Assault with a Deadly Battery (And How to Get a Trademark Quickly).

First dates can be real Energizers…except when you use Duracells. Come take a journey through 1982, a time when first dates were scarier than supernatural clowns.

Allow me to take you on a brief tour of 1982.

A former actor inhabited the White House.

The Weather Channel aired on cable television for the first time.

A computer was named Time magazine's Man of the Year.

And a 13-year old boy from NJ had his very first date. And, man, was it painful.

Literally.

It Wasn’t Enough Being Man of the Year So You Had to Go & Sleep with a Billionaire?!? Tramp. (Photo: entrepreneur.com)

Ever had a moment so powerful that – even years later – you can recall the exact feeling you had when it first occurred?  For some, it’s the birth of a child.  For others, an exchange of vows.

Mine?  Being told that my very first date was arranged and scheduled for me by my mother.

The feeling? I call it AngerTerrorYouveGotToBeF'inKIDDINGMe. And I may apply for a trademark on that term before I’m done with this story.

Arranged marriages are staples in many cultures. In fact, the divorce rate for such relationships is miniscule compared with that of traditional couplings. I think this has mainly to do with the stringent amount of parental involvement -- screening, analyzing -- to determine whether a match will work or fail.

However, this process should never apply to a barely-teen Italian-American lad from North Jersey whose closest encounter to an actual date before this was his daydream about making out with Brooke Shields in a pop-up tent after her appearance on Circus of the Stars.  

HBO Taxicab Confession time: I wasn’t exactly suave in 1982. Some may argue that I’m not exactly suave in 2015 either. But those people are dicks.

Weather Channel forecast for my other 1st Date: Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Chachi. (Photo: childhoodrelived.com)

Now, allow me to take you on a brief tour of ME in 1982:

I wore tinted-gray prescription glasses, which somehow made me look Asian.

I had a David Cassidy haircut which, in fairness, was completely cool 10 years earlier.

I wore chunky, brown Hush Puppies which, in fairness, would be completely cool 20 years later.

I am clearly not a man of my time.

Face it; I was practically undateable in the early 80’s. And to think, I had yet to thrust upon society:

* my Northeastern take on the Miami Vice look (hello, 1985; hello, aqua-colored linen);

* the Bagger Vance meets shoe-shine boy stylings of 1986 (white cap, colored dress shirt, white shoes and white pants tucked into colored socks), which pretty much destroyed the year for anyone who came within a 10-mile radius of me; or

* my suburban spin on hair-metal during the years 1987 through 1989 (lion’s mane, Winger/Tesla/Def Leppard/Metallica sleeveless t-shirt, size 27 jeans and faux snakeskin boots).

And we won’t even mention the tuxedo I wore to Senior prom, which looked like a cross between the Good Humor man and a barrio pimp.  

No, we won’t mention that at all.

You see, there’s a reason why “war” is nearly 40% of “wardrobe”: the 80’s pretty much beat the hell out of me. 

But in 1982, things were somehow simpler.

My 8th grade graduation took place in June and my parents threw a party at our home after the ceremony. In attendance was the class goddess; we’ll call her Kathleen, but only because that was her real name.

Now, one thing you might recall from being 13, was how much more advanced girls were than boys. Translation: Kathleen had developed her, um, feminine characteristics somewhat early. And was at least an inch taller than me.

League. My. Out of.

However, my mother, wearing her rose-colored glasses -- and in a highly appropriate coincidence is actually named Rose -- decided right then and there that her Partridge Family rerun-watching, Hush Puppy-styin’, Beaverton-san would soon become a man. So she called Kathleen the following week and asked her out on a date.

FOR me.

The Puzzle Solved! You Want Chicks? Just Start a Band with your Mom.

I’m not certain whether my AngerTerrorYouveGotToBeF'inKIDDINGMe™ (a registered trademark of BeaverCom International™) was more due to the embarrassment of a parent arranging my first date, or simply the existence of the date itself.

With the class goddess.

Who had honest-to-God breasts.

And was 2.54 centimeters taller than me.

The height differential was my biggest problem. There was no way I was spending my first date staring straight into Kathleen’s nostrils (lovely as they were).

I found out about the date on a Friday. And I had until the following Friday night to grow ONE FULL INCH.

So I did what any smart Asian kid would do: I crunched some numbers. 

Isn’t It Time YOUR Kids were Smart Enough to Push the U.S. Army into a Corner? (Photo: Time, Inc.)

I was certain that a whole lot of stretching would buy me at least half an inch. And wearing thick socks would buy me, oh, 8 or 10 cms. at least.

Turns out that reaching toward the ceiling rhythmically and wearing gym socks weren’t quite the height enhancers that Jazzercise promised me. The problem begged for a more creative solution.

Unfortunately, some creative solutions are a little over the top. 

The CopperTop.

I don’t recall the exact thought process that led me to the idea of inserting AAA Duracell batteries in my shoes for added lift, but damn if that height deficit didn’t disappear like a cowgirl’s virginity at a prison rodeo.

Adler: The Official Shoe Lifts of Men who Apparantly Date Drag Queens.

You might ask how the shoes actually stayed on my feet with batteries under them. Welcome, my friends, to the 20-years-too-soon, high-ankle, tied-too-tight magic of Hush Puppies.

But despite the discomfort, my plan was set. Kathleen hadn’t seen me in 2 weeks and would naturally assume Mother Nature paid me a special visit during the fortnight.

Part two of my plan was even more brilliant: I chose an activity which required us to sit down for most of the evening (what we in the battery-in-shoe dating trade call a “movie and dinner”). And the movie I chose – Poltergeist -- was being touted as the scariest flick ever. This would virtually ensure Kathleen’s need for physical comforting. I had visions of her clutching my hand like a children’s toy.

[Editor’s Note: A children’s toy which required four Triple-A batteries.]

The plan was foolproof.  Except for the fact that approximately 45% of the word foolproof is “fool”.

Her Last Name is 45 Proof (a WAAAAAYYY Funnier Joke Before She, You Know, Died of Alcohol Poisoning). (Photo: Wenner Media)

You see, I had visions of romance. Of laughter in the rain. Of seasons in the sun. And of other songs from 1974 not named (You’re) Having My Baby.

Unfortunately Casey, the #1 song that week was (You’re) Having My Dad as a Chaperone for the Entire Night.

The Peanuts gang went, like, 50 years without a peep of parental oversight. Yet here I am, suffering the dual indignity of alkaline chunks assaulting my arches, and my father performing a battery on my rep as a ladies man.

I’d love to say the rest of the evening was a Barry White song, but my only shot at love that night would have been to bite her on the neck and draw first blood.

Other highlights of the evening included:

* Her 6’7” father answering the door and making me feel like even standing on top of a Duracell factory in that moment would have rendered me insignificant.

* My yelping with fear when the toy clown in Poltergeist attacked the little boy under the bed.

* Kathleen putting a quarter in the jukebox at the restaurant and asking if I wanted to dance. (My mental response:  No I don't want to DANCE you evil, twisted pubescent Amazonian.)

Necromancer or...Neck Romancer?

So it wasn’t the ideal encounter. And sure, I wish I had arranged my own entrée into date-dom.  

But thinking back, what was I supposed to do in 1982? There was no Tinder back then, let alone for 13-year olds. Well, I guess technically there’s no dating site for teens now. There should be!

Introducing Teen-der™ (a registered trademark of BeaverCom International).

Say What You Will About Tinder, But I Hear It Has A Very High Penetration Rate Among Urban Singles.

I never saw young Kathleen again after that night.

But in a remarkable coincidence, Poltergeist has been remade.

Since I’m now over 6’ tall, I’d feel totally confident asking out Kathleen for our own sequel. Hell, for nostalgia’s sake, I’d even break out those batteries again.

There's just one small problem:

How the hell do I get my father to sit through Poltergeist again?

Here Comes the San, Do Do Do Do.

Cheez Doodles Are Holier than Devil's Food (And God Really Loves the Letter "K")

Catholic School Kindergarten is a Cruel and Shallow Money Trench, a Long Plastic Hallway Where Thieves and Pimps Run Free. There’s Also a Negative Side.

---

1973.  

Richard Nixon was in the White House, dealing with the parallel sh*t-storms known as the Vietnam War and Watergate.

Elton John dominated the radio airwaves. 

And a tiny, Germanic, 60-year-old Catholic School Kindergarten teacher turned unsuspecting 5 year-olds into hard-core junkies.

Dealing with the Parallel Sh*t-Storms Known as Cocaine Abuse and Trademark Infringement.

We called our teacher Miss Jenny.  There was nothing remotely sexy about this sexagenarian.

But Miss Jenny was the undisputed Queen of Snack Time.

2pm Snack Time was the cherished Kindergarten ritual at Jesus H. Christ!! Academy (what it would be called if I had naming rights.)

This 10-minute afternoon snack break was the highlight of a rousing day filled with:

Reading about God.        

Hearing about God.

Singing about God. 

Praying to God.

(Never) Swearing to God. 

And of course…Arithmetic. Which was solely invented by God to allow us to count up all the sins we needed to repent.

Sure, you could bring your own edibles to Snack Time, but Miss Jenny strongly preferred you didn’t.

You see, she had a cottage industry of sorts which involved selling over-priced puffed cheese snacks to an all-too-willing audience. History has labeled this transgression “Doodlegate”.

And much like Tricky Dick, Jenny from the Bloc(k) would never be impeached for her crimes.

Ok, Who Here Authorized an Illegal Hotel Break-In to Help Get Re-Elected? Just Point to the Answer if It Was You.

For the unaware, “Cheez Doodles” is a registered trademark of Wise Foods. I can still picture the yellow, blue and red “confetti” bag from that time period.  Miss Jenny’s bag, however, was white, extra large and said something like “Cheese Curls” on it.  

Sure, they looked like real Doodles. They even had a Doodle-ish taste and consistency. But there was nothing Wise about the short curls this old bag was pushing on her students. Hers were the far more sinister Generic Doodle.

First, it was a couple of kids under her spell. By the end of that school year, every last one of us would have followed her into Hell (um, or the upstairs place) for another taste of her salty wares.

Now, let’s put those God-given arithmetic skills to good use for a moment.

An extra large bag of Cheez Doodles (the REAL ones) cost approximately 60 cents in 1973. Let’s assume a price point somewhere around 45 cents for the generic bag. 

Miss Jenny charged her kids 25 cents for one handful. Did I mention Miss Jenny was about 4’2”? This meant that her liver-spotted quasi-child claw could grab approximately 5 or 6 generic doodles. 

This also meant that the markup on Jenny’s Doodles was about…ummm, carry the 2…ummm, PEMDAS something something…like a million billion percent.

In the high stakes world of pre-pubescent carb-loading, Miss Jenny was a motha-truckin’ pimp.

And she is, quite possibly, the only Swiss bank account holder who ever worked for God. Except for everyone at the Vatican.

Hey, at least Miss Jenny threw in a napkin as part of the transaction. You can rob a child blind, but only a heathen would allow dusty orange crumbles on a sleepy-time mat. Is that what’s meant by “Honor Among Thieves”?

Assuming Miss Jenny were alive today doing her thing, she’d probably charge $6 or $7 for a clawful.

If the sodium didn’t kill the kiddies, I’m sure inflation would have.

If She Bought These from Miss Jenny, it’s Safe to Say She Pretty Much Blew Through All the Money She Made on Glee.

Sure, Catholic School was an unexpected introduction to microeconomic theory.  But let’s face it: in light of all the darkness in the world, a far more pressing question was pondered in those hallowed halls of heavenly high jinks. Dare I say, the MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND:

Does God even give a holy f*ck about nutrition in His schools?!?

Orange-colored corn meal puffs aside, allow me to take you on a whirlwind tour of childhood Catholic School cafeteria edibles (or as I now like to call them “God Slop”).

Fish Sticks

When I think of Catholic School, invariably my FIRST thought is the massive, see-through oil stain left behind by the sticks o’ fish on the cheap white paper plate. This is the likely reason why I do not enjoy fish as an adult.

Catholics love to push the whole “Don’t eat meat on Fridays” thing.  It’s a shame the Church didn’t also promote the whole “Don’t eat breaded fragments of third-rate flounder fried in vegetable shortening” thing.

Holy Menu Tip #1:  If by the time you get a food item back to the lunch table it has magically (miraculously?) enabled you to see through dishware, do not place that item in your stomach.

Eat His Body. Drink His Blood. Avoid His Lunchrooms on Fridays.

Sloppy Joes

I think this abomination of a sandwich was somehow meant to be an homage to Jesus’ stepfather. But c’mon, St. Joseph, couldn’t He muster a better tribute than low-grade chop meat soaked in oily red paste?

Personally, though, I could eat, like, 6 full bottles of your delicious orange aspirin in one sitting. So kudos on those edibles, Joe.  I never ONCE had a headache when getting my stomach pumped.

Isn’t It Time YOU OD’d on Medicine Candy?

Pork Roll

For Middle-Atlantic dwelling parishioners, this slab of fried, processed meat by-product is also known as Taylor Ham. I’m guessing Mr. Taylor was no stranger to the uninhibited joys of gastric bypass surgery.

 This circular piece of I-don’t-exactly-know-what is generally served with a slice of American “Cheese” on it.  

So why is the word “cheese” in quotes here?  Because this type of dairy cannot legally be sold under the authentic name of cheese. Federal and state laws mandate that the American variety be labeled as “processed cheese” or more likely “cheese product”.  And of course, this holy creation is sandwiched on a near-nutritionally-null white flour roll.

But here’s the God-kicker: Taylor Ham is prepared with 4 small cuts made along its outer edge to prevent uneven cooking.  This makes each slice look like a tiny…circular… CROSS.

Think God is playing laissez-faire with His school lunches NOW? 

In the Name of the Father, the Son and the Wholly Inedible. Amen.

Interesting fact: Mr. Taylor originally called his product “Taylor’s Prepared Ham” but was forced to change the name when the FDA determined that it failed to meet the legal definition of ham.

I never imagined pigs high-fiving each other until just this very moment.

French Fries

I once heard a co-worker describe French Fries as “God’s Food”.

After spending 12 years attending four separate Catholic schools, I can state with no uncertainty that oil-soaked spuds were the most prominent vittles in His lunch rooms. There was a different cut of fry for every day of the week (Shoestring on Monday through Waffle on Friday). And apparently on the 7th Day, God created Tater Tots.

I can’t quite figure out God’s complete allegiance to potatoes, oil, France and/or Belgium, but I can say this: If God is Good, and Food is Good, does that mean God is Food?

You Are What You Eat.

TastyKake

I’m not sure why this Philadelphia-based, nutritionally-vapid snack treat company was so opposed to using the letter “C” in their product names. I’m even more bewildered how they had our lunch rooms on utter lockdown in the 70’s and 80’s.

Our Katholic kafeterias kontained kalamitous kollections of Krimpets, Kandy Kakes, Kandy Bars and kountless konfectionery koncoctions to kause us komplete kardiac kollapse.

And I won’t even mention the copious amounts of soda and artificially-flavored fruit drinks we could choose from to wash down our kardiac Krimpets, fried fish and pseudo pork.  No, I won’t mention that at all.

Holy Menu Tip #2: If you truly feel the need to snack on something from Philadelphia, you’d do better gnawing on the Liberty Bell. At least that has some iron.

Oh God, Why Do You Dessert Us in Our Hour of Nutritional Need?

Of course, a kid should be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of an Oreo or potato chip every now and again. Sugared and salted treats are fine in MODERATION because childhood should be fun. 

Thankfully, my parents had the good sense to also provide a steady stream of vegetables and fruit throughout my childhood.  I make sure my daughter Sabrina eats protein, fiber and good carbs, but sometimes the kid wants some damn ice cream.  That’s why it’s called a “treat” – because it’s the exception, not the norm.

I just don’t think kids should be force-fed a steady diet of extremes without any basis in realistic fundamentals. Wait…are we still talking about food?  

God, I hope so.

Ok, Who Here Gave a Federal Badge to a Pill-Popping, Gun-Toting, Hip Swerver Who Sings the Devil’s Music? Just Shake the Hand of the Guy in a Cape if It Was You.

Introducing Sabrina (Sponsored by Nike: The Official Shoe of the Apocalypse

Sure, we’re proud of our kids when they hit the winning basket or make the honor roll. But do we really need to get all Paul Revere about it? (Yes, if you're the one writing this story.)

---

New Yorkers are a very competitive lot.

Maybe it’s the fast pace of city living. Maybe it’s the scent of money floating uptown from Wall Street. Or maybe the Sashimi at Nobu is laced with equal parts miso and testosterone.

But in the ultimate look-at-me environment,  urban dwellers reserve their fiercest spirit of immodesty for one vainglorious task: bragging about their children.

(Photo: HBO/Time Warner)

City-dwelling parents love to tell you how gifted their offspring are.

Have you heard about this future master of the universe?:

Beaumont opens his Fisher-Price cash register with such finesse, the hedge funds         have already started circling around his pre-school.

Or this pint-sized prodigy?:

Hollister can count backwards from 100…in ESPERANTO.  Harvard and Yale are already at war over her.

 [Editor’s Note: “Mia kusenveturilo estas plena da angiloj” is Esperanto for “My hovercraft is full of eels”.]

MY hovercraft is full of squeals.

Now let’s take a step back for a moment to gain some perspective on why parents ring the bragging bell with such ferocity. A step back to the 18th Century.

Napoleon once said “Men will die for ribbons”.

This is perhaps the most succinct description of human nature I’ve ever heard. What Nappy means is, reward—or in its most primal sense, praise—is among the most powerful motivators in human interaction.

And it’s with the concept of “praise” where many parents start to go askew.

So much of parental praise revolves around the child simply “being” – so smart, so pretty, so wonderful. And we do our kids a disservice when we neglect to include specificity in our praise. We want our children to be so intelligent, so attractive and so amazing because they are an extension of us--and if MY CHILD is wonderful then, by God, so am I. It’s the ultimate validation of our own sense of self-worth.

But see if you can tell the difference between these two statements:

a)  Oh, Fontleroy, you are such a brilliant lad!  Your League will be covered in Ivy.

b)  Son, I am proud that you worked so hard on your science project. 

The first statement is what I call “Naked Praise”.

[Editor’s Note: Can Martin J. trademark that? Someone get him a lawyer. Wait, Martin J. is a lawyer. Hey, why does he have to do everything?!?  Leave him alone, you vipers.]

Naked praise is vague and lacks a specific anchor. It rings hollow because it hasn’t been earned by the child.

The second praise statement is explicit.  The merit is tied to an act. This is also positive reinforcement for a child’s self-esteem. And what’s more, the second complement is based on the child’s effort as opposed to a result, which encourages them to keep trying harder.

And by puffing up our offspring internally like latex party balloons, bragging is the next logical outer step for parental promotional campaigns.

Naked Praise, Soprano-style: “You Look Good, You Know, Naked”.

(Photo: HBO/ Time Warner)

Bragging about your kids is so…distasteful. It’s a massive turn-off. The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.

So it is with a heavy heart (and a heavy dose of Pepcid AC) that I must tell you what an utter genius my daughter Sabrina is.

Sabrina knows life. 

Sabrina knows business.

And Sabrina knows marketing, certainly better than anyone over at Wang Computers, as that company has been shut down for, like, 20 years.

So sit back. And let the enlightened wisdom of a three-year old mastermind wash over you like a beached insect at high tide.

Bo Knows Baseball. Bo Knows Football. Sabrina Has No Clue Who The Hell Bo Even Is.

(Photos: Sports Illustrated)

Ok, let’s be clear. Sabrina doesn’t actually KNOW she is kickin’ knowledge like college. The kid is just living her life. But I need to meet my editor’s monthly deadline and this is the best I can do for August.

And now we present:  

THE RULES ACCORDING TO SABRINA

(Sponsored by Wang Computers. Isn’t it Time You Got a Wang?  TM)

Stating Something is So, Makes it So.

Didn’t The Secret sell 16 jillion copies promoting this very message?

In Sabrina’s world, the power of positivity is contagious. Look at how the Law of Attraction works its potent magic in a simple NYC bike shop.

[Scene] Sabrina enters store with her Mommy. Upon seeing Daddy walk in about five minutes later, she climbs up on a random bike and says:

 Daddy, this is my new bike!

 Daddy--wrongly assuming his wife had just bought Sabrina the bicycle--responds:

That’s GREAT!! I can’t wait to get it home. You are going to have SO MUCH FUN on that!

And so, the monetary transaction for an over-priced pink-flowered vehicle may now commence.

Damn you, Rhonda Byrne!

At Last…The Secret Revealed! Bike Shops are a Repository for the Dark Arts.

(Photo: Atria Books)

Repetition: The Key to Branding.

Those Beatles songs were so damn catchy! Short verses, leading right back to a relentless chorus played over and over. That was a recipe for conquering America in 1964.

Half a century later, Sabrina looks to conquer the microwavable-breakfast-sandwich-at-an-all-too-ubiquitous-coffee-chain world by coining the term “Whole Egg Sandwich”. 

You see, when Sabrina goes to Starbucks (oh, doesn’t YOUR three-year-old genius consume Sumatra Single-Origin?), she likes an egg sandwich. But don’t dare offer her the one with a measly egg white—she wants the "whole" egg (yolk and all). Hence the term Whole Egg Sandwich” which Sabrina has asked for about 800 times over the past two years.

Sabrina’s grandmother quite often takes her to a nearby Starbucks for her favorite treat. Upon my entering that same shop recently, the barista enthusiastically greeted my daughter with “Hi Sabrina – Whole Egg Sandwich today?”.

Even a multi-national chain is hard-pressed to deny Sabrina’s hypnotic powers of repetition.

And imagine what the Beatles could have accomplished if their all-night studio sessions were fueled by Whole Egg Sandwiches, rather than Moroccan prayer hash.

Abbey Road-kill

Branding: It’s Not Just For Breakfast Anymore.

You wanna stake a claim in this world, baby? You need to stand out! And that starts with a name.

Just ask Lady Gaga. Or…um…Sabrina.

Upon hearing the question, “What would you name a little brother or sister?”, Sabrina responded:

Cock-a-Doodle-Doo Cupcake Frosting Stick.

I just hope the new kid doesn’t have to sign a lot of autographs.

I was thinking of calling myself Miss ElectroDancePopOuterSpacePlasticBubblePianoChick but I couldn’t get the URL. Damn you, Go Daddy!

(Photo: bbc.co.uk)

Frozen Dairy is a Random Reward for Parental Greatness. And Tiny Con Artists.

Sabrina [out of the blue]:

I think you deserve some ice cream, Daddy. But I don’t want you to be lonely. So I’ll have some too. [pause] Vanilla.

The Early Bird Gets The…Right to Pay Only $45,446 a Year in College Tuition

Remember that Sopranos episode where Tony takes Meadow to visit colleges in Maine (and as an added bonus, locates a mafia turncoat living there under witness protection and whacks him)? At one point in that episode, the happy dad and daughter shared a trip to Bowdoin College.

Meadow was 18 at the time of her campus tour. Sabrina also visited Bowdoin—at age 3.  An attempt at early acceptance?  Perhaps. But I think Sabrina had the long-game in mind and simply wanted to negotiate a lock-in of the current tuition rate. This bold move will save her parents approximately $48 million.

That’s just good business sense, any way you whack it.

Although We Didn’t Kill Anyone on Our Maine Visit, There Was an Insolent Lawn Squirrel Who Made Us Quite Irate.

(Photo:HBO/Time Warner)

She Who Knows Pop Culture History Makes a Great Party Guest (Especially at Ones Where They Serve Cocktail Wieners)

On a recent Sunday morning making breakfast with an 80’s shuffle soundtrack in the background, a Michael Jackson tune popped onto the playlist. When we kidded and asked if she knew who Michael Jackson was, Sabrina responded (no joke):

A boy who plays with hot dogs.

I love when a moment of randomness meets of moment of (alleged) truth.

And calm down MJ supporters; I'm sure Sabrina was simply referring to the Nathan's stand he kept at Neverland Ranch for Visitor’s Day. 

At Last…The Secret Revealed!  “It’s Not About the Hot Dogs; It’s About The BUNS. TEE HEE.”

(Photo: wn.com)

Chaos is Beautiful. And Googly-Eyed.

Above her bed, Sabrina has a hammock where several dozen stuffed animals reside. She loves to take them down one by one and throw them onto her floor. She’s done this more times than I’d care to count.

And each time when she’s done, it looks like the Apocalypse hit Sesame Street.

If the Apocalypse Occurs After Labor Day, Don't Be Caught Dead Wearing White.

I chalked this up to silly childhood behavior until I actually asked Sabrina why she liked to do this. Her response:

I think it looks nice.

Who’d have thought that the complete and final destruction of existence would look so damn…Muppet-y?

Say What You Want About Nike Labor Practices, But When It Allows Its Child Workers to Also DESIGN The Shoes, Everyone Wins.

(Photo: mediadump.com)

Which brings us to our final Sabrina Rule for today:

If You Put Lipstick on a Pig, It Becomes a Much Prettier Pig.

Pick up a small rock and look at it.  It has no personality whatsoever.

Sabrina sees what can be. She collects the rocks, paints them, glues on feathers and then gives them out as special gifts to friends.  And that's a wonderful lesson for anyone of any age.

---

It’s amazing how much we can learn from the simple acts of a toddler.  My child is a genius.

And so is yours.

But please don’t brag about it. Unless you have a sloppy drunk Editor riding your a** about an artificial deadline. Damn you, stupid Editor!

[Editor’s Note: When the Apocalypse hits, I’m quitting this thankless job.]

Go Gaga for the Apocalypse! This Thursday, on ABC.

(Photo: ABC TV)

Just Do It!

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Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places (And Does It Hurt To Get Clocked With a Prehistoric Flounder?)

There’s no debating that dating is grating, deflating, irritating and infuriating. And here’s your education on graduation from the agitation.

---

To say I’ve had interesting dating experiences is like saying Bernie Madoff had interesting investment opportunities. 

Sure, a few girls were great but the rest were bad, worse and even worse than that. And if there’s one piece of wisdom I can impart to you in this short lifetime it’s this subtle gem:

If your first date ends with a phone call to the 9th Precinct, do not pursue that relationship any further.

He Totally Took the "Fun" Out of "Fund".

(Photo: Politico.com)

You might also want to pass on making life plans with the girl who:

* Tries to jump out of your car at 50 mph

* Accidentally shatters your living room window by opening and closing it so many times because she doesn’t want you to know that she’s smoking pot while you’re at work

* Confesses that she will probably soon be going to jail for statutory rape

* Loudly scolds you for eating an apple out-of-season because of the carbon footprint left by its transport

* Brags about being extremely wealthy to the woman giving her a manicure (just to make that woman feel bad about herself) then leaves a sub-standard tip, so the woman will feel even angrier

* Seriously—yes, seriously—threatens to beat you up because you whitened your teeth which makes you a “fake, phony” [made all the more funny by the fact that this girl dyed her hair, spray tanned and was a make-up artist]

* Has a Brooklyn-accent so profound it sounds like Joe Pesci is sticking his tongue in your ear. And after hearing her speak on the phone one time, your inner voice will calmly say: “I don’t care if she looks like Cindy Crawford and teaches Superstring theory at MIT….that voice is not going to be the mother of my children”.

So congratulations to me on all of these dating accomplishments (and we haven’t even gotten to 9th Precinct Nicki yet).

Sure, I could chalk up this Parade of Horribles to bad luck, but let’s dig deeper for a moment.

It's Horrible That My Parades Never Include Giant Inflatable Latina Child Explorers Who Crush Underpaid Musicians.

(Photo: Accuweather.com)

Have you ever been in a relationship where things are just truly difficult?

You know, a coupling with constant fireworks—good and bad—and then as you get further into the relationship, just bad?  Where some part of you knows you are not right for each other (although I can almost guarantee your friends knew all along!), yet you stay in that relationship and even dig in your heels when things get worse?

Why do we hang on in those instances? 

Well, when you’ve devoted time and emotion to a relationship—even a bad one— you feel justified in fighting for it to work. And the longer you are in that bad relationship, the more you find yourself fighting for it, fighting with the other person and fighting with yourself to stay or go. 

And when we refuse to give up, it’s simply our old friend Human Nature paying a visit.

[Editor’s Note:  Mr. Beaverton once tore a tendon in his finger opening a jar of Whole Foods Salsa because he refused to let it “defeat him”. Dummy.]

The Lyrics:  "If I Stay There Will Be Trouble. But If I Go It Will Be Double."

Um, Didn’t You Just Answer Your Own  Musical Question Right There? Dummy.

(Photo: Epic Records/Sony Music)

My good friend (we’ll call him Dr.) is about as smart and sensible a person as you could hope to meet. He had some advice for me when I was on the relationship treadmill.

“Dr.”, I asked exasperated at the end of yet another bad relationship experience, “how do I keep finding all these crazy girls?”.

Dr. said that I was the common denominator in my previous relationships and if I found the “wrong” woman, then I was responsible for choosing them. And a responsible person needs to recognize patterns and warning signs, and then stop making the same bad choices.  

Damnit. Why can’t I just call upon my good pal Human Nature and stick the blame on someone else?!?

The Next Time Human Nature Pays a Visit, Tell Him to Beat It. And to Please Never Wear a Yellow Vest with Rhinestones.

(Photo: Epic Records/Sony Music)

As I processed Dr.’s words, I resolved to take his advice, which was pretty much like riding a bike up a mountain versus coasting down a San Francisco hill.  But I scrutinized and questioned and challenged and worked my way out of the relationship black hole to (finally) make sound decisions.

I also had another reason for choosing the path of much-more-resistance; I finally saw my dating ridiculousness through the eyes of friends, nearly all of whom made very good relationship decisions in their lives.

The wake-up call occurred at a summer get-together. Friends of mine have been throwing a December holiday party for roughly two decades and one year decided to hold a bash in June. 

At the summer party, the girl I brought told me she just had the oddest conversation with another guest, whom she had just met. The guest was asking my girlfriend what it was like to be a musician, was it scary to play in front of all those people, how much she practices, etc.  This would have been fine except that my girlfriend was an environmental engineer.

The guest thought she was speaking with the girl I had brought to the holiday party 6 months earlier, who actually was in a band.  Translation: I was bringing a different girl to almost every yearly party.

Who did I think I was...Hugh Hefner? Dummy.

Hef is Responsible for More Empty Cribs than a Babies ‘R Us Showroom.

(Photo: thisorthat.com)

Alas, this story would be incomplete without the requisite psycho online dating experience, which will sound like fiction but I don’t write fiction yet.

Without further adieu, I present "The Tale of 9th Precinct Nicki".

Nicki looked like Scary Spice, which was the only enjoyable part of this one-time encounter. Even that aesthetic would be rendered quickly irrelevant. 

When I arrived, she invited me up to her apartment before our planned excursion into Manhattan. Odd, I thought, because who invites a stranger into their home the first time you meet, let alone one you’ve met online two days before?  I mean, what if I was a raving lunatic?

It turns out Nicki was far closer than me to storing body parts in a basement freezer.

As I entered her abode, the first thing I noticed was she had pictures covering her entire living room wall, floor-to-ceiling. All the pictures were of Nicki.  My only thought:  “My God…she’s stalking… HERSELF”.

As I visually drank in this stunning monument to Nicki-dom, I felt her grab me from behind. I’m sure for a thousandth of a second I thought she was going to kill me but instead, she pushed me down on her couch, danced around the room in a circle, clapped her hands, pumped her arms to the ceiling and yelled:

“WOO-WOO!!”

The only music playing was in her head.

Quizzically stunned at this point, I managed to open my mouth to softly mutter the question “woo…woo?”. Her response was a just-as-energetic-as-the-first-time:

“WOO-WOO!!”

Yes, that did seem to be the only plausible response to my ignorant inquiry.

Suddenly, Nicki managed to do something I would never have expected from a girl I’d known for all of eight minutes.  She jumped on the coach, landed on top of my thighs with her knees and began to dance.

And of course, even in that awkward position, she managed to clap, pump her arms and once again release her now-famous battle cry:

“WOO-WOO!!”

Amazingly, a photo of that very moment wound up online:

(Photo: electwellness.com)

A few seconds after beginning her welcome ritual, Nicki’s phone rang. To her credit, she stopped dancing to answer it.  Her only words spoken:

“Hello [pause]. I can’t talk right now. My boyfriend is waiting.”

I got a promotion! How exciting. I felt like Fred Flintstone getting a 3-clam raise from Mr. Slate. And to celebrate my newfound riches, I awkwardly lifted Nicki off, stood up and said “why don’t we go now?”.

I’m not sure why I didn’t make like a plastic cup and go Solo at that point, but perhaps I was still enjoying the fact that she looked like a Spice Girl. I mean, who didn’t get nostalgic for the 90’s by 2002?

"I swear to God, Fred, if you “Yabba Dabba Woo-Woo” one more time, I’m gonna clock you with a flounder."

(Photo: Hanna-Barbera/Warner Bros. Animation)

As we left her apartment, she casually mentioned she had several vodka shots and 4 beers before I arrived (yet hadn’t eaten any food). Nicki was tiny and razor thin, so it probably didn’t take much to get her drunk. I’m guessing a few drops of vanilla extract in her pancakes would have done the trick. But at least I now had some context for the cornucopia of crazy.

Next, we drove into the City.  I tried to make conversation by asking her about her last relationship but this triggered a serious reaction that made her cry profusely.  She said she was “completely heartbroken” and still trying to cope with the pain. I tried to calm her down with empathy and gently asked how long they’d been together.  

Her answer?

TWO WEEKS.

At this point, I was looking back to see if Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out of my trunk and yell “PUNK’D!”.

We arrived at a loud and crowded lower-eastside club.  I bought her a beer (and myself a water, as I don’t drink), pointed to a small table in the back, took her by the hand and began to move through the crowd. 

Quite suddenly, she ran past me and started to spin around with arms extended—Wonder-Woman-style—to clear a small circle for herself on the floor. And Lord I swear, the moment she did that, I just knew what was coming next:

“WOO-WOO!!”

Nicki screamed the words as if she were attending a casting call for Braveheart.

The sad part here is other people started mimicking her.  Now, all sorts of people were woo-woo-ing and lifting their palms-up toward an imaginary sky.

Who knew Nicki would be creating the next hot dance sensation right before my eyes.  She was like a nutty-and-slutty Chubby Checker.

I rolled my eyes, shook my head and grabbed the table. In the next fifteen minutes or so—in between bouts of woo-woo-ing—Nicki came back over to the table, to take sips of her beer and chat.  And she seemed relatively tame for a short while.  

Now, at this point, by my count, she had had five beers, no food and numerous vodka shots. I had to drive her home and I didn’t want her getting sick in my car. So I cut her off. I knew she couldn’t buy another drink herself because she told me she had less than $2 in her pocket. 

And when I refused to buy her another beer, the needle moved right on back to crazy.

She left our table, walked across the floor and picked up beer bottles from other people’s tables and drank them!  At least now I had an official reason for not offering up a good night kiss.

They May Take Our Lives But They’ll Never Take Our Woo's!

(Photo: Paramount Pictures)

And now my breaking point was reached.  I walked up to her and said “It’s time to go”.

Maybe it was my serious tone relaying that the night was ending. Maybe it was the liquor store she had consumed. Or maybe it was the stark realization that she had woo'd her last woo. But suddenly, Nicki could barely stand and had become a sloppy drunk.

As we made our way to the exit, a guy stuck out his arm to block us from leaving, as if he expected us to pay a toll. Then he smiled, pointed at Nicki, raised his palms toward the ceiling and shouted:

“WOO-WOO!!”

Since my only thought now was getting this girl home without her getting sick in my car, I decided to buy her something to eat.

We sat outside a pizza joint on St. Mark’s Place. To her credit, Nicki had the chewing part down cold; I’ll give her that. But for some reason she either didn’t have the energy, ability or knowledge that she needed to actually swallow her food.

I watched as every chewed bite fell out of the other side of her mouth.

Time to get the car!

I told her I’d be back in 5 minutes. I even asked if she understood what I said (she said she did). I returned as promised but Nicki was nowhere to be found. She had no money. She could barely walk. C’mon, how far could a Crazy Spice really get under those circs?

Yet I spent the next several hours driving, walking and searching Manhattan streets for this lunatic.

At approximately 4AM, I phoned the 9th Precinct to alert them that a girl I met that evening was drunk and missing. Yes, I was concerned about her, but this was probably a self-preservation move;  if Nicki was found dead on the street, I didn’t want to be a suspect. 

I was told there was nothing I could do. So I drove home.

Exhausted and exasperated, I left Nicki a final message. I told her that I hope she’s ok and that I searched the East Village for hours looking for her. And that this was the worst date I could possibly imagine.

At 11am the next morning, my phone rang. I saw it was Nicki and picked up. She thought I abandoned her at the pizzeria and got in a cab to go home (and at that point I wasn’t curious enough to ask how she paid for it).

She gushed about how wonderful I was to look for her, how I was the greatest gentleman in history and to make it up to me, she invited me over for a special breakfast.

I could never be that hungry.

And I would be very suspicious of any Spice she used.

Pepsi. The Official Soft Drink of ABSOLUTELY F*#CKING CRAZY.

(Photo: Posh24.com)

I Want a Baby! (and Can You Get Russell Crowe to Fix My Damn Vacuum?)

Need some quick advice on having a baby? Avoid dating serial killers and use the Windex sparingly.

---

So you want to have a baby?

First step: find someone to have sex with.

Ah, I hear the chorus of voices saying “No Fooling, Sherlock” (I actually hear its scatological equivalent).

So please allow me to share the Second step for all the Holm-ies:  you need to find the RIGHT PERSON at the RIGHT TIME to be your mate, and then you can have that sex and make that baby.

In other words, I think the only couples who should have children are those who get along really, really well.  

Holmes:  Watson, Does A Bear Bathe In The Woods?    

Watson:  No...S*%t, Sherlock.

(Photo: Universal Picures)

To be clear, I’m not passing judgment on single women who want to have a baby via artificial insemination or adoption (assuming they aren’t raving lunatics).

What I’m saying is, when two people choose to raise a wee little one, the chances of that child having a normal, healthy upbringing increase dramatically when that couple is compatible.

So, what are the odds you’ll find a person compatible enough to want to spend your life with, let alone to make a baby?  Try this exercise:

Go find a coin. Examine it closely. Is the coin two-sided?  

Well, the odds of you finding that right person at the right time are just slightly better than finding a ONE-sided coin.

But we did say “better than”, so hang on to that glimmer of hope and go forth with those grand love expectations, you utterly hopeless romantics.

Odds of The Romantics Having Another Hit? Utterly Hopeless.

(Photo: naturalbornelegance.com)

So why do I believe that the only couples who should have children are compatible ones?

Children are like Dyson vacuums, sucking in everything they see and hear (and both take up far too much room in the hall closet).  For instance, if parents are always fighting—a sign of incompatibility--a child will process this as “that’s the way I should communicate with others”.

I believe the best gift you can give a child is a happy relationship with the other parent.  And if those parents are fundamentally compatible, it is far more likely they will treat each other with respect and consideration.  And that will create a fulfilling and content home life for all concerned.  

Show your child what’s possible and he or she will come to expect that as they develop.

And, yes, even the best romantic relationships have road bumps. But there are two types of problems in relationships: situational and philosophical.

Situational is of-the-moment, temporary, relatively easy to get around.  For instance, she wants to paint the bedroom walls violet; he likes grey.  Or you’re having money problems and this creates tension in the household.

Of themselves, these are issues that can generally be resolved with patience, communication and compromise.  

But when there is a clear fundamental divide in world-view—real, true philosophical differences—then you’ve got a big problem and perhaps making babies shouldn’t be on your menu.  

If she‘s a die-hard Catholic and you’re a close-minded atheist, make sure you use capital letters to spell “UH-OH, WE’RE TRULY F*%KED”.  Or she campaigns for pot smoking in grammar schools and he wants to bring back chain gangs (i.e. radical vs. reactionary), please, just run the opposite way from each other before breeding.

Both Really Suck for About the First 6 Months.

(Photo: itelegraph.co.uk)

So how do you know if there are philosophical differences Hopefully, it’s apparent at the outset.

The first line of defense is the very first date. Notice how many first dates there are? That’s because the issues are laid out on the table and one or both of you wants to say “please bring us the dessert menu” before the appetizer arrives.

First dates are an excellent filter for fundamental lack of compatibility. And let’s face it—most people are simply not compatible.

So what if the first date is a smashing success and the great dates keep on coming? Why, look, it’s our old friend Mr. Infatuation making a guest-starring visit to the show.

I always cringe when people who have been together for a week-and-a-half say “I’m in love!” or the always eye-roll inducing, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone”. 

The problem becomes that people are so enamored in the infatuation phase (in love with love!) that they mistake this euphoria—generally in the first three months of dating—as a substitute for true romantic compatibility.

Infatuation is like Windex – it has a way of dissolving all the past streaks of hurt, anger or indifference.

But infatuation does serve another important purpose: it carries you through to the next relationship milepost, what I call the Three-Month Weigh Station (or 3MWS, because I think that looks really cool).

Mr. Portokalos is completely infatuated with Windex. And variations of the name “Nick”.

(Photo: Playtone/ Gold Circle Films)

Ever notice how many relationships hit a wall at about the three-month point?

At or around the three-month mark, we tire of the charade and start acting like our normal selves. We also start to let out reality smoke signals to see how the other person will respond.  And that’s fine and fair; we should own who we are and if that’s not good enough for the other person, you should both move on.

Until that time, though, we are on our best behavior. We scrub behind our ears, watch our language and tuck away the serial killer thoughts as best we can.

But we can’t hide the blood stains forever.

3MWS is simply another excellent opportunity for filtering out a potentially bad coupling.

Windex. The Official Blood Stain Remover of Moms and Serial Killers Everywhere.

(Photo: Showtime Networks)

Your final lesson for today involves a little-known concept--mainly because I just invented it--called Relationship Credibility, also known as RelCred.

Being so new to the concept, you have yet to appreciate its finer subtleties, such as the RelCred Timeline. Here’s how it works:

1st Three Months of a Relationship:  NO RELCRED WHATSOEVER!!!  (So please don’t bother us with your “holding-hands-and-making-all-kinds-of-plans” rubbish yet).

Three Months to Six Months:  Still no RelCred. (But notice that we’re now using lower case letters, which seems to indicate you’re getting closer).

Post-Six Months:  Welcome to RelCred, you silly lovebirds.

One-Year Anniversary:  Your love is so damn special and unique that your relationship is awarded the highest honor…Retroactive RelCred, which means you actually get credibility credit for that first 6 months. Tell me it wasn’t worth the wait?

For you graphic-heads, here is a detailed visual representation of the Timeline, painstakingly drawn in Microsoft Paint by renowned pop artist, Martin J. Beaverton:

(Photo: Martin J. Beaverton)

And what if you get into a relationship with good intentions and it evolves to seeming compatibility but for some reason you lose that mutuality despite trying to make it last (e.g. grow apart)?

And worse, what if that happens AFTER you have a child?

The answer is simple, assuming you tried your best to work it out: end it. Break-up. Get a divorce. Yeah, that’s right. Read it again. It’s ok to admit defeat. Two happy but separate parents are way better than two miserable people living under the same roof. 

An equation, perhaps:

2 Happy Homes > 1 Crappy Home

(I love this new math!)

So choose your mate wisely. But take heed in knowing there may be a few unsightly detours before you find your true love to make all those babies with.

Those Gladiators Sure Know That New Math. Now Fix My Stupid Dyson, Genius!

(Photo: Imagine Entertainment)

All Employees Must Wash Bear Paws Before Returning To Work (and May I Offer You a Hershey's Kiss...of Death.)

It’s up and coming!

You’ve probably heard that phrase a hundred times, with people using it to refer to anything they want you to think has potential.

This neighborhood is really up and coming.

I’ll tell you, that Real Housewives of Hershey, Pennsylvania is an up and coming show.

Wearing a Hello Kitty wrist-watch through your belt-loop? Totally up and coming!

But when I hear those three words my very first thought is “this thing that you’re trying to convince me is on the rise, pretty much sucks right now but, hey, with a little luck it probably won’t get worse”.

If Real Estate agents have a National Anthem, the words “up and coming” are their broad stripes and bright stars.

So with that I say: Ladies and Gentlemen—Detroit is officially up and coming!

Now, to be clear, I have a true soft spot in my heart for Town of Mo as I lived there many years ago. So I take no pleasure in saying that the city of Detroit—one of the very largest in America--is truly in shambles. If you’ve visited there recently, you probably noticed a very strange thing about the downtown area: there are more abandoned buildings then there are, uh…bandoned?...buildings.

[Editors Note: The word “bandoned” is totally up and coming.]

Mayoral scandal, bankruptcy, population decay…downtown Detroit is the only place I’ve ever actually seen a McDonald’s close down. There’s probably a Golden Arches in my hall closet, yet Ronald and Grimace couldn’t wait to rev the hell out of the Motor City.

And, by the way, Detroit has more nicknames than any other place in the solar system: Red City, Rock City, Motor City, Motown, Hockeytown, The D, The Big D, D-Lish, The 313, 8 Mile, Big Windsor, the Arsenal of Democracy, Day-Twah and my personal favorite, Murder Town.

Hey Detroit: you’re $18 billion in debt! Couldn’t you just sell a couple of those nicknames to raise some funds?!? Because I definitely think Hershey, Pennsylvania would be all-in on acquiring "Murder Town".

Death By Chocolate. No, Dude…REAL Death.      (Photo: imgur.com)

But we’re not here today to discuss municipal emergencies or urban blight. We’re here to share my favorite memory of The Town That Ford Built (another nickname!), a story I call The Ballad of Fat Stewart.

Many years ago, there was a hamburger joint in downtown Detroit called Fat Stewart’s. One fine day, I wandered in to eat a burger and fries (back when I used to eat such things).

The place resembled a middle-school cafeteria with its obnoxiously bright fluorescent lighting, dirt-streaked linoleum tile floors, cheap plastic chairs and long, communal tables. Fat Stewart’s might not be under consideration for any Michelin Stars, but it would definitely win several Michelin Tires.

I placed my order and was told my food would be brought out. I noticed the perimeter of the room was covered in old football pictures, pennants and posters and there was a large glass case filled with footballs and related memorabilia.

As I looked at a large framed picture, a deep voice from behind said “That was when I played for the Bears.”

I turned to see a mountain of a man in a grease-stained white apron, holding a red tray with my order, which he placed down on a table near me.

He introduced himself as Fat Stewart (and yes, he included the hefty adjective). He put out his hand to greet me. His fist was the size of an Easter ham. The dude could have crushed my skull like a cranberry with those meaty bear paws. But he seemed genuinely nice so I shook his hand, confident he was not foraging for any tart fruit that afternoon.

At this point, I was far more interested in hearing about Fat Stewart’s football career than I was in eating his shoestring fries (which, he advised, were tastiest when covered in sugar, salt and ketchup). Football player, restauranteur and now budding dietician, Fat Stewart proved to be a true Renaissance Man.

I returned to the table to eat and my gracious host sat several feet away across the aisle, regaling me with stories of his playing days. At one point, he casually mentioned that he played for the Baltimore Colts in 1970 and I put up my hand, stopped him in mid-sentence and said, “Wait…1970? Didn’t the Colts win the Super Bowl that year?”

Fat Stewart nodded his head up and down and grinned so hard you’d think someone had just salted and sugared his tongue.

Now, I’m practically leaping out of my 5th grade plastic seat at this point.

I was so excited to meet a Super Bowl champion that I stuttered out my next question. “So, so, you’ve got a, a,… Super Bowl Ring?!?”. And a vision popped in my head of square-jawed, crew-cut men in sunglasses standing outside a bank vault communicating with walkie-talkies, guarding Fat Stewart's precious championship prize from industrial espionage.

What transpired next is the only moment in my life I can recall that seemed to happen in slow motion.  

Fat Stewart stuck one of his Easter ham bear paws into the pocket of his greasy apron, cupped a shiny object and (cue slow motion video) proceeded to throw it four or five feet over to my table. Bounce, bounce, b-bounce.

There it was. Mere inches from my eyes. What fuels the dreams of athletes. What grown men sacrifice their bodies to obtain. The most prized possession in all of sports, and maybe all the earth.

And Fat Stewart tossed that ring at me like a pickle chip at a prison BBQ.

We are just so TIRED of Being the Butt of Super-Bowl-Ring-Prison-BBQ Jokes.        (Photo: kleinspickle.com)

The ring felt not so much heavy as substantial. Since it was a Colts championship, the ring had a horseshoe design, with sapphires and a large diamond in the center, primitive by today’s standards but still impressive.

But wait. Upon closer inspection, the ring was very worn, with precious stones missing from around the horseshoe.

THIS DIDN’T COMPUTE!! How on earth could this precious cargo be chipped, scratched, dented? How could the ring that Fat Stewart so carelessly tossed to a complete stranger’s table five feet away look as though it served in the Crimean War? Surely this was the FIRST time he showed the ring to anyone in such a roughshod manner, right? It certainly had to be my kind face which inspired him to throw the jewelry equivalent of a Hail Mary pass, no?

And then the doors of realization swung wide open and hit me like a middle linebacker charging unabated to the quarterback:

This was NOT Fat Stewart’s first time at a prison BBQ.

Detroit. Tough on Jewelry, Gentle on Apron Stains.                    

(Photo: FoxNews.com)

What do you value?

More importantly, what should you value? Your significant other? Your children? Your friends? Your body, your reputation, your business, your clients… your happiness?

Whatever it is, you should be treating it with the respect and reverence it deserves. Don’t be so quick to table-toss what is valuable, because it gets easier each time you do. Don’t be careless with precious cargo.  

Don’t Be A Fat Stewart.

The next time I saw a Super Bowl ring was several years after the Fat Stewart encounter. This player was a member of the New York Giants 1986 team and I saw his ring over a decade after he had won it. And it looked like it just came out of the box.

As I told that player of my earlier encounter with a Super Bowl ring, he was so horrified that he actually covered his ring with the other hand, as if he didn’t want it to hear of the tragedy that befell its older cousin.

Don’t despair, Damian Johnson’s ring…you will never have to attend a prison BBQ.

Thankfully, I Know Precious Little About the Seamy Underbelly of the Burgers and Pickles Trade.  

(Photo: itsalwaysfootballseason.com)

Wikipedia Says Cupid Was Born 8 Miles From Philly (and Thomas the Train is a Tiny Wino)

Damn you, David Geffen!

For those of you unfamiliar with the name above, he is arguably the most successful self-made individual in the history of the entertainment business. Music, Hollywood, Broadway…Geffen has conquered them all. The gods of success have shown this dude more love than a fortnight at Wimbledon.

But let’s get back to yours truly for a bit, and allow me to spin a tender, heart-warming, coming-of-age yarn. 

When I was eight years old, I was riding a see-saw (a literal, not figurative, one). While I was enjoying another dose of ‘up’ on this mile-a-minute thrill ride, my partner in playground hi-jinks—well, let’s call him Chuckles, because he thought it would be oh-so-hilarious to suddenly jump off and send me crashing down to earth. 

Chuckles well-timed frivolity nearly broke my neck.

Ok, it turned out to be not too serious. A few visits to a chiropractor magically chased away all the playground wrongs inflicted on my tender skeletal frame. 

However, I noticed a couple of interesting things about my new spine-cracking bestie. First, he only worked three days a week; and second, the office was packed whenever I went there. 

You see, even as a pre-pubescent, I was a burgeoning Captain of Industry. 

When the receptionist left her post, I ran over to the appointment book, counted up the number of clients on that day, extrapolated them over the other two days, and then calculated the average patient spend per visit based on what my parents were paying for me.

Know what the Captain found? Doc McCrackins was pulling down around $800 large a year. And we weren’t even out of the 70’s yet.  

Hey, Chuckles…I’m gonna be a CHIROPRACTOR!!

Fast forward a few years to find me attending college. To get into Chiropractic school (it’s at the Graduate level), you need to take a lot of science courses. I don't care much for science, at least not compared to history, writing and lit.

But no matter if aldehydes and anatomy bored me to tears. The rest of you suckers can toil in your 5-day work weeks and frozen meatloaf dinners; I’m coasting to a 3-day-a-week, $800k-a-year, booze and babes party train.  

It’s all Champagne and C-Cups on MY railroad, baby.

It's All Apple Juice and Dixie Cups on My Railroad, Baby.      

(Photo: mommyish.com)

[Editors Note:  With regard to the aforementioned alcoholic beverages, Mr. Beaverton doesn’t actually drink.  In fact, he never has. He also doesn’t smoke and has never even tried marijuana (!). One time a rock star offered him a joint, and when Martin J. turned it down, the musician wrinkled his face and said “Even my grandma would smoke this s#@t, dude?”].

One thing I truly did love was music. I spent most of my childhood with a transistor radio glued to my ear. 

My freshman year of college, someone hipped me to the fact that if I had a radio show, I could get free records, backstage passes and interviews with my favorite bands. No matter that my college radio station was so small the signal would hit the studio wall and die. As far as record labels were concerned, I was king of the campus grooves (although apparently not nearly as wired into the scene as Grandma Ganja).

The night before I graduated, I made a big decision. I had already been accepted to the best Chiropractic school in the country (in fairness, that’s like saying I got accepted into the Ivy League of Cosmetology programs).

My decision was fast and brutal, undoing over a decade of planning: I want to work in the music business. So at 21, fresh out of college with a kick-ass attitude and the kind of over-confidence that only comes from utter cluelessness, I was ready to tackle the world.  

Look at me, all grown up and following my heart!

Not quite. A few weeks earlier I read about David Geffen’s career. How he forged a letter from UCLA to get a job because he didn’t have a college degree. How he was a millionaire at 27. How he sold his first record company for $7 million. How he sold his second record company for about 80 times more than that.

There’s gold in them thar hills, Chuckles, and I’m gittin’ me a pick-axe!

Let’s be clear about something: the universe will likely never again see a human whirlwind the likes of David Geffen, so it’s unfair for anyone to hold themselves to that kind of standard.

But this would become a recurring theme in my life, looking at successful people and telling myself I could it too. So I said to myself, if Geffen could make a million by 27, so could I. That was it. Affirmations, visualizations, daydreams, actions all focused on that one massive goal.

[Editors Note:  Mr. Geffen also dated Cher. The author was more than happy to leave THAT part out of his goal.]

Six years later. December 16, 11:59pm, one minute before my 28th birthday, sitting and contemplating why I wasn’t yet a millionaire. Not even close, actually. A big aching failure which ate away at me.

Damn you, David Geffen.

Here’s the ugly truth. Every decision I made up and through my 20’s was about money and it left me stranded at the corner of 28th and Worst. To my credit, instead of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to start over. I can’t say I had a plan other than to follow my nose (it always knows!) and keep positive thoughts. Step right up, ladies and gents, and meet the bastard child of Norman Vincent Peale and Toucan Sam.

I quit job my job at a major record label with no earthly idea what would come next.

Thankfully, I Have Child-Bearing Hips.       

 (Photo: Kellogg's)

Now, let’s skip ahead about 10 years. Yeah, a whole lot happened in that decade, but this post isn’t meant to be a chronological biography; there’s a point to be made here. My situation had changed a lot in that 10-spot (although I still worked in the music business), but my viewpoint hadn’t:  I was still chasing money, much to the detriment of my personal life.

So at this point, I co-owned a small but successful marketing firm (and still do today). Business was very good and we were never inclined to discount our prices.

One day, we got a call from a friend asking if we’d like to handle digital marketing for Joan Jett (specifically, we would be hired by Joan’s self-owned label, Blackheart Records).

Blackheart is a well-run and efficient company and doesn’t feel the need to spend a lot on outside marketing, so we’d make very little money doing the work. Actually, we’d lose money. I would never even contemplate such a thing, but I’m such a huge fan of Joan’s that I actually said yes without hesitation. Hell, I was even psyched to do it.

I remember very clearly bathing in the significance of that moment. I did something work-related for…genuine pleasure? And over the course of nearly a year, we worked Joan’s album, tour, singles, and video releases. Of course, I got to see Joan play live whenever I wanted, and I chose several different shows that year. 

At one of those shows, Joan’s Manager/Business Partner Kenny set up a seat for me that was literally ON the stage (albeit at an angle where I couldn’t be seen by the crowd).

The next day I was on the phone with a girl friend (who was not my girlfriend; I was single at the time) and told her that I don’t think I’ll ever need to see Joan perform again, because nothing would top the previous night’s experience.  

The following weekend, Joan was set to play what I think was the final show of that tour (in NYC) and I certainly wasn’t going. The girl friend (not girlfriend) really wanted to go and finally convinced me to take her.  Two hours before the show, she called and cancelled.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

Another client asked to meet up for drinks that night, about an hour before the show. The place he picked happened to be around the corner from the venue where Joan was playing. After the meeting, I said to myself, ‘I’m so close by, why not drop in to say hi before the show, then split?’. 

I was waiting in the VIP area and struck up a conversation with an attractive girl who had grabbed a 2-seat table in the area. She asked if I could hold her table while she went back to meet Joan. 

And while that girl was backstage, some other random girl walked up and sat down at her table. I told her she couldn’t sit there and she left.

About 10 minutes later, the show started. Oddly, Ms. Random Girl returned and we somehow struck up a conversation over the loud--very loud--music. 

Randomoiselle and I will be celebrating our 10th wedding anniversary next month.

On February 14th, Cupid Shoots Arrows. The Other 364 Days? Slings an Axe. 

(Photo: wonderlandmagazine.com)

I think back to how I wasted so many years of my youth on the sole pursuit of money. You want the key to life? Let’s pause here for a second and contemplate. YOU ARE ABOUT TO GET THE KEY TO LIFE HERE.  It’s called BALANCE. Equal parts work, health, work and love.

When was the last time you did something without any concern for money? Who knows…it might even get you hitched.

Tony Montana, Is That Olaf On Your Nostrils? (and My Next Guess Would Have Been Emotional Rescue)

You are literally a click away from TOTAL RELATIONSHIP FREEDOM.

Angry vegan girlfriend who scowls when you order a rib eye? [Click]. Dropped like a hot potato with soy butter. 

Sappy boyfriend who has seen Disney's FROZEN three dozen times and sings "Do You Want To Build A Snowman?" every time he's on the other side of your front door? [Click]. Evaporated like a snow cone on an August sidewalk.

The best part? You don't even need to tell them! Just change your Facebook status to "Single" and let the grapevine grow, baby.

(For those unfamiliar with Disney's FROZEN, here's your two-cent breakdown: rich, powerful, angry foreigner trafficks in white powder and lives isolated in a mansion, away from frivolous younger sister).

In other words, Scarface for kids.

Do You Want To Do Some Blow, Man?   

(Photos: Disney, Universal Pictures)

People all over the globe are literally breaking up with a significant other simply by changing their Facebook status from “In a Relationship” to “Single,” with no further explanation necessary to the poor ex, who now suffers the dual humiliation of getting dumped both electronically and publicly.

Does anyone else miss the good old days of break-ups? Goodbye letters! Actual conversations! Hell, I once knew a guy who dumped a girl during intercourse (which now strangely stands as the proud high point in face-to-face relationship-ending history).

And it seems we've been building to this less-personal method of dumping for quite some time. Remember that "Sex & The City" episode where Jack Berger infamously dumped poor Carrie Bradshaw via Post-It Note? The year was 2003, not coincidentally the year the first social network gained traction.

Yes Friendsters, breaking up is not so hard to do anymore. But does that make it easy? Well, in Facebook-relationship-status parlance, "It’s Complicated".

So welcome to the social media generation, where “Crazy in Love” becomes “Hit The Road, Jack” in the blink of a iPhone.

[Editor's Note: Isn’t it amazing that Mr. Beaverton referenced a dumping Jack and a dumped Jack in the span of six sentences? And you thought making a billion dollars was cool?].

A Million Dollars Isn't Cool. You Know What's Cool?  Writing Captions Beneath Pictures of Actors Portraying Billionaires.                             

(Photo: Columbia Pictures)

Just when you relegated status updates to posting how much you love lists like "28 Homeless Cats Who Look Like British Rock Stars", with the advent of social media, your relationship status is now a neon-flashing billboard for the world to see — or at least that part of the world in your circle of friends online.

Doesn’t sound like a big deal, right? I mean, a break-up is a break-up; you roll with it. Well, picture this: Cindy is floating along through her day, content in the fact that she's "In a Relationship" with Tommy. Cindy logs onto Facebook, casually glances at Tommy’s profile and [insert sound of lead pipe smashing into the side of her head] -- Tommy is “Single”?!?

Cindy is perplexed. “How, HOW can this be?,” she wonders, as the adrenaline marches through her chest like a skater kid on Mountain Dew: “Aha, someone hacked his account!” She picks up the phone to let him know, but it goes to voice mail. She texts, but no reply.

Back to Facebook she goes, to post a message to her beloved’s Wall that some insensitive maniac confiscated his password and is spreading LIES, LIES, LIES. A few minutes later, as Cindy checks back, she sees a whole bunch of comments posted such as “Way to go, Tom!,” “I never liked that b*tch,” “Finally, man! Congrats,” and worst of all, from Tommy himself: “Yeah, tough call but there's far too much Tom to spread around”.

Well, it’s great that Tommy seemed to deliberate so long and hard about his big decision but — hey, Lebron– how about giving Cleveland Cindy a little warning before taking your talents to Facebook?

To be fair, one has to admire the brusque, in-your-face, social media gen attitude of “I’m doing what I want and I’m letting you know in real time.” And although one simple click makes you an instant published author of heartbreak, it still begs the question: Is it really easier to break up digitally?

Can You Guess a Homeless Cat's Favorite Rolling Stones Song? Gimme Shelter.

(Photo: abcnews.com)

Let’s look at Tommy for a moment. His work isn’t done here. Should he de-friend her? Will that make him look petty or seem less relationship-worthy to the other girls he knows? Does he delete all of those pictures and wall postings? Will his ego make him a little bit curious to see how she moved on without him?

Obviously it’s not easier for poor Cindy, who also faces a host of similar decisions plus others. Does she respond back, either to defend her reputation or kindly suggest that his friends go have intercourse with themselves? Does she become obsessed with every digital move her ex makes? How does she express her pain and humiliation? What do you do about common friends? Will Facebook just bring up the hurt every time she logs on or will she find solace in her network of friends?

When your private pain suddenly becomes the business of hundreds of people...it’s complicated.

And lucrative. Think about the treasure trove of relationship information and patterns Facebook has collected over the last decade. Every time you change a status, post a comment, add a description, big brother FB is watching and waiting and analyzing.

For instance, did you know that most Facebook breakups occur on a Monday? Or that there is a huge spike in “Single”s right before Spring Break and Christmas?

But hey, don’t blame the Zuck; you’re the one posting your life to his servers. And the next time you find it creepy that a half-hour after you get force-Singled, Facebook is serving you up an ad for the smash bestselling book “After the Dump: Off Your Rump, Over the Hump, Headed Toward a Baby Bump” (no, that doesn’t exist but it will when I write it), just remember that you have the power to keep your mouth — and fingers — silent in the future.

In fact, a 2010 survey of matrimonial lawyers noted that Facebook was a primary source of evidence in divorce proceedings and custody battles. Keep that little gem in mind moving forward.

And if you're legally bound to someone--that pesky little thing we call marriage--none of this instant relationship-ending magic even applies to you. You still need a lawyer-- or at the very least an "accident"-- to get out from under that oppressive regime. So in the two-birds-one-stone department, feel free to reach out to this guy for some help with those.

This Offer Applies Only to Residents of New Mexico.

(Photo: AMC Television)

So where does this leave us?

For starters, the interaction of couples has been forever changed by social media. And while “death by status update” may be a brutal way to end a relationship, it’s also brutally honest, and honesty should be valued.

Isn’t it easier for you to move on from a relationship knowing that the other person isn’t (honestly) that into you?

B.S. lines like, “It’s not you, it’s me” or “I really still want to be friends,” just give false hope that there is some way to salvage an unsalvageable relationship, so it’s sort of refreshing to know it’s over, electronically and emotionally.

No longer does it take days for word of a break-up to spread among friends and peers, further reinforcing that the end has come. And, sure, for now, when the same word spreads that the split was an unwelcomed surprise, the break-up recipient will be embarrassed, annoyed and confused.

But we’re only in the throes of WBU (Web Break-Ups) 1.0, and by the third iteration, this stuff will be old hat.

So dumperoos, the next time a boyfriend or girlfriend says the words, “It’s not you, it’s me,” look him or her straight in the eye and say, “GO F(acebook) YOURSELF.”

Wanna Know What Getting Dumped on Facebook Feels Like?  Sayh 'Alo To Mah Lit-ul Frend.

(Photos: Disney, Universal Pictures)

Toys R Us Doesn't Serve Swedish Meatballs (and an Ice Cream Sandwich Whacked My Kneecaps)

Years ago, I briefly dated a girl who had a powder blue Care Bear icon as her AOL Instant Messenger picture. And like any sane being, I made fun of her for this crime against humanity.

In fairness, she said she couldn’t see the picture or didn’t realize it was there. But each time we communicated electronically, that 1x1 bear-square would mock me with its saccharine innocence. 

So on our first date, I decided to buy a stuffed Care Bear from the toy store and have it buckled into the passenger seat when I arrived to pick her up.

(Editors Note: How Many Idiots Does it Take to Waste $19.95 for a two-and-a-half-second joke? Just One.)

Bare. Doesn’t Care.                           (Photo: Hachette Filipacchi Media)

As I waited on line at Toys "R" Us, a mom and her daughter—named Alexis—stood behind me. 

Why on earth would I remember the name of a 5-year old girl who stood behind me on line for 25 seconds in 2004?

So very glad you asked. As I noticed from a casual glance to my left, the mom was on the phone, very flustered and paying no mind to her offspring. Alexis, sitting in the large area of the shopping cart, didn’t seem to mind, for that day she was the lucky recipient of a brand new Slinky.

Maybe it was a prize for cleaning her room that morning. Maybe it was an early birthday gift. But I’ll tell you what Alexis wasn’t being rewarded for that day: finishing her oatmeal.

Apparently, Alexis was in dire need of roughage, for by the time I looked at her, she had engaged in the process of eating nearly half of the cardboard box the Slinky was packaged in. Did I mention this was not a Slinky Jr.?

As I watched the scene unfold in front of me like a bad sitcom on UPN, Alexis' mom had a three-fold reaction to her daughter's toy-store snack. 

A first sentence, spoken by Mommy with a mix of embarrassment and horror, was a completely appropriate response from a responsible (albeit otherwise distracted) parent:

Alexis, don't eat the box!!

The 2nd sentence is a different story. For true effect, allow me to reprint both statements in order:

Alexis, don't eat the box!! Mommy hasn't PAID for it yet!

Now, I don’t know if this woman was just flustered from her phone call and didn't have time to choose her words with care. Or if perhaps her recipe book includes corrugated cupcakes and loose-leaf lasagna. But clearly the woman’s previous frustration affected her response to Alexis’ cardboard consumption.

And the trifecta response was complete when Mommy took the Slinky away and said “Now you don’t get one!”

Sadly, I didn’t stay long enough to see if Alexis took the Slinky home. I’m guessing the bigger problem was scanning the barcode through her stomach lining.

Our Drill Bits are Delicious with Just a Pinch of Cardamom.   

(Photo: Gene Fleszar)

A few years later, I found myself at an IKEA purchasing items for my office conference room.

In the pick-up waiting area, there is a snack bar of questionable repute (Going to IKEA for food is like asking Charles Manson to plan a bridal shower. Sure, you can do it, but you’re really gonna regret the decision in about an hour).

Waiting for a pick-up alongside me was a 30’s-ish British couple, with two young boys who looked to be around 2 and 4-years old. The 2-year old sat in the shopping cart, while his older brother stood nearby.

The two little Lingonberries were bored, loud and rambunctious, ignoring their parents’ desperate pleas for civilized behavior, when their mum devised a plan to combat this insolence, a plan brilliantly entitled “Soft-Serve Ice Cream Cones Will Keep These Little F@*kers Occupied Until We’re Called to Pick-up our Grundtals and Ödmjuks”.

Daddy returned with 2 cones, one for each of his pint-sized umlauts. The younger child, apparently not schooled in the ways of holding a dessert treat the size of his right femur, dropped his cone on the floor and let out an apocalyptic scream. To silence his little hellhound, Daddy—clearly frustrated— decided the best course of immediate action was to take the cone away from the now-calm older sibling (!) and give it to Whiny the Younger.

As you might expect, the 4-year began to lose his skärpt and started screaming even louder than his brother. This prompted the younger hellion to smash his newfound frozen booty on top of his older brother’s head, rendering them both, effectively, cone-less.

The screams could now be heard from heard from Newark to Norrköping.

To Make Up For Our Childish Misbehaviour at IKEA, Harry & I Have Given Them Our Polo Ponies for “Swedish Meatball Research”.              

(Photo: usmagazine.com)

What have we learned today?

First, big box retailers provide a ready source of empty calories. Although next time, Alexis, if you gnaw on the Slinky at least you might get some iron.

And second, when we're flustered we can let our emotions get the better of us. Not everyone displays grace under pressure every time. The goal isn’t to be a robot; it’s to try to exercise sound objective judgment no matter the circumstance.  

There is precious little in this life we can control, but one thing within our power is how we act—and how we REACT—to our environment. This skill defines us—in life, in love and in business. And it’s something we can all work on. Don’t be ruled by your emotions.

Sadly, I don't know what's become of the children from our stories.

My guess is Alexis works in the recycling industry and the IKEA Insolents knock over grocery stores for ice cream sandwiches. I just hope there’s more than one Chipwich left when they get there.

FINALLY!! A Cherry- Flavored Strip Club Treat Worth Busting Kneecaps Over.     (Photo: flickriver.com)

Do You Moxie Crimefighter, Take Speck Wildhorse to be Your Lawfully… (and 146 Babies Who Love Dragon Fire)

Some things in life are really hard to do.

Becoming a Billionaire.  Being elected President of the United States. Marrying Elizabeth Taylor (which, in fairness, is only made difficult now because she’s dead).

But no single task in life is more challenging than naming your child.

It’s True What They Say; the First $76 Billion is Always the Hardest.       (Photo: Shutterstock.com)

The simple truth is, the act of giving your child a name is…not so simple.

So many baby name choices. Biblical? Celebrity? Celebrity portmanteau? (Brangelina, Bennifer, etc.).  You just KNOW that in the coming months some IQ Buster is going to name their child “Kimye”, and that makes me want to ban human reproduction altogether. Trust me, I have that power.

Even something as—well, medieval--as Game of Thrones has spawned what no less an authority than Entertainment Weekly terms “an epic baby name boom”. And accolades to EW’s Stephanie Robbins for writing what is perhaps the single most interesting sentence this decade:

According to data from the Social Security Administration, in 2012, there were 146 female babies born named Khaleesi.

[Editors Note: And in a remarkable coincidence, not one of those 292 parents has even heard of Game of Thrones.]

My Child Will Never Know a World with Premium Cable Channels.     (Photo: Time Warner)

Of course, we’d be remiss if we didn’t call our celebrity friends out on the carpet.

Oh, those silly, nutty, wacky famous people, who seemingly crave the white hot spotlight so much, they are willing to sacrifice their children’s future physical and mental health, just to be unique (and draw even more attention to themselves in the process).  

Here’s a partial list of celebrity paint by name-bers:

Zuma Nesta Rock (Gwen Stefani)

Moxie Crimefighter (Penn Gillette)

Pilot Inspektor (Jason Lee)

Speck Wildhorse (John Mellencamp)

Kal-El (Nicholas Cage’s special gift to his son—Superman’s Kryptonian name)

And a special shout out to Chef Jamie Oliver, whose name choices for his four kids--Poppy Honey Rosie, Daisy Boo Pamela, Petal Blossom Rainbow and Buddy Bear Maurice-- leave little doubt he cooks with prodigious amounts of alcohol.

Frank Zappa, himself no baby-naming slouch after giving the world Dweezil, Diva Thin Muffin and Moon Unit, was once asked why he chose those names:

                    Why not name your kids something like that? Besides if they ever wanted to change it, they can do it. It only costs about $15.

Well Francis, we have a better idea for celeb kiddies: REVENGE.

Take for instance, actor Rob Morrow’s daughter, Tu—get it?—whom I truly hope grows up to marry a man named Joe F*ckinMuch (What? It’s Germanic).

You see, names are brands for people. Allow me to demonstrate. First, I’ll say a product brand name and tell you what pops into my mind.

Snuggles Fabric Softener:  (Awwww….it’s gonna make my hoodie smell so fresh and feel so soft! And look at that little bear mascot they have. Most bears smell like rot. Most bears have larceny in their hearts. The Snuggles Bear uses a fuzzy blue blankie for a parachute!)

Now, let’s try it with a person’s name:

Speck Wildhorse:  (Wow, kid, your Dad is an A**HOLE.)

The branding of your offspring could have far-flung consequences, such as pre-determining their status in life. Need proof? Look how many radio announcers are named Mike. Need better proof? Mr. & Mrs. Gates of the Pacific Northwest named their son—who eventually became the richest man on earth—Bill.  Yes, as in Dollar (Bill). Yes, as in (Bill) ionaire.  

Oh, I’m not saying every kid named Bill will eventually conquer the business world, but I do fully expect Nic Cage’s son to grow up and become a reporter at the Daily Planet.

My Only Kryptonite is Sanity.          (Photo:  Comicsbeat.com)

Plus, your child’s moniker says as much about you as it does about them.  

So the day of reckoning has finally come for you, parents of Barclay, Bentley, Chesney, Drexel, Goldman, Haverford, McLaren, Shelton and Wellesley, for there is a special place in Hell reserved for those who name their children after expensive cars, investment banks, country music singer’s last names or the college they attended. Yeah, that’s right--I’m talking to YOU, parents of AppalachianState Johnson*).

[*Editor’s Note: If there is anyone out there actually named AppalachianState Johnson, I send my sincerest apology. And sympathy.]

Now let me tell you about the most magical name of all: Sabrina.

Completely coincidentally, this is the name of my daughter.

Sabrina has been my favorite name since I was practically a toddler. You see, I am a child of the 70’s and was glued to the television for such thought-provoking shows as The Six-Million Dollar Man, Three’s Company & Fantasy Island.

But one show stood firmly above the crowd. Not for its biting wit. Not for its sweeping dramatic arcs. Certainly not for its pensive social commentary. But I defy you to name me one other show that had Jaclyn Smith, Farrah Fawcett and Kate Jackson.

The year was 1976. The show was Charlie’s Angels. And this pre-pubescent lad lost his little mind when he saw women who looked that good. Certainly, Miss Jenny—my 62 year-old kindergarten teacher--was not the crush worthy-sort of babe a single man of the 1970’s like me deserved. So I naturally defaulted to the Halo-huggers.

I'm Not A Praying Man But Lord Please Turn Me Into a Tennis Racquet, a Pony and/or Sand.    (Photo: Getty Images)

What does any of this nonsense have to do with the name Sabrina?

Well, Jaclyn Smith—the one in the white bikini—was my childhood crush and her character’s name on Charlie’s Angels was…Kelly.  However, Kate Jackson’s character on the show was named Sabrina. Confused? Well, when I first started watching the show I incorrectly thought Jaclyn’s character was named Sabrina. When I realized my mistake, it was too late: I had already committed my heart to the name.

The day we brought my daughter home from the hospital, my wife and I took her for a long walk from our new apartment. We had just moved there the week before but had yet to survey the area completely. 

About a mile along, we passed a five-foot high, greenish-grey statue of a playful nymph. The name on the base read simply: SABRINA. I took that as a sign from the universe confirming my naming decision.

But what do I know? I’m just happy my parents never attended Ball State University.

It was either Bill-ionaire or Spend My Life Behind Iron Gates. I Chose Wisely.       (Photo: DigitalSpy.com)

Introducing Olive The Dachshund (And, Hey, Marlon Brando, Stop Mumbling About The Trash)

Do you hear that sound? It’s your dachshund overlord calling. Ignore her at your own peril.

---

As a child, I guess I never much cared for the animal kingdom.

I say “I guess” because my parents only had pets—three Yorkshire Terriers—during my infancy. I was told that I used to climb out of my playpen, turn it over, bait the pups to move closer, then trap them underneath, creating some kind of impenetrable, white-mesh puppy Alcatraz.

Soon after, my parents found happy new homes for the penitentiary pups.

And after my jailhouse insolence, I had not so much as a goldfish throughout the remainder of my childhood. Which was fine, because, hey, how the hell is a two year-old going to lure a fish under a Pack N’ Play anyway?

Age: Two.

Criminal IQ: Through the F#*king Roof.

(Photo: Hasbro Preschool)

As an adult, I warmed to the idea of having a pet, primarily because I had girlfriends who owned cats or dogs. This was a great entrée into pet-dom, because I had no responsibility of ownership yet enjoyed the closeness that came with spending time around Fido or Kitty.

And then came Olive.

Olive is a tail-wagging, short-haired dachshund pup who belonged to some random chick I met at a Joan Jett concert (and eventually married). Although I had been aware of dachshunds, I couldn’t recall ever seeing one before that wasn’t a red balloon at a pre-pubescent birthday party.

But the moment I met Olive, it was like a sausage with a snout shot her bow and launched a liver-flavored arrow straight into my a**.

And just like that—I was under the spell of a dachshund overlord.

Um, Am I Gonna Need a Tetanus Shot Now?!?

(Photo: etsy.com)

Dachshunds are interesting creatures. They were initially bred to be badger hunters (dachshund literally means “badger dog”), which explains several huge facets of dox-dom:

* A loud—VERY LOUD—bark, to alert hunters from underground [How loud? Imagine cupping your ear to a rocket launching pad.]

* A long snout, to pick up the scent of prey [And provide them with the dubious ability to smell chicken cooking from about six states away.]

* An absolutely fearless nature [They either don’t know or don’t care that they are roughly the size of a Pottery Barn lunchbox.]

You see, badgers dig deep holes. And they’re nasty as hell. You seriously think a Pug or Chihuahua is going to FedEx a box of kick-a** to Mr. Badger?

Dachshunds are card-carrying members of “I Don’t Give a F#*k", which means they are content to fight (way) outside their weight class. Forget German Shepherd; Olive once attacked a horse.

And if her tussle with Seabiscuit wasn’t amusing enough, try this saddle on:  the first time I saw Olive lose her little mind was when my now-wife bought me an expensive shaving set for our first Valentine’s Day. A kit which included a brush made of fine badger hair.

Olive lunged at that lather-maker like she was about to spray slo-mo bullets in a John Woo film.

To this very day, I keep my shaving kit high up in a closed cabinet.

Excuse Me, Officer. Can I See Your Badge(r)?

(Photo: Golden Princess Film Production Ltd.)

Two things struck me instantly about my new canine bestie.

First, how genuinely taken she seemed to be with me. Olive acted like I owned a chain of butcher shops. And she promptly hitched her wagon to an imagined rib-eye and rawhide party train.

And second, that Olive had a “voice”.

Oh, I don’t mean that the pup actually spoke to me (which would either land this story on the cover of Time or land me in a psych ward. Or, even cooler, BOTH.).

No, Olive’s voice was provided courtesy of her proud owner.

If A Dachshund Doesn’t Get You, Mr. Badger, The Art of Shaving Probably Will.

(Photos: Spirit-Animals.com, The Art of Shaving)

People humanize animals. Dog owners, in particular, have come to see themselves as "parents" to their little “children”.

I am no different in my view of our pups. Olive and her little “brother” Rufus (himself the subject of an upcoming story) receive gifts on birthdays and holidays, in the same way as my daughter, Sabrina--although Sabrina’s gifts no longer require squeaky sound effects.

God, I miss one-stop shopping.

Olive is obviously not human, yet that doesn’t make her occupy a status less than family member for me.

And society has affirmed this treatment. Look around and you’ll see pet motels, doggie spas, dog trainers, dog whisperers, dog groomers, designer wares, pet birthday cards, organic pet food and lots of other pricey options available at—what else?—a pet superstore.

There are even pet psychics who can actually read doggie minds! My wife met one of these highly-gifted individuals at a Halloween party. She asked the medium if there was anything Olive wanted that she wasn’t getting.  

The clairvoyant’s response [eyes squinted and fingers raised, encircling her temples])?  

I See...Cheeseburgers.

And After I Break Outta This Crap Hole, I’m Getting Me a Puppy. And a Cheeseburger to Share with That Puppy.

(Photo: Paramount Pictures)

The “humanification” of animals is not a new concept. I read Orwell’s Animal Farm in grammar school. And in children’s literature, there was that cat with a fiddle and a little dog laughing (and some utensils running away to Vegas to get hitched or something).

But dog owners—quite commonly, I’ve found—literally give their pups a voice. And the voices we give the pups are a reflection of what we observe their personalities to be.

Here’s some insight into Olive’s diverse personality. Olive, much like her nemesis the Honey Badger, doesn’t take any crap. And her sensibilities are violated when she detects anything empirically unfair.

Olive is practical (she only eats small amounts throughout the day), relentless (will nudge her nose against my thigh until I give in and provide belly rubs), a con-artist (if my wife gives her a treat and I don’t see it, Olive will wait for her to leave the room and then beg me as if she never had one), focused (will spend two hours stripping the skin off a tennis ball), a bit of a diva (she won’t walk AWAY from the house but will walk back) and a complete love-bug.

She must also be part fish. Whenever we are near a lake, we practically have to drag her out of the water. The entire time she either barks at waves or swims in circles.

And please, oh please, don’t ever take Olive through an automatic Car Wash. That sound can simply be described as "Barking as played through a Chinese Wall of Marshall Amps".

And all of this “voice” stuff would have seemed silly to me before I fell for Olive and her mother.

These Amps are Highly Regarded In the Wiener Dog-Asian Partition-Vehicle Aquatic Maintenance Community.

(Photo: Stereogum.com)

I thought my wife was either adorable, nuts or both when I heard her speak in Olive’s voice for the first time. It sounded kind of familiar, actually, but I couldn’t place the origin. Much later, it hit me: Olive’s voice sounded like one or all of the following:

1)         That sentient jack-in-the-box on The Island of Misfit Toys from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer;

2)         A slightly higher-pitched version of what Seinfeld made George Steinbrenner sound like; or

3)         A slightly lower-pitched Mickey Mouse, but with more street-wise attitude.

Either way, it’s a voice you cannot forget, particularly when Olive’s keen sensibilities of right and wrong are offended. At that point, Olive becomes the Queen of Righteous Indignation.

For example, upon learning that no dogs are allowed on a particular beach, Olive would say something like this:

Apparently, she also likes a good pun.

Either Billy Martin is a Misfit Toy or We Will Only Ever Have 2/3 of Olive ‘s Voice Represented in a Single Picture.

(Photo: Disney Parks)

Olive is 11 now, going on 12.  In some ways, she is still the same vibrant, lively pup I fell in love with. Yet, I succumb to thoughts of the inevitable when I see her whitening coat, her struggle to walk as fast as Rufus, or the report from her vet, which now generally includes a heart murmur or cataracts or something else age-appropriate.

And I get sad when I see a bored look on Olive’s face. In those moments, I want to transport her to a lake house in Maine, where she can run free and bark at waves, rather than pace through our Manhattan apartment, which is filled with an endless cycle of thoughts and deeds related to human obligations. Many days, the best Olive can hope for is a 10-minute walk on the unforgiving city sidewalk.

Olive was my first “child” but naturally, since my daughter was born, Olive doesn't get the best of me anymore. And a part of me wishes I could clone myself just to be there exclusively for a small pup who has filled my life with the most surprising and unexpected love I have experienced; the love for and from an animal.

I bet Olive would think wishing to be cloned is silly.

“What a waste!” I can hear her say in her Christmastime-reindeer-jack-in-the-box-Yankees-owner-Disney-rodent-righteous-indignation-type tones.

Wasteful. Like asking a wish-granting genie for more ketchup. Or asking the Godfather--on the day of his daughter’s wedding--to take out your garbage.

“You can do better with those wishes!” I imagine Olive would say. Like asking for a mountain of liver treats. Or non-ending days on a Maine river.

Just Make Sure You Separate the Paper from the Plastics, Vito.

(Photo: Paramount Pictures)

I know someday I will have to walk on those unforgiving city sidewalks without Olive beside me. And that thought carves a small piece from my heart each time it appears. But I fully expect the Great Beyond to trumpet fairness, and include endless sunshine and a lake with great rolling waves, just the right size for an eager pup to pounce on for eternity.

[Um, the Great Beyond will have a lake, won’t it? If it doesn’t, Olive is gonna be really, really pissed off.]

A Weiner No One Wants To Pet.

 

C'mon...sharing is caring.

You Don't Have To Beat Up A Cabbage Patch Kid To Get An MBA (It's Just More Fun If You Do)

Why am I starting a blog now?

It’s 2015--people jumped on this blogging bandwagon, like, 5,300 days ago. Maybe I was too busy.  Maybe I felt there was TMI out there. Maybe I feared being this handsome and a great writer would likely tick you off and I just don’t need that kind of hassle.

Well, two things inspired me to start. First, a great article I accidentally found by the wonderful yet likely from another planet James Altucher:

http://www.jamesaltucher.com/2013/12/the-ultimate-cheat-sheet-for-reinventing-yourself-2/

(I love how I am barely seven sentences into my first blog post and I am already directing you to leave my page.  I really need to curb my generosity).

Second, I thought about all those times in Business School when I invented creative challenges for myself and it felt—well, purposeful. 

Some of those challenges were directly related to standing out, like during a Leadership presentation when everyone else played it pretty much straight (and, in fairness, we were supposed to act as consultants advising a client on a serious matter), yet for my part, I created a loud, hyperbolic CEO persona who used verbal aggression, magic tricks and the timely assault of a helpless Cabbage Patch Kid doll to make his points.  

It went down quite well with the class, yet my professor—who is blind—felt completely terrorized.

Marketing Tip #1:  Know your audience.

Marketing Tip #2:  You can’t please everyone.

It's Always So Sad When the Kids Turn to Meth.

Good thing my wife advised me against using fire in my presentation.

No joke—I was going to pull live matches out from under my lapels to make some random point. I learned that magic trick from a clever high school friend (thanks, Matt Antinoro). My professor likely would have had a coronary if she smelled smoke and, really, hasn’t she had enough to deal with already?

Marketing Tip #3:  Off-the-wall thinking is a blessing but it's nice to have someone around to reign you in. Sometimes.

Other challenges were a bit more…frivolous (funny how assaulting a children’s toy in an Ivy League classroom is not something I consider frivolous). 

Like the time when my good friend Brad randomly mentioned Paul Simon’s “50 Ways To Leave Your Lover”, which prompted me to drift off and, by the end of class, create a version of the tune as if it were written by Jack the Ripper as a celebrity stalker (it was a boring class anyway!).

Sample verse:

I took a trip to London just to meet the Queen

I stabbed her with her crown, I guess that’s kinda mean

They’ll never find me, I’m disguised like Mr. Bean

There must be, 50 ways to cleave your monarch.

(Just consider yourself lucky I didn’t post the verses I wrote about Reese Witherspoon, Mariah Carey, Stephanie Meyer and Nancy Pelosi. Then you would have felt exactly like my Leadership professor).

On a completely separate note, e-mail me if you want to know the match trick.

There Must Be, 50 Ways To Leave This Blog Post.

So to wrap up this epic and likely award-winning first post, I will share a story. 

I’ve worked in the music business most of my adult life, first as an attorney and then in entertainment marketing with the agency I co-founded.  An older friend of mine is a true legend in the business. I first worked with him at a major label and later, he served on my company’s Board of Directors. He’s not a household name but he’s had a remarkably successful career.  Let’s call him Freddie (not his real name). 

Every year, Freddie goes to the international music business conference in Cannes, France known as Midem. He’s probably gone for the past I-can’t-even-count-that-high number of years. Freddie told me a story that I’ve never forgotten.

In 1973 at Midem, Freddie was walking around on the floor of the exhibition and he kept passing this tiny booth, staffed by one malnourished-looking British kid with a turntable. This dude kept playing the same song over and over (and over) to the point where it was driving people nuts.

Freddie said it was the weirdest sounding tune, completely instrumental, symphonic with a hollow, evil-sounding melody (apparently not meant for summertime sing-a-longs while drumming on your steering wheel). 

Freddie went up to the kid and asked him about this song he kept playing. The kid – whom Freddie described as very nice and polite – excitedly told him it was the first release on his new record label.  Freddie—who has signed and produced more than a fair share of hit songs—smiled, shook his head, wished the poor bloke luck and walked away.

About a year later, Freddie decided to take in a movie that seemingly everyone in America was buzzing about (it would go on to become one of the highest-grossing films of all time). Freddie was digging into his tub of popcorn (and in 1974, that tub was probably the size of piece of children’s bedroom furniture and cost 13 cents) when the opening credits appeared and THAT CRAZY SONG STARTED PLAYING. It was the title track, actually.

The movie?  The Exorcist.

The song?  Tubular Bells.

The label?  Virgin Records.

The polite, skinny British kid?  Richard Branson.

Yes, Richard Branson--he of Virgin Airlines, Virgin Cola, Virgin Mobile, Virgin Hotels, Virgin Intergalactic and, likely someday, Virgin Heaven, Virgin Hell & Virgin Purgatory-- started his ENTIRE FREAKING EMPIRE playing one weird song in a 3x3 booth for people who thought he was crazy.

And something else of note:  Sir Richard had dyslexia and was such a poor student that he barely graduated from high school.

Just Wait Until You See The Altar Girls at Virgin Church.

We can start anything at anytime from anywhere.

What are you starting today?