now and then go back in time and do other things at the same time. Twice as much productivity each day!
3. At this point I'm out of ideas and coffee. I'll get more of both and be back to add to this list! Happy Holidays!