It's probably just tap water, but from a really expensive faucet

Found in Florida.

Permalink: 08:14 AM | Comments (1)

Who needs in-flight entertainment when...

As I boarded a plane from Ft. Lauderdale to Boston yesterday, an older guy in front of me was getting strangely chatty with the JetBlue staff. “Oh, and what’s your name?” the man said to a random staffer, who was doing nothing more than standing next to the person taking boarding passes. The random staffer identified himself, and the two shook hands.

When I sat down, the guy hadn’t even come close to his seat. Instead, he was busy talking with the flight attendants and poking around in the cockpit. I began to make fun of him with the dude sitting next to me -- and then the man turned around and I got my first good look at him, and by golly, it was former Florida senator and Democratic presidential candidate Bob Graham! Flying on my plane! And, as I’d later see, sitting in the middle seat in the middle of the plane a few rows behind me! Bob Graham!

One of the guys who sat in my row was talking to Bob before boarding, and we conspired to meet him after the flight and ask for photos. When we did get off the plane, his wife trailed behind us -- but Bob being Bob, he spent a few extra minutes on the plane saying goodbye to everyone. We asked his wife if he’d mind taking a picture with each of us, and she said it would make his day. Then she opened her purse and gave each of us -- I kid you not -- a postcard featuring a picture of them and their 10 grandchildren. Truth be told, they were leftovers from his 2004 presidential run, but she just described them as "pictures with the grandkids."

I always thought Bob Graham seemed very avuncular, and now I know: It’s no act. When he came out, he was more than happy to pose for pictures, and even suggested we stand in front of the check-in counter to memorialize that we were on the same flight. We then talked for a minute about nothing in particular, and at one point he even took out one of his famed notebooks and put it in a different pocket. I wonder if I became a notation.

Eventually we thanked him for his time and left, and some woman simultaneously walked up behind us and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Senator?” Of course, he was more than happy to talk with her as well. It must take him hours to get through a place as crowded as an airport. But I was most impressed with his wife -- standing there next to their carry-on items, smiling an oh-that-Bob smile, knowing she'll be there for a while and displaying a patience I can't begin to imagine.

Permalink: 09:59 PM | Comments (3)

Hot, bothered and covered in fur

Image via Heat website

In September, a friend sent me a link to “Heat,” a movie that was being sold as a Humane Society fundraiser and appeared to be nothing short of kitty porn. I was tickled, and put up a post full of cheap and weak kitty porn jokes, and then promptly forgot about it. But two weeks ago, I got this e-mail from the guy who made the film:

Hi Jason,

I enjoyed your take on my movie "Heat" in your September archives.

The Minnesota Valley Humane Society is just one of several animal shelters that have decided to sell the DVD as a fund raiser. Some folks DO see the title and photo as being "suggestive". It's really just a spoof of a torrid, silver-screen love triangle, told in the style of a silent movie. And yes, there IS a plot-line.

I'm very proud of how "Heat" turned out and have even been entering it in some film festivals. I also see this movie as a celebration of the wonderful compositions of Leroy Shield, of "Little Rascals" fame, whose music I used exclusively.

I'd be happy to send you a free copy for you to re-review.

Steve Cloutier

I forwarded this e-mail on to the friend who originally sent me the link, and she quickly responded, “Get it! Kitty porn!!!!!!!!!!” And that’s how, last Tuesday, I wound up watching “Heat.”

Since the friend who started this whole thing lives in another state, I sat down to watch it with my friend Lilli, who is a cat owner and cat lover. I’m something of a cat eh -- that is, “Cats? Eh.” I don’t love them, I don’t hate them, I have mild allergies to them and I think dogs are way better.

Let’s cut right to the chase: There wasn’t enough kitty porn. I was all revved up for some hot feline action, and this tease of a movie provided little more than some snuggling and nose-touching. In one scene, it appears as if one of the cats is checking out the others’ ass, but that’s pretty common in both the animal and human world. Even the deleted scenes are short on steam: There’s a special feature called “more love bites,” but it’s just wholesome family fun. I’m telling you, “Heat” is really passing up on the untapped market for bestiality fans.

The movie may have been an ode to torrid silver screen love affairs, but it was also pretty much like every early high school relationship: Boy meets girl, they fool around, they have a falling out, they get back together, and then they graduate high school and cheat on each other in college. Er, wait, I guess that last part didn't happen in the movie. But you get the idea.

When it was finished, I turned to Lilli and said, “So, here’s the review: Not enough cat porn.”

“Not enough cat porn?” she said, aghast. “How about, ‘Not enough acting.’”

“Acting? They’re cats,” I said.

“Yeah, but they could have done something more,” she said.

Talk about high expectations. I must never be around when her cat is performing Shakespeare. Usually it just sits on its ass, looking indifferent. But I must agree with her central point: The movie would have been better if, uh, it was better. I'm afraid I have really no constructive feedback to offer.

I do feel bad totally slamming “Heat,” though. It was clearly a labor of love for Steve, who admits in an interview (also on the DVD) that he just filmed his own cats running around and then created the storyline later. And considering all the other wacky stuff I’ve seen cat-lovers buy, there is no doubt a population of people who would adore “Heat.” That's fine. Just stay away from me, people, because I’ll start sneezing.

After the movie, Lilli suggested we refresh our minds with a showing of “Kung Fu Hustle.” It was also disappointly low on kitty porn, but Lilli’s cat did step on my crotch once during the movie. Meow!

Permalink: 01:37 PM | Comments (4)

The slow, brutal draining of childhood innocence

A story headlined "Explicit Web site attracts pre-teens" (but for some reason with a different headline online) ran above the fold on the front page of the South Florida Sun-Sentinel today. Sounds saucy! What evildoer is trying to lure our children into smut and decadence this time? Is it an at-large purveyor of child pornography? A moralistic piledriver bent on turning children into violent animals? Dare say, which weapon of Satan are we to take up arms against?

Here's the story's lede: "A Web site bursting with big-breasted women and profanity has become the rage among South Florida middle-school students, who lie about their ages so they blog on MySpace."

MySpace? Like, the regular ol' MySpace? Oh yes. From the story:

Still, the sexual images are abundant. A Florida Atlantic University student calls herself "Easy Lover" and warns "Better forget it, cause you'll never get it."

A 17-year-old from Pompano Beach lists his "porn star name" as "Rod Stallion."

Dear god, people! A girl at FAU is being saucy -- although also confusing, since her nickname doesn't quite match her promise -- and a 17-year-old is parodying porn names? Why, the devil's hand has already gripped us by the necks and now he's beginning to squeeze.

This article infuriated me so much, I did something I'm generally loathe to do: I wrote the reporter to complain.

Permalink: 05:42 PM | Comments (1)

As if the French didn't have enough to worry about

I've got a short piece in this week's issue of Boston's Weekly Dig. I admit it's not the most exciting thing I've ever done -- just a profile of a creperie owner --but in my defense, I was on a tight deadline, all my other ideas fell through, and this guy's creperie really is good. Also, a quick note to any French readers I may have: I intentionally kept any direct reference to stereotypical French snobbyness out of the piece, but an editor there, without my knowledge, decided to add it in -- as the first sentence. Oh well. If it's any consolation, I always opposed that "Freedom Fries" thing.

I may be doing a few more of these random local profiles for the Dig, so if any of you are from the Boston area and can think of an interesting person worth about 600 words, let me know.

Permalink: 02:15 AM | Comments (0)

At least I never bought a plastic lightsaber

I'm flying to Florida tomorrow and will have ample reading time, so I went to the bookstore to buy “In Cold Blood” by Truman Capote. At the checkout counter, the clerk asked if I was buying the book because I saw the movie. He wasn’t being a jerk about it; it was just bookstore small talk.

“Well,” I said, without thinking about it, “I had heard good things for a while, but the movie finally spurred me on.”

...which is a total lie. I hadn’t even heard of the book or its author until the movie came out -- and yes, I do think that’s kind of pathetic, especially considering my profession. The guy behind the counter doesn’t know what I do for a living, though, so why that answer? It just popped out. Clearly, somewhere inside of me, I consider it shameful to buy a book after seeing a movie -- even such an excellent, well-crafted movie such as “Capote.”

Is this rational? In a very high-falutin’, snobby bourgeois way, I suppose. Movies create herds of mindless followers -- people buying toys or books, children flushing fish down the toilet, pinot noir flying off the shelves -- and who wants to think of themselves as a follower? It's embarassing to admit a movie caused me to do something -- even though, come to think of it, the very presence of the movie caused me to buy a ticket to the movie, and the herd of people who went to see the movie is surely larger than the herd of people who then bought the book. And hey, what’s the harm if a movie can reach a wide audience and uses its leverage to revive interest in a book such as “In Cold Blood”? Maybe I'm being too uppity. But I guarantee, if someone on the plane asks me if I got the book because I saw the movie, I'll probably say no. Go figure.

Permalink: 12:48 PM | Comments (2)

Yield to hula-hoopers

I snapped this a week or two ago in Roslyn, NY, but forgot to post it until now. Clearly the sticker was made for a specific purpose -- but was it this purpose? Is there someone in Long Island busily transforming yield signs into public protection for wandering hula-hoopers? I do hope so. Hula-hoopers probably qualify for the Endangered Species Act at this point; it'd be a tragedy to lose one in a pedestrian accident.

Permalink: 09:49 AM | Comments (2)

Oh, yay! This post smells delicious!

The waitress at a diner I sometimes go to has an annoying quirk: She seems to think I’m a small child. How else can I explain her comments every time she brings me my food? “Yummy,” she’ll sometimes say as she sets it down in front of me. On some days, she croons, “Smells good!” or “Looks good!” One day, I know she’s going to set the food down, pick up a forkful of it and say, “Open wide, here comes the choo-choo train!”

My girlfriend says I’m being overly critical of this woman, who is just trying to be nice. I disagree. I feel like she’s trying to hype me up for the food I’ve already ordered -- and really, if I wasn’t interested in the food, I wouldn’t have ordered it in the first place. Just give me my freakin’ French toast, ok?

Permalink: 09:22 AM | Comments (5)

Spit, spitter, spittest

I’ve got a cold. And because I’ve got a cold, I woke up at 2 a.m. yesterday morning to spit the biggest spit I’ve ever spat. It was really disgusting, actually. It just sort of flowed up my throat, like an evacuation. It was a spit so big, it demanded consciousness. I lied in bed for a few minutes afterward, unable to sleep and somewhat dumbfounded by it. And alright, I admit: I was a little impressed, too.

This reminds me of a medical epiphany I made when I was about eight. If people periodically have runny noses, I reasoned, then there should be a way to calculate the average amount of runny noses in a lifetime, and therefore the average amount of mucus that’s lost. Then, I figured, all we’d have to do is take that amount of mucus out of the body in one swoop -- a sucky straw would do the trick, of course -- and then, once exhausted of our excess mucus, we’d be free of runny noses for the rest of our lives.

In any case, despite all the obvious biological reasons why that doesn’t make any sense, I’m here to talk to my eight-year-old self in language he'll understand: After last night’s mother of all loogies, I still have a runny nose. Case closed.

Permalink: 08:15 AM | Comments (5)

Hey baby, you're lookin' awful tonight.

Anna of Lucky Luciano had this bizarre experience:

Three weeks ago, I had a guy approach me, talk normally for a minute, then tell me that I'd look better if I did something with my hair. To which I responded, "Well, you don't have to look at it" before I walked away. What is with this new approach? I've read about it all over the place, and I'm horrified that there are girls out there that fall for this crap.

...to which I posted a confused comment on her site, wondering if this actually is, as she said, a “new approach.” After all, it doesn’t make a lot of sense: Pick-up lines are usually just clumsy attempts at charm or lame attempts at humor -- neither of which are very charming, but both of which I can understand a guy attempting. This kind of pick-up line, however, is neither. It doesn’t make any sense to me. How could this possibly be effective?

Anna responds: “apparently the logic is that hot girls are used to guys falling all over themselves to compliment them. By insulting them, you can get their attention by being different. Also, by playing on their insecurities, you can make them feel like they're lucky that you're paying attention.”

Yeah, but jeez: If you just want to get their attention by being different, why not go all out and wear a chicken costume? It's less embarassing.

This is like in that Will Smith movie “Hitch,” when he picks up a woman by acting as if he mistook her for a prostitute. I didn’t buy that when I saw it in the movie, but maybe it wasn’t just another moment of Hollywood magic after all. And if that’s the case, that is so monumentally sad.

I have used a cheesy pick-up line only once in my life, and I swear it was purely accidental. It was freshman year of college, and a friend and I had moseyed down to a nearby coffee shop. As I remember this, it was the first time we had been there and some bad folk artist was crooning away on stage. I was curious about whether the place is always like this, so I turned to a girl next to me and said, “Hey, do you come here often?” We talked for a moment about how awful the folk act was, and then my friend and I walked away. Only later did I realize how pathetic I must have sounded. I felt like going back and apologizing, but the damaged seemed done.

Permalink: 07:42 AM | Comments (3)

Table scraps:

♣SORRY FOR THE light posting of late. I've had a few things to take care of. Expect more crap from me soon. Until then, though, considering I've already apologized, here's a light TC.

♣IN NEWS THAT will surely please supporters of abstinence-only education, a new study shows that rural men don't know how to use condoms. ("We're effectively eliminating knowledge of how to use these baby-killing contraptions," someone like Pat Robertson is surely saying.) But this part of the study is particularly perplexing: "Almost half the men who answered IU survey questions about their latest sexual encounters with women admitted they waited too long to put on a condom or took it off too soon." Ok, so: They had a condom. They thought to use it. But, uh, how exactly did they get confused about when to take it off? "Ok, baby, we've been having sex for one minute. Time to take this condom off and really get down to business." Really now.

♣THERE IS ONE person in the world who would ever believe a guy when he says he's the president of the Chicago chapter of the Patrick Swayze fan club. Luckily, that person has been found.

♣TIME MAGAZINE WINS the award for Dumbest Attempt at Interactivity: As a tie-in to its cover story on ambition, it offers a reader poll of which famous person is most ambitious. Honestly, I can't think of a single way to vote intelligently on this. Everyone listed here is at the top of their respective games -- Bill Clinton, Britney Spears, Tiger Woods. How can this be judged? It's just stupid.

♣THE CAPTION TO this photo made me laugh out loud.

♣I NEVER THOUGHT I'd enjoy cat humor, but then this happened.

♣AND THEN, THERE'S this.

Permalink: 01:45 AM | Comments (1)

A sign you might be ready for a lifestyle change

I stumbled across this blog yesterday, which the writer sums up this way:

I think this blog will eventually be about two things: 1) my lesbian tendencies and 2) my dissipating affection for my boyfriend. They're one in the same, really.

I would say so!

Permalink: 12:02 AM | Comments (1)

But she'd still rock it on American Idol

Here's today's Hagar the Horrible:

When I saw the last panel, I thought something was off. And then I remembered Oct. 28's Hagar:

For the sake of continuity, let's now make a list of Helga's singing abilities: In a brief song -- by my memory of how to read musical notes, I think the tune goes ba-ba ba ba-ba -- Helga's voice can: a) make mice scurry; b) force a tree to be sucked back into the ground; c) make grass grow at such an extreme rate that it covers the road leading up to the house (which may also explain why there's no hole where the tree once was); and d) make her neighbors not only leave, but take the damn house with them.

Them's some pipes, Helga. Them's some pipes.

Permalink: 01:30 PM | Comments (3)

Send your future self a headache

Forbes.com is offering a pretty interesting service: For free, anyone can write an e-mail themselves, and it’ll be delivered in 20 years. They’re calling it an e-mail time capsule, although it’s pretty much a digital version of all that mailing action in “Back to the Future.” Wisely, they’re quick to acknowledge some of the potential shortfalls here: Forbes.com and its partners may not be around in two decades, and there’s a pretty good chance people will change their e-mail address between now and then. But hey, it’s worth a shot, right?

Maybe. This reminds me a bit of a revelation I made a year or two ago, when my parents found a little diary I kept for a class in high school. I read it with amusement. It turns out I was a snotty little bastard back then, and the only reason I’m not opening myself up to public embarrassment is that I honestly can’t find the damn thing right now. I can’t even imagine what my 45-year-old self will think about my current self. After all, I didn't think I was a snotty bastard when I was in high school. And although I think I'm just dandy now, will I just look back in 20 years and think I was a snotty 20-something? Perhaps I should just fulfill the prophesy early and send an e-mail like this:

“Hello from your former self! Remember when you had the energy to stay up until 2 a.m., and when your body was young and ache-free? Oh, and you didn’t have to worry about sending those kids to college? I sure do! What is college tuition nowadays, anyway? A hundred grand? Jeez, I sure hope you got a good job! Oh, and congrats -- you’re only five years away from a colonoscopy. That should be a blast! Say hi to the wife for me.”

The second I hit the send button, my 45-year-old self will appear in my room, explain that time travel was discovered in the year 2025, and then punch me in the nose. And I’ll deserve it.

Come to think of it, maybe I’ll just e-mail this post.

Permalink: 12:49 AM | Comments (1)

Table scraps:

♣BEST OUT-OF-context quote of the day: "I'll keep them updated with what's going on in my life, touring, music, movies and filming. I might even do something with my dog. You can do anything you want now with the Internet." You sure can! Or at least, so says Hillary Duff on the topic of her new online service.

♣A BOY AND a goat jumping on a trampoline? Oh yes, it's true.

♣IN A SURPRISE to nobody, Texas yesterday banned same-sex marriage. Too bad everyone there didn't first watch the Daily Show's coverage of what's happened since gay marriage became legal in Massachusetts.

♣THE MUSIC INDUSTRY has been embarassing itself for a while now, by failing to understand how to deal with file sharing and responding by going overboard on lawsuits and dreaming up stupid ideas to cash in on the Internet. But Sony has become the first to really step on the flaming shit, by installing spyware in its CDs. There's already a big backlash, and here's hoping it teaches these companies a lesson.

♣HOW GEEKY ARE you? Find out by seeing how many memories this list of great Internet moments brings back. (via Kottke)

♣ALTHOUGH MALLARD FILLMORE creator Bruce Tinsley hasn't responded to my e-mail, he claimed in a recent strip that he usually responds to letters. Oh, don't worry: I wrote him again.

♣AND THEN, THERE'S this.

Permalink: 12:47 AM | Comments (1)

Dumpster-diving for literature

A few weeks ago, I went to our dumpster to throw out some trash and discovered at least 20 war-related books that someone in the building had thrown out. I began fishing through them, and found one that seemed interesting. It was “Mr. Moto’s Three Aces,” an anthology of three books that all include the name Mr. Moto. I Googled Mr. Moto, learned he was the central character in a popular series of detective novels (and later, films) from the 1930’s and 40’s, all involving imperialist Japan. I figured it was worth a shot -- and it turns out, the book is kind of fun.

Now, I have a strange nightly routine: Before going to sleep, I lie in bed and read a chapter or two from the first book, “Thank you, Mr. Moto.” But even though the damn thing is on my bed, I try to have minimal hand contact with the book, and I keep my face somewhat far from it. Somehow, this seems to make sense. I mean, the book was in the garbage, and before that it was in some war enthusiast’s apartment, and before that, well, who the hell knows? The book was printed in the 1938, so it could have been anywhere. Generations of people have breathed on this thing.

The whole routine is getting a bit tiring, and I suppose I should take an all-or-nothing approach here: Either embrace it like a new book, or throw it back in the trash. I mean, what sort of a health hazard can really be posed by a book in a dumpster? It wasn’t like it was sitting in sewage; it was on top of a pile of other books. But no. Instead, I just keep thinking to myself, “Only 120 pages to go. Only 100 pages to go.” I’ll beat you, Mr. Moto. Just you wait.

Permalink: 10:46 AM | Comments (5)

The sports bar: Darwinism in action

A friend of mine works in a sports bar and recently started asking the men there, "If you could only keep one for the rest of your life, and could never partake in the other, which would you choose: Sports or sex?" It’s stunning how many say they’d keep sports.

My friend suspects this is because the guys he’s asking don’t have much sex anyway, so axing sports seems like a far larger sacrifice. For these guys, men with bats and balls are simply more reliable than women. I imagine the scheduled sports seasons are very comforting to them. They always know when a sport is coming -- always something to look forward to, and nobody gets stood up. Well, except for NHL fans last season.

I wonder if they'd change their minds if sex was actually seasonal, even if the season was brief and only once a year. At least then they could count down the days the way they might for an oncoming football season. It might not be great, but hey, it's guaranteed to happen. "Look at that! One more month until sex season," they might say -- and then maybe, like in those last few weeks before a sports season, they'd go out and buy a new shirt. But when would sex season would start? Spring because it's the time of rebirth, or winter because people tend to spend it indoors? And oh, what if the participants of sex season had a labor dispute? That'd be one nasty strike.

Permalink: 12:43 AM | Comments (3)

Thank you for flying Bounce Pass Airways

Photo via

Southwest Airlines and the NBA announced a sponsorship deal yesterday, and debuted a decorated plane they’re calling “Slam Dunk One.” But, uh, is it wise to name a plane after a move in which someone slams an object to the ground? What plan will come from a deal with the NFL -- “Intentional Grounding One,” perhaps?

Maybe they should have gone with, say, “Air Ball One.” Sure, air balls aren’t quite as valued as slam dunks in basketball, but I bet passengers would like names that imply their plane will stay up there.

Permalink: 12:29 AM | Comments (1)

Comments are working again

Ah, sweet relief! The comment feature is back up and working again. Please, post away! Thanks for your patience over these past few days.

Permalink: 11:14 AM | Comments (1)

I smell a social quirk!

I’ve gotten a lot of interesting responses from my Post piece, mostly from people who have had similar experiences and appreciated seeing their lives reflected in print. I particularly liked an e-mail from a reader named Nicole, who complained of the social irritations of having no sense of smell:

So many people don't even believe me, or enjoy trying to "test" me, in the grossest ways. I don't even want to think about all the times my friends have farted on me, stinkily and silently. Why don't they try a rose instead?!

I know exactly what she’s talking about. Well, I mean, my friends don’t fart on me -- or should I say, I sure hope my friends aren’t farting on me -- but there are plenty of social confusions that come with diminished smell. It’s a subject I would have liked to explore more in the piece, but simply didn’t have the room to. People regularly seem to think I’m exaggerating my problem, or try to point out inconsistencies (“You said you liked mint ice cream. What’s up with that?”).

They also sometimes don’t know how to react to it. For example, someone will ask me to taste something, then pull away and gasp, “Oh, I’m so sorry! I forgot!” Then I have to explain to them that I’m not at all offended -- which I’m not -- and that I don’t really care if people forget I can’t smell or taste things. (One time, in fact, this led to a free meal: A writer friend of mine invited me to review a restaurant with him for a magazine. I assumed he did this with the knowledge that I’d be of no use, but after the meal, he asked for insights. As you might imagine, he ended up putting that review together himself.) Perhaps a blind person might get annoyed if you asked them to look at something, but I’m happy to taste what people want me to taste. I can’t give any useful feedback, of course, but I can say “mmm.” And that’s all they were really looking for anyway.

Permalink: 08:15 AM | Comments (2)

Soap opera? More like soap comedy!

I recently received two gifts of soap -- one from my parents, who found some jokey shop and wanted to buy things, and one from a friend in Australia, who sent me a fun package of Aussie items. Both opened me up to a new venue for comedy: The soapbox.

Item one: Shlomo’s Matzoball Soap

As it says on the box, “Tchotchke and soap in one!” I laugh because this is funny, but also because I really do think that’s a great combination. I’m not always fond of gifts, but it’s only because I don’t like figuring out where to put my new things. Too much stuff means too much crowding, and that means I forget about all the stuff I have anyway. But soap? Why, I can laugh and enjoy it as a little trinket -- and when I use it, it goes away! Brilliant. Oh, and on the side of the box, it shows Shlomo saying, “Don’t forget to wash your pupik!” Har.

Item two: Lemon Scented Bush Soap

This isn’t really a tchotchke at all. In fact, I think it’s just normal soap -- and very nice soap, I might add, because I’m using it in my shower now. But see that line underneath the soap’s name? “for tough blokes and delicate babes.” I laughed at this, and I’ll tell you why: because I didn’t expect to see something so casual and breezy on a box of soap. It’s like when a president cracks a joke at a large function: The joke isn’t funny, but everyone laughs because they don’t expect jokes from a person of such importance. This is an untapped goldmine, I tell you.

Permalink: 08:17 AM | Comments (0)

A staple of a healthy, squirming diet

After reading my Post piece yesterday, a reader e-mailed me to muse that I could get rich by excelling at the yucky eating segments on “Fear Factor.” That’s probably not true, though, because the flavor of a bug isn’t what bugs me. It’s the thought of something squirming around in my mouth, and then stopping when I chomp down on it. Gag.

But this got me thinking: Does “Fear Factor” get broadcast overseas? And if so, I wonder how it’s received in places that consider bugs part of a healthy diet. Are there, say, a bunch of people in Thailand who sit down every week, watch the show and think to themselves, “What? What’s the big deal?” Or maybe, as is so common, they just see gluttonous Americans.

Permalink: 08:12 AM | Comments (0)

All your questions about my nose and mouth: answered!

Book image via

As I’ve alluded to on this blog before, I have essentially no sense of smell or taste. It's probably been missing my entire life, but I only discovered it a few years ago. Since then, it's become something of a party trick: People ask me if I can taste something, I say no, and they're impressed. When they asked me specific questions about the disorder, however, I had little to offer them.

Until now!

Because I'm delighted to exploit my physical impairments for career advancement, the Washington Post today published a first-person story of mine -- I Don't Smell A Thing* -- in which I went to a clinic in Connecticut to get my problem diagnosed. Now, finally: All your questions about my nose are answered. You can thank me later.

But hey, let’s not forget all the sophomoric insights: Although I’m thrilled to be able to kvetch about my health in such a public way, I’m almost more tickled that I got to use the line “At least I can’t smell farts” in arguably the country's best newspaper. An editor with a sense of humor is second to none. I’d also like to point out the hidden meaning behind the line, “He gave me a full physical exam.” Yes indeed, I’m proud to say that I’ve joined a small, elite group of reporters who have had a finger stuck up their butt for a story. Don’t ever tell me I don’t work hard for my career.

*The Post’s website requires registration, but word on the grapevine is that if you go to the page and are prompted to sign in, you can just type wham@shazam.com for the e-mail address and onetwo3 as the password, and the doors swing wide open.

Permalink: 08:15 AM | Comments (1)