Happy Halloween. My friend Mike Singer has some holiday tips for you.

And if you liked that, the man has also been doing a great job covering the California wildfires.

A Pittsburg-area couple is having trouble selling their $399,900 home, so they’ve spiced up the offer:

Bob and Ricki Husick came up with a more creative twist: Whoever buys their four-bedroom, 3¹/₂-bath home on Fountain Hills Drive in Pine would get their money back after the Husicks die.

Not only that, but if the buyers are willing to care for the Husicks in their old age, they could also inherit the Husicks’ retirement home in Arizona for a total estate now worth about $500,000. The couple has no heirs.

“Why not go for the works? So if we’re worth $2.5 million, you get it all,” said Mr. Husick, 55, a former Wachovia mortgage broker who would like to continue working after he and his wife move to Arizona.

The second part of the deal sounds lousy for the buyer — who wants to inherit a couple of strangers that need diaper-changing? — but the first part could be especially lousy for Bob and Ricki Husick. When they sign the deal, they better make sure the paperwork stipulates that the full refund on the house will not come if their death is, oh, premature. With so many large things in a house, any number of “accidents” can happen on moving day.

I spotted this sign last night in the dining area at Billy Tse’s in Revere. What do you suppose an X-rated martini is — gin, vermouth and a roofie?

Last night, Massachusetts Gov. Deval Patrick endorsed his old friend, Barack Obama, for president. And as he’s wont to do, he tried getting all sentimental, urging voters to look past Obama’s slim government history and straight into his heart:

For once, I want a campaign that’s not about the candidate, but about us.

Not about a resumé, but about character. Not about connections or convenience, but about conviction. Not about smearing the competition, but about lifting us all up. Not about the right and the left, but about right and wrong. Not about yesterday, but about tomorrow.

First off: For once? For twice, maybe. We’ve already seen a campaign all about “not about the candidate, but about us” — and it was Deval Patrick’s.

But more importantly: Outside of the “lifting us all up” bit, isn’t this exactly how Democrats portray the American people being snookered into voting for George W. Bush? He’s all folksy and back-slapping, talkin’ ’bout character while his more-qualified opponents — take your pick between John McCain, Al Gore and John Kerry — tried talking policy? And how now that he’s in office, he’s blinded by conviction and his personal sense of right or wrong, not by facts and arguments? It’s nice rhetoric, Deval; it sounds just lovely and idealistic, and I like both you and Obama, but isn’t this stuff, when it comes right down to it, what we don’t want in a president?

My weekend game of apple baseball: not quite earning a trip to the World Series, but satisfying nonetheless.

The sign of excellent movie casting: when someone creates a slimy, evil character, and after the movie is released, a slimy, evil person happens to show up in the news — and they look exactly the same. On the left is Christian Nielsen, who was sentenced to life in prison yesterday for killing and dismembering four people in Maine. On the right, actor Ben Foster as Charlie Prince in 3:10 to Yuma.

Perhaps you’ve seen this Bank of America commercial. (If not, it’s here.) The scene: A diner in middle America. The magic: A silver Bank of America logo is suddenly floating outside, and as customers look at it, they’re treated to a flash of their prosperous futures. A young couple goes first, and see themselves on their wedding day. Then a waitress goes out (while still, for some reason, holding the coffee), and sees herself on an African safari.

Bank of America is promoting itself as the “Bank of Opportunity” — a funny slogan, really, considering its aggressive corporate takeover campaign has all but eliminated consumers’ opportunity to choose banks. But still, this message seems smart: BOA, it says, is the portal through which you can reach your future.

But what does the future hold for you? In Bank of America’s world, apparently, it’s a cookie-cutter life – and you better like it. Next up in the commercial, a fashionable woman in a sports car looks into the logo, and sees herself unloading kids from a minivan. Helllloooo, early-onset midlife crisis! And here’s the final transformation:

That scruffy dude looks into the logo, and sees himself clean-cut and wearing a tie. His dude-friend looks on, psyched, as if he just scored them some weed. “Whoa, man!” he seems to be saying. “You totally ditch our lifestyle, go corporate and work for the Man. Awsome!” I mean, hey, there’s nothing wrong with cutting your hair and making a buck. Everyone’s got to eat. But this is where the logic of this commercial (if you’re willing to accept the reality of a floating, future-telling BOA logo) falls apart. I can just about guarantee that scruffy college kids wouldn’t be thrilled if you told them, “Don’t worry about your future: You’ll succeed in a cubicle.”

But then, Bank of America doesn’t care if you like your future or not. It’ll still get your money.

I caught this, a digital short called “People Getting Punched Just Before Eating,” on Saturday Night Live this weekend:

Andy Samberg and these short, pre-filmed skits are usually the brighest spot on the show, but this concept, silly as it was, seemed a little too close to the much-funnier (and indie) “Kicked in the Nuts.” The first one is here:

KITN just might be the best satire of reality television ever made. Its premise — that in exchange for being on TV, people are happy to be kicked in the nuts — is the only explanation I can think of for, say, why someone goes on MTV’s “Super Sweet 16.”

For at least two months, I’ve been one step from blind: I’m on my last pair of contacts, and they’ve already been worn longer than they’re supposed to be, and the dog chewed up my only pair of glasses. So a few days ago, I checked in at Lenscrafters for an in-house doctor appointment. They handed me a stack of paperwork to fill out, and included prominently was a solicitation – the only thing in the pile that’s laminated and in color – for an Optomap scan, which would tack on $40 to my bill. I looked around, and the sales pitch was everywhere: There was an advertisement for it on the front desk, and a nearby flat-screen TV was on a few-minute loop, touting the virtues of the scan. On the final page of paperwork, I was asked if I wanted the Optomap. Check yes, and you’re on your way. Next to the “No” box, there was a statement along the lines of, “I understand that without the Optomap, my doctor won’t be able to find the giant, throbbing growth behind my cornea, and I’ll probably die tomorrow.”

I stared at this paper for a few minutes, not sure of what to do. It seemed like a blatant upsell. Its name sounds like a half-baked villain out of Marvel Comics. And if Lenscrafters was pushing it so heavily — pushing, I should say, for their $40 — then clearly, this thing was nothing more than a ruse. Nothing more than a–

“Are you thinking about the Optomap?” said the girl at the front counter, a few feet away.

“Yeah,” I said. “It looks like an upsell.”

“It’s not,” she said. “You should do it.”

Do these people work on commission? I lingered for a minute longer, and then the girl said, “It makes a great screen saver.”

“You can e-mail it to me?”

“No problem,” she said.

Now it’s definitely a scam. But despite all that, I began to think the way Lenscrafters wanted me to think. Well, I haven’t had an eye exam in, like, two years. Maybe there is a giant, throbbing growth behind my cornea. Boy, that’d be bad. Maybe it’s worth $40 to find out. It’s only $40, right? And with that, I checked “Yes,” and went in. This is why upselling works. I was ashamed.

The Optomap is a machine about the size of an old microwave. You look in, and a bright, green light wipes across your eye. That’s it. Ten minutes later, the scan of my eye was up on my Lenscrafters-doctor’s screen, and he told me there’s no throbbing growth behind my cornea. Then, indeed, they e-mailed it. That’s the image above. Toward the left, the veins (or whatever) kind of look like half the Green Line in Boston, don’t they? Here:

It’s not my screen saver, though. Really, who wants to look at that all the time?

Afterward, I Googled “Optomap” and discovered that the company that makes it seems legit, and (to my surprise) isn’t an arm of Lenscrafters. And if this device really is valuable — and I’m still not sure it is — Lenscrafters really needs to rethink the way it encourages patients to use it. When my health is being discussed, I don’t like to feel like I’m being huckstered. Talk to me straight. Don’t advertise to me. But then, when I go to a company that’s combined doctor visits with retail, I suppose I should have known better.

As the Sox-Angels game began this evening, I remembered that I hadn’t taken the dog out for a walk, and so snapped on her leash and zipped outside for a quickie. As we rounded a corner onto Beacon Street, I saw a disaster in the making: A car was leaving its parallel-parked spot, and two cars were waiting to take the opening: one in front of the exiting car, and one behind it. Sure enough, as soon as the parked car left, both made a move for it. One honked, both came to an abrupt stop, and then the driver of the front car rolled down her window, shouted, “No fucking way,” and got out.

I stopped walking. With apologies to the Red Sox, this contest was better.

Front Girl – petite, wearing a tight grey shirt, I’d guess around 25 years old – walked with a huff over to the car in the back, which was driven by Back Woman, a pretty woman in her mid-30s, with long brown hair and what sounded like a Spanish accent. They argued for a bit, with nobody offering a greater claim to the spot: Back Woman said she didn’t see Front Girl, and Front Girl said she should have the spot because, when parallel parking, you enter a spot by backing up. With nobody moved by these arguments, they went to Plan B: Get crazy.

Front Girl walked into the middle of the open spot and announced, “I’m not moving.” Back Woman said she’d better move, and pulled her car forward, so she could begin backing into the spot. Then the two remained, motionless and silent, for a good two minutes. They were clogging one of Beacon Street’s three lanes, and traffic started backing up. Some passing drivers honked. ”Move!” shouted Front Girl. “You’re causing traffic.” Back Woman was not moved, and made that known.

It was at this time that I realized two things: One, this would be a lengthy stand-off. And two, because I was about 20 feet from the action, both women will eventually notice I’m there, and it might help to have some explanation for myself (in addition to the truth, which is that I’m unapologetically nosy.) As if on cue, a passer-by joked to me, “There are two witnesses: You, and the dog.” That’s it! I thought. I’m a witness, in case one of these women gets hurt.

Another few minutes went by, and about every 90 seconds, the women would assure the other that, yes, they are each bitches. “You’re a fucking bitch,” Front Girl would screech. Or perhaps Back Woman would say, ”Get out of the spot, you bitch.” Front Girl would be doing no such thing; she intended to stay put. Back Woman seemed to have less of a plan. She looked at Front Girl standing in the spot, and would then stare straight ahead, as if in thought. More minutes passed.

At about the eight or nine minute mark, Back Woman came up with a plan: Move the car. It began rolling, first away from the spot, and then, to my and Front Girl’s surprise, backwards, into the spot. “Are you fucking crazy?” Front Girl shouted. “Are you going to run me over?”

Back Woman kept going.

“I’m not moving,” Front Girl said.

Back Woman, however, was moving. And then, because she was at a pretty bad angle, she pulled out of the spot a bit, cut the wheel, and started driving in again. Front Girl was having none of it. She stood at the back of the car, inching herself backwards with every bit the car rolled back. “You’re fucking crazy!” she shouted.

No, honey: You’re fucking crazy. The both of you are.

Back Woman was insistent. She kept backing into the spot. Front Girl put her back against the car and braced herself, as if to physically stop it from moving. That didn’t work. Then she jumped up and sat on the hood, and banged on it. To nobody’s surprise, this also failed to stop a 2,000-pound vehicle from rolling backwards. “Fuck you!” Front Girl shouted, defeated.

But the car was parked. The space was taken. There was nothing more for Front Girl to do than release a few more expletives, get into her car, and drive away. Which is what she did. Back Woman, victorious, sat in her car for about two minutes before getting out. (I don’t know what she was doing; from my angle, I couldn’t see.) When she did get out, she exited slowly, cautiously, and then walked down the street, looking back every few steps. I watched for a minute or two more, expecting, as Back Woman did, for Front Girl to return with a vengeance. But she didn’t.

That’d be too obvious, anyway. There were witnesses, me and the dog. No, Front Girl knows better. She’ll hunt Back Woman down, and kill her in her sleep.

♣A NON-SHOCKER: Cops don’t like when other cops give them speeding tickets. A shocker: Some cops made a website about it. 

♣SOMEONE IN NORTHERN Texas wants to buy a cute shirt. Someone in Sydney, Australia, is about to buy one ugly backpack. And for no other reason than the glory of the Internet, you can watch it all go down.

♣WHY WON’T GOD heal amputees? Actually, not a bad question. (The videos are especially great.)

♣A GOOD PORTION of all my vacation photos feature me, posing after running away from my auto-timed camera. (It’s what I do when there’s nobody around to take the shot.) But this guy does it better: He doesn’t even turn around.

♣FANCY SOCCER GAGS are fine. Just, uh, probably not during the game.

♣THE FIRST STORY: Middle school bans hugging! The second story: Everyone calm down, because the middle school didn’t ban hugging, it just banned large clusters to students in prolonged, mid-hallway group hugs, because it clogs up the hallways. I’ve been in a high school perhaps once or twice in the last six years, but even then, I noticed the absurdity of these hugs. They’re like blood clots in the hallway. And seriously, kids: You just saw each other, like, an hour ago. Was the seperation that hard?

♣AND ELSEWHERE IN Dumb Schoolville, parents and students get in a huff over a tame shirt. (And in other shirt-related news: Those t-shirt guns that cheerleaders use at basketball games can be dangerous. Also dangerous: This man’s shirt.)

♣AND THEN, THERE’S this.

Note: This post originally had Comcast in place of Verizon, because apparently I was too focused on the chubby little kid to notice what the hell this commercial was for. (And then Worcester Magazine repeated my mistake when it included the post in its “blog log.” Alas, a reader set me straight in the comments, and so I’ve made the changes. Also, now that I’m searching for the right thing, I found the commercial on YouTube and a picture of the kid on Adfreak.

Ever catch the new Verizon FiOS commercial, where a dad’s sitting on a chair and his little, chubby-cheeked son walks by? “Hey pal, talking to the cable guy?” says dad, to which son responds with a rambling bit of high-tech lingo about FiOS. Dad’s perplexed. The commercial cuts to the pitch about FiOS (whatever it is; I never really pay attention), and then we’re back to dad and son, who are now outside watching the cable guy finish his installation. Some beams of light fly out of the wall. Dad is impressed. Then son says to dad, “You should see his truck.”

It’s supposed to be cute – the cable guy’s got all sorts of cool stuff! – but here’s the problem: You should see his truck? Was this boy inside the truck? Or, more to the point: Did the Verizon guy take the boy into the truck? Who at Verizon thought this would be a good, lasting message? “Verizon: We’ll set up your television, then molest your kid!”

What’s happening here? Am I about to throttle myself?

No, no, it’s just me on New England Cable News yesterday (video!), plugging the new issue of Boston because I edited the cover package. It went pretty well, I think: I could have done with less stammering, but I was at least generally articulate and didn’t look like a doofus, which certainly beats the first time I went on NECN.

I had a Bentley (Azure, 2008) for the past four days — I blogged about it for work — and it was sweeeeet.

Well, except for when I ran over some guy. That sucked: