I’M A DANGEROUS MAN

I’ve been trying to catch as many of the season premiers on TV as possible; primarily because my brain isn’t full of enough mindless drivel as it is.

I was eagerly awaiting the premier of “Smith” staring Ray Liotta. The show is about a suburban-dwelling traveling salesman who is married to a beautiful woman in the dental profession. The twist is that he is secretly a master thief who organizes high profile heists.

Since I happen to be a suburban-dwelling traveling salesman who is married to a beautiful woman in the dental profession, I thought the premise looked promising.

In the season opener, Ray and his band of nefarious, yet scruffily sexy, comrades stage a high-tech art robbery in a Philadelphia museum. They escape on a speed boat amid remotely triggered explosions just in time to hop a red eye flight home and enjoy a quick visit to the mile-high club with Amy Smart in the spacious cabin bathroom.

While Ray is accomplishing all of this, his wife thinks he is in St. Louis selling plastic drinking cups.  When the show was over I turned to my wife and said “you just THINK I’m going to Washington D. C. next week to sell a bunch of amplifiers.   In reality, I’m a devastatingly handsome thief who is actually flying to Rio de Janeiro to hack into a highly secure banking computer network so that I can steal millions of dollars and wire it to my secret Swiss bank account. 

My wife yawned and said, “first of all honey, even though I’m no longer startled when I look over and see you first thing the morning, you’re not exactly what most people would refer to as devastatingly handsome. In fact, sweetie, you look a lot more like Abe Vigoda than Ray Liotta.  Secondly, since I saw you trying to put a floppy disk in the CD drive on the computer last week, you’ll have to forgive me if I find the idea of you hacking into a secure banking network rather humorous. And finally darling, you can barely squeeze your own ass into the bathroom on an airplane, let alone tap anyone else’s while you’re in there.” Then she said, “by the way, if you’re secretly a millionaire, would you mind paying the cable bill on time next month?

Well…I’m on that “business trip” to Washington D. C. right now and in an effort to be more “dangerous” than my wife seems to think I am, I’m living totally on the edge. First of all, she thinks I flew into Reagan National…I actually flew into Dulles. How’s THAT for blatant deception! Not only that, just moments ago, I got a refill on my diet coke in the food court at the airport WITHOUT PAYING FOR IT! To top it all off, the 350 lb bearded woman sitting across the aisle from me just looked my way and winked, so all I’m saying is; “if the lavatory is rockin, don’t bother knockin.”

Yes, I’m a dangerous, dangerous man. I just hope someone doesn’t come up with a show about a suburbanite dental hygienist who is secretly a high paid assassin.

Disclaimer: My wife didn’t actually say those things to me; she’s much too sweet for that. She actually said I look more like Rodney Dangerfield.

Disclaimer #2: I have not now, nor have I ever, had carnal knowledge of a 350 lb bearded woman. I always ask them to shave first.

COLD SKIVVIES

I watched the season premier of “Criminal Minds” Wednesday night, and as a result I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother. My mother was a very interesting woman; homemaker, wife, mother, friend, confidant, and…paranoid schizophrenic.

In the television show, the mother of FBI agent Spence Reid is a schizophrenic who is able to help her son solve an especially heinous crime. Her character was a charming woman who was certain the government was spying on her while she cheerfully lectured a non-existent class on the medieval romance of Tristan and Isolde. My mother was a charming woman who was certain a nationwide ring of evil real estate agents was tracking her every move while she cheerfully carried on a very close, but completely imaginary, relationship with the Oak Ridge Boys.

I’m telling you…you can’t make up stuff that good.

Being the only child of a schizophrenic parent can make for a colorful childhood. My mother often became confused and had an interesting habit of putting my socks and underwear in the refrigerator after she did laundry rather than putting them in my dresser. There is nothing quite like digging your tighty-whiteys out of the vegetable crisper to put a real spring in your step.

I never really realized that things were “different” at my house until I became much older. I assumed everyone’s mom was terrified of people in Century 21 jackets.  Despite the fact that she was certifiably cuckoo, I always thought she was a great mom. I never doubted I was loved, and I always knew that she was doing the best that she could.

As I watched the show I wondered what the world that existed in the mind of the schizophrenic character was like, and I’ve been wondering what the world my mother lived in was actually like. Unfortunately, I’ll never really know. She died at the age of 51 in the mental ward of a local hospital. That age is only three years away for me and for some reason that gives me a sense of connection with my mother that I haven’t experienced before.

It’s time for bed, but before I crawl under the covers I think I’m going to go throw a pair of boxers in the freezer.

It might give me a cold ass but I’m pretty sure it’ll warm up my heart.

TODAY’S YOUNG-UNS AND THEIR DEVIL MUSIC

Holy crap…I have become my father.

Before I explain my decent into geezer-hood, I would like to begin this post by responding to those of you of the female persuasion who suggested below that the answer to the “male accuracy” issue is for men to pee sitting down. My God women…is it not enough that we feign sensitivity? Is it not enough that we willingly go to chick flicks? Is it not enough that you send us to the grocery store to buy feminine hygiene products? Must you completely emasculate us by taking away our God given right to whip it out and demonstrate our urinary prowess by peeing from a standing position?  I say shame on you…shame on you and your daughters!!!

Ok, I feel better now. Back to why I’m an old fart.

I’ve mentioned before that when I was a teenager, my father would scream at me to “turn that crap down” when he heard me in my room playing the drum solo from “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” for the 813^th time on my eight-track tape player.  I’ve also mentioned that I swore that I would never judge my children’s music that way my father judged mine.

But then Jamie came to live with us.

It’s not that I’m judging her music; it’s just that, like my father, I’m simply too old to understand it. As a teenager I had the capacity to fully appreciate the brilliance of lyrics as profound as:

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, honey,

Don’t you know that love you?

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby,

Don’t you know that I’ll always be true?

The subtle sub-text and adroit metaphor were lost on my father, however, in much the same way the appeal of her music is lost on me.

She is a big fan of a group called “Autumn Offering.”  When she first told me about the band I thought it was a lovely name. I immediately thought of Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring” and assumed it must be something similar.

Not so much…

…it’s really more like “Rite of Ritual Sacrifice.” As a musician, I can appreciate the speed and accuracy of the drummer. I can appreciate the intricate guitar riffs. I can even appreciate the numbing bass line, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to appreciate the vocals. Jamie calls it “great singing,” I call it “apparent castration.”

I think great music speaks to the heart and to the psyche. Music has the profound ability to alter moods, to inspire greatness, to incite rebellion, and to sell beer and shock absorbers. The music of Autumn Offering just makes me want to take a Valium and lie down.

But that’s ok; I love Jamie and I don’t have to like her music. I obediently drive her to school every morning with the top down and Autumn Offering blaring to within an inch of my speaker’s lives so that she can make a “proper” entrance…but the moment I pull away, I stab the eject button hard enough to make my finger bleed.

Today’s post is interactive. Take a listen to few seconds of the title track:

AUTUMN OFFERING

Now, tell me; are you a young whipper-snapper, or have you become my father too?

 MISCONCEPTIONS WOMEN HAVE ABOUT MEN

In her current blog, Primeval Wench makes mention of the fact that men at her office often have a difficult time “hitting the mark” in their unisex bathroom. She elucidates: “Wouldn’t you think that people who like to boast that they have the skill and dexterity to write their names in the snow with their beloved appendages, would be able to hit the inside of that big white bowl ?”

That seems like a reasonable assumption, but those of us with a “beloved appendage” know full well, that it is a blatant misconception. This got me to thinking about other misconceptions women have about men.  So, in the interest of gender communication, please allow me to address this, and other “male urban myths.”

·        The topic at hand (or “in hand” as the case may be) – Men should be able to pee where they aim:

One would assume that having a point and shoot device attached to your body would give the owner some level of accuracy. This couldn’t be further from the truth. I commented on Sheila’s blog that the penis could be thought of as a rifle with a twisted barrel; just because it is aimed in a certain direction is no guarantee that the “stream is going to head toward the ocean” if you get my drift. The penis is often a highly unreliable device (in more ways than one) and this can be exacerbated by other conditions. Suppose the gentleman has taken one of those little blue pills (in order to solve one of the afore mentioned reliability issues) and finds himself with one of those erections lasting more than four hours that the drug company is always warning us about. Have any of you women ever attempted to stand over a toilet and pee into it with an erection? AH HA! I didn’t think so!!! This requires a level of gymnastics that are truly Olympic worthy. In fact, I think it should be an Olympic event. I can hear Bob Costas now: “Ladies and gentlemen, Guillermo Alvarez will now attempt to hit the bowl while doing a triple back flip with a full layout from the uneven bars.” I dare any woman reading this to try THAT!

·        Men think about sex once every 7 seconds:

This urban myth has been around forever. Men are constantly portrayed as lecherous horn dogs who can become aroused simply by seeing the picture of Aunt Jemima on a bottle of pancake syrup. It is true that most men are aroused by the picture on the syrup bottle but it has less to do with Aunt Jemima than the stack of pancakes. I personally find the Land O Lake’s babe to be much hotter. Younger men do tend to obsess a bit about sex but as we get older and more mature we finally realize that there is more to our earthy existence than a roll in the hay, like NASCAR for example, as long as the trophy girl has bodacious ta-ta’s and a string bikini.

·        Men should be able to fix stuff:

Allow me to quote from an article in the Journal Current Opinon in Neurobiology, Volume 6, page 259, by Doreen Kimura: “Scientific evidence for consistent differences in cognitive function between men and women has accumulated for well over 50 years. A solid body of research has established that men, on average, excel on spatial tasks (particularly those tapping ability to imaginally rotate a figure), perception of the vertical and horizontal, and spatial-motor targeting ability.”  My professional/academic assessment of this statement is that it is “caca” because it has perpetuated the myth that men should be able to fix stuff. It is true that there are men who are good at fixing things. Those men are called plumbers, electricians, construction workers, etc. The rest of us can’t fix shit. We will never admit this, however, because to do so would be a huge violation of the guy code.  So be warned…If you need to get something fixed, fix it yourself, or hire someone who does it for a living. The rest of us will just screw it up worse than it was to begin with.

I’m glad I was able to clear up these misconceptions and further facilitate meaningful dialogue between the sexes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I had several glasses of iced tea while I was writing this and I need “drain the main vein.” I don’t want to miss the bowl, though, so I think I’ll just use the sink.

TIM THE TOOL MAN HAS GOT NOTHING ON ME

I’ve mentioned before that the guys in my office like to call my masculinity into question for the following reasons:

• I have no interest in college or professional sports. I will watch golf on occasion, but only when I can’t find my sleeping pills.

• I have never developed a taste for beer. I listen to all the hype about barley and hops and brewing temperature and light and dark and domestic and imported and to me it all tastes like weasel urine.

• I not only like show tunes, but as a person who spent many years as pianist/musical director for area theater groups, I often play show tunes.

• After a year of taking ballroom dancing lessons with my wife I can dance a pretty mean rumba, cha-cha, triple-step swing, and fox trot, but my waltz and quick step still needs lots of work.

None of their ribbing bothers me because I’m completely secure in my “guy-ness.”  I think farts are funny, I refuse to ask directions, I own underwear older than my children, and I can give a woman 45 seconds of pure ecstasy.

Pretty impressive “Guy” credentials if I say so myself.

After this weekend, however, I will be able to take photographic proof of my rugged manliness back to my office. I needed to do some major leveling work in my back yard so I rented a backhoe.  Contrary to what I originally thought, a backhoe is not a working girl with a big booty, but is a piece of diesel and hydraulic machinery guaranteed to make the testosterone levels surge in any male.

I felt like a three year old playing with a dump truck. It was lot of fun, but most importantly, I was able to get the backyard leveled without knocking the house down. My male neighbors from houses all around ours came to marvel at my backhoe and bow before my superior manhood.

Yep…I plan to take the pictures into the office on Tuesday and prove once and for all that I have the biggest backhoe in the office.

DON’T LOOK A GIFT BAG IN THE MOUTH

During the Emmy Awards on Sunday night, Conan O’Brian made mention of the fact that presenters would be required to pay taxes on the gift bags they received. According to Conan, the bags, which had been valued at $51,000.00, included $1,000.00 in merchandise and a “$50,000.00 gift certificate to the Olive Garden.”

Holy swag Batman…$51,000.00?!?!?!  I thought that was an exorbitant amount until I read on CNN.com that the gift bags given to presenters at the Oscars last year were valued at over $100.000.00.  CNN mentioned that this year’s Emmy bags contained, among many other essential items, a set of cultured pearls and a gold plated cell phone. Who really needs a gold platted cell phone except perhaps a rapper who wants it to match his gold plated teeth and the gold plated rims on his Escalade?

Why would manufacturers give away that much costly merchandise to celebrities? Apparently, the answer is that it could amount to a celebrity endorsement of their product. And when it comes to paying for celebrity endorsements, several thousand dollars of merchandise given to celebrities on an awards show is…cheap.  Nokia is quite happy to give 50 Cent that gold plated cell phone simply on the off chance that he might use it to “blast yo’ bitch ass” on his next video.

I find this incredibly intriguing. After I heard about the gift bags I asked myself, “would I really use a particular product or wear a particular piece of clothing just because a celebrity told me I should?”  I think it depends on the celebrity. If Diane Lane personally asked me to wear chaps and a dog collar I’d be happy to oblige (sorry, I kind of got off into my sick fantasy life there) but…if Nathan Lane asked the same thing, it’s not happening.

I think most people would say that they are not influenced by celebrity endorsements, but the numbers say they’re lying. Tiger Woods last endorsement deal with Nike was worth 100 million dollars. 100 million dollars buys a lot of friggin tennis shoes my friends. Nike doesn’t stop there, though. They also have endorsement deals with Andre Agassi, Pete Sampras, Lance Armstrong, and Olympic sprinter Marion Jones.  

Nike is not going spend half a billion dollars on celebrity endorsements unless they are getting a full return on that investment, so A LOT of people buy stuff because celebrities tell them too.

On a side note…you can always measure the current status of a celebrities’ career by what it is they are endorsing; Celine Dion endorses Chrysler while Dionne Warwick endorses the psychic hotline. ’Nuff said.

So, I ask you: Do you drink Pepsi because Michael Jackson set his hair on fire for it? Would you eat a Big Mac because Kobe Bryant said he was loyal to it? Would you pick a personal injury attorney because William Shatner said you should boldly go to the law offices of Ernest Whiplash?

Madison Avenue is betting you will.

IS THE CUSTOMER ALWAYS RIGHT?

…No, sometimes the customer is an asshole.

We live in age of consumer elitism. Somehow, we have come to believe that if we are paying for something, we have earned the right to treat the people we are doing business with like shit. I’ve been guilty of this and I bet you have too. An insurance claim gets dropped, we have to wait longer at the doctor’s office that we planned, the car we just spent $500.00 repairing starts doing the same damn thing it was before we took it in, and suddenly we snap. We spit venom all over the person on the phone/behind the counter/under the car, and 95% of the time, they weren’t the person who dropped the ball in the first place.

I’m a firm believer in getting what you paid for, and I can be pretty tough when I don’t. (See my son’s post on customer service) But as a business man who has to deal with unhappy clients from time to time I’ve come to believe that being a jerk accomplishes nothing, even if it makes you feel better in the short term. I’ve also learned that a spoon full of sugar not only makes the medicine go down…it can get you free stuff!

A couple of years ago I was standing behind a man at the Thrifty Rental Car counter at the Louisville airport. It was the weekend of the Kentucky Derby and he had apparently changed his flight into Louisville to one later in the day and had not informed Thrifty. Most rental car companies will only hold a reservation for four hours past the designated pick up time (especially on Kentucky frigging Derby weekend) and they had given his car away. There were no other cars to be had and this guy was livid. Actually, volcanic would be a better description. He was bright red and was spewing obscenities at the poor woman behind the counter. There was nothing that could be done, but this guy continued to hammer away at the poor employee. I listened to him for as long as I could stand it and finally lost it myself. I tapped him on the shoulder, turned him around, and told him he was being rude. I suggested he get out of line or I was going to help him get out of line (I don’t recommend this course of action; I could have very easily gotten my ass kicked). The guy looked flustered for a second, grabbed his stuff, and stormed away. I stepped forward and smiled at the woman behind the counter. She was wearing a name tag with “Denise” on it, and I asked her if she was ok.

I fly into Louisville at least once a month on business. Every time I do, Denise sees my name on the reservation list and has my paperwork and my keys ready for me when I arrive. She also gives me a free upgrade when she has one available. I was in Louisville yesterday, and after Denise showed me pictures of her new grandbaby she slipped me the keys to a brand new full-sized convertible even though my reservation was for a compact car. I’m telling you – it pays to be nice sometimes.

If my company makes a mistake (and we all make mistakes) I will jump through every hoop necessary to make it right and make sure the customer is taken care of. However, if the customer becomes abusive or is completely unreasonable I will still take care of their problem, but once it is solved I will politely but firmly explain to them that I no longer feel it is in our mutual interest to continue a business relationship. I haven’t done that often, but I have done it several times. I would much rather live with a smaller paycheck than deal with that kind of disrespect. I’m fortunate that I have the luxury to be able to do that, I know that many people do not.

Why am I writing about this? When I got to my hotel last night, there were two women in front of me trying to check in. The hotel had apparently lost their reservation and they didn’t have any rooms left with two double beds. One of the women (who happened to have a truly enormous ass) was screaming at the girl behind the counter. When she wasn’t satisfied with doing that she demanded that the girl call her supervisor and the woman screamed at the supervisor for awhile.  In an effort to make things better, the hotel put the women up for free at a nearby hotel and gave them a voucher for two more free nights.  I thought that was a pretty good offer, but the woman wasn’t satisfied. As she turned away from the counter to go wait for a taxi to take them to the other hotel, she called the girl behind the counter a bitch.

The girl had done a pretty good job of holding herself together up to this point, but as I stepped up to the counter the tears that had been brimming in her eyes started to spill over. In a voice loud enough for big-ass to hear, I told the girl that I was very sorry she had been treated that way. I didn’t say that because I wanted something for free; I really felt bad for the girl. But…not only were they able to find my reservation, she upgraded me to a suite for free.

I smiled and waved my key card at big-ass as I walked past her on my way to my suite.

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION – THE SPA REPORT

Well, I’m back from Phoenix (City Motto: The temperature here might cause you to burst into flames, but at least they’ll be dry flames!) and I’m happy to report that the spa vacation was a complete success – especially for the spa. (Spa Motto: Charging you absurd amounts of money for services you can get right at home while still managing to make you feel like you are a huge imposition to our staff.)

We began each morning by going to work out, followed by a yoga class. To be honest I only made it through one yoga class. My wife is very flexible (which I’m rather happy about, by the way) but I have to warm up for an hour just to bend over to tie my shoes.  I was also the only male in the class. While it is not a bad thing to be in room full of leotarded women doing the “downward dog” pose, my body was simply not designed to be folded inside out, thank you very much.  On our second day we both scheduled several back to back treatments. I had a “body exfoliation” followed by a 90 minute massage, followed by a “gentleman’s facial.”  

The day began with me being ushered back to the men’s area where I was greeted by several European looking guys who spoke no English but still managed to communicate their condescension quite effectively. Not all of them were rude. In fact, one of the gentlemen was actually quite friendly; a little too friendly perhaps. I’m not at all homophobic, but I’ll have to say that I was not entirely comfortable with the way “Herve” was looking at me.

Fortunately, all of the treatments were administered by women. This can still be a little disconcerting, however, because modesty is not an option during these sessions. If you have any reservations about strange people fondling your butt cheeks, you might want to avoid this type of activity.

The “body exfoliation” reminded me somewhat of being sand-blasted, but it was actually quite pleasant. My masseuse (who was obviously an ex-Soviet weight lifter) took her job quite seriously. At one point during the massage I was pretty certain that she managed to massage my left calf muscles by going in through my right shoulder blade.  I got the biggest kick, though, out of the “gentleman’s facial.” Do you remember George Carlin’s riff on dealing with waiters?

 “Act really interested when the waiter mentions the specials. When he says, “Today we have goat-cheese terrine with arugula juice, sauteed cod with capers and baby vegetables, coastal shrimp cooked in spiced carrot juice, roast free-range chicken with ginger and chickpea fries, and duck breast in truffle juice,” act like you’re completely involved. Say, “The cod. What is the cod sauteed in?” “A blend of canola and tomato oils.” (No hurry here.) “Ahhh, yes! [pointing thoughtfully at the waiter] I’ll have the grilled cheese sandwich.”

I was reminded of this when the lady began putting stuff on my face. “I’m going to begin by exfoliating your skin with granules of salt mined by prisoners in Siberia and flown to us fresh each morning. I will follow this by applying a paste made from bee pollen and fortified bat guano.”  My eyes were covered during the whole procedure and to me it seemed like she was doing nothing more than rubbing wet stuff on my face, wiping it off, rubbing more wet stuff on my face, and wiping it off again. I didn’t mention this to her though, because see seemed to think she was performing brain surgery, and I didn’t want to burst her bubble.

The highlight of the trip for me was the next day when we drove up to Sedona which is kind of a commie, pinko, liberal-wacko, hippie, artist’s colony…so, of course, I felt right at home. The scenery was also breath taking.

I’d love to post pictures of this breath taking scenery, but I left the day after we got back for a four day business trip to Washington D.C., Louisville, and St. Louis (which I’m on right now) and I left all of our digital photos at home.

There’s no spa at the hotel I’m at right now. The only services being offered here are by the working girls hanging out in the parking lot (honey, if you’re reading this, I’m not availing myself of any of these services).  If I was a betting man, though, I bet they charge less than the girl who did my facial.

SPA-TACULAR!

Rather than taking long vacations, my wife and I have started taking several short (three or four days over a weekend) vacations during the year. I will be away from Xanga for several days because we are leaving on one of these little excursions tomorrow.

This will be a first for me. We are going to spend three days at a spa resort in Scottsdale, AR. 110 degree weather has not been hot enough for us here in Tulsa, so we are purposely flying into hell, better known as Phoenix.

The stay will consist of working out, yoga, lots of time by the pool, and strange people we don’t know rubbing funny smelling stuff into our naked bodies.

Hey, sounds like fun!

I’ll be back on Sunday night and I’ll try to give you an update on what a spa retreat is like. In the meantime, I’m a little concerned about the picture below that came off the spa’s website. Why would having a big rock on your crotch be considered therapeutic?

 I’ll post pics next week (just none of me naked with a big rock on my crotch).

I DO MOST OF MY READING IN THE BATHROOM

I’ve been tagged to respond to a quiz regarding my reading habits. There are two things that people lie about more than anything else; how much sex they are getting and what they read. The reason they lie about these topics is that they call into question our prowess; both sexual and intellectual. And prowess is an area where folks are inclined to stretch the truth a little.

But I’m going to tell you the truth; not about my sexual prowess, of course (I hear a huge sigh of relief all across Xanga Land), but about my intellectual prowess:

I have none…

At least not when it comes to my reading habits.  I went to college and grad school at liberal arts institutions so I’ve read everything I’m supposed to read. While I firmly believe that great literature is the backbone of any decent education, a lot of what we read in college is questionable at best. I read Thomas Pynchon’s “The Crying of Lot 49” in college. No one could explain to me what the hell he was talking about then, and I’m sure no one could explain it to me now. And take James Joyce – please (rimshot). I don’t know what kind of drugs this guy was on, but I want some.

The truth is that now that I’m away from the world of academia I read crap; pure unadulterated crap. And I apologize to no one for it. I do read voraciously, but I do most of my reading on airplanes. I would like to pretend that I read a lot of Dostoevsky when I’m flying between Chicago and Baltimore, but the truth is that he’s kind of wordy and Home Land Security won’t let me take him on the plane because his books could be used as a weapon.

So what do I read? Whatever is in the paperback bin at the airport gift shop. I may not be an expert on the writings of Thoreau but I can give you the plot lines to most any James Patterson, Terry Goodkind, Dean Koontz, Robin Cook, Ken Follet, Clive Cussler, Tom Wolfe, John Grisham, or Michael Crichton novel.  I even occasionally pick up a People Magazine to supplement my reading material…there, I said it. I’m a pulp fiction whore.

So, the list below won’t impress anyone other than the editors at Doubleday and Random House who see me as their target demographic.

1.  One book that changed your life:  “How to Be a Christian without Being Religious” by Fritz Ridenour

2.  One book that you’ve read more than once:  “Dave Barry Slept Here: a Sort of History of the United States.”  I’ve probably read this book 30 times. And for those of you who like this book as much as I do, I have three words for you…Hawley-Smoot Tariff.

3.  One book you’d want on a desert island:  “Victoria’s Secret Catalog”

4.  One book that made you laugh:  “America (The Book)” by John Stewart.

5.  One book that made you cry: “The Bridges of Madison County” by Robert James Waller. Yes, I read it. And I’m confident enough in my manhood to read a book like this, so just get over it.

6.  One book that you wish had been written:  “Women; the Owner’s Manual”

7.  One book that you wish had never been written:  “The Da Vinci Code” by Dan Brown.  Is anyone else as sick of hearing about this book as I am?

8.  One book you’re currently reading: “The Husband” by Dean Koontz

9.  One book you’ve been meaning to read:  “My Life” by Bill Clinton. I’m sure that someday, Dubya will write his memoirs.  I would say that I’m going to read it, but even though I read crap, I do have some standards.

I haven’t played tag since grade school, so if you want to admit to us what you really read, then…tag – you’re it.