That's a paddling

- "Addy." The word is address. IF you can't spell it, maybe you shouldn't be earning 6 figures at some fancy law firm. And if you can spell it, maybe you shouldn't pretend to be a 14-year-old cheerleader.

- The heat. I'm on record as anti-sun, but this goes above and beyond. Really it includes anything that makes me sweat. The only times I'm ok with sweating is when I'm running, or I'm naked. Or I'm in a room with a bunch of fat Russian men. It's a sauna, people. Must you go right to the sexiest, hairiest interpretation?

Humidity is a big part of this, as anyone trying to convince you to move to Arizona will tell you. In fact, I'm more against humidity than heat. But I refuse to give it the satisfaction of its own bulletpoint. Take that, water vapor!

- Puberty. You'd think I'd have moved on by now, and let bygones be bygones given that I'm old, and a parent, and old. But my voice still cracks on occasion (the occasion being when I use sentences), I still get zits, and I can't stop noticing the different and wonderful ways that girls' bodies are so very different from boys' bodies. Maybe this means there's still a growth spurt in my future. Everyone gets one, right? At least now, as opposed to high school, I have to shave.

- Shaving. I try to get every hair. I do. But I miss entire regions, small but distinct swaths of facial and neck landscape that sometimes makes me look like an escaped mental patient trying to pass as an office intern. And it's always the same areas, no matter how carefully I focus on them. Maybe I should resort to plucking.

- Haircuts. That's not true at all. I love taking haircuts. I'd get one every week if I could afford it, baldness be damned. Those first couple of days I feel sleeker, more aerodynamic. Badass too, like elite soldier Buster Bluth.



- Miley Cyrus. What's wrong with you? Is this some sort of sting to get every male aged 12-40 arrested on kiddie porn charges (oh my gosh, did I just assist in the investigation?)? Didn't you learn anything from that High School Musical chick? Put some clothes on! Billy Ray, stop hosting your crap-ass TV show and pay attention to your daughter, Lord knows no one else was. This is obviously a cry for help. Or the epic finale of "To Catch 150 Million Predators."

- Harper's Magazine has this thing on its last page called Findings. It's telling that you're not even allowed to read the link without paying, because this is one super elite magazine. Basically it's a list of amazing scientific discoveries and knowledge that were made and found in the past month, or something. So fine, you've got your new info on starfish memories (not lasting more than a day, if you care). But then, they slip this in at the end:

There is evidence of time before the Big Bang.

No footnotes, no citations, nothing. Turns out, if you overcharge for a magazine that only comes out once a month, you can just make up crazy stuff, and the rich people will believe it. And then they mention it offhandedly at cocktail parties. "Hmmm, this is quite the piquant bordeaux. Oh, did you hear about that 'time before the creation of the universe' datum? Yes, I apprised Bipsy of that on our catamaran off Nantucket on Sunday, she nearly bit into her mimosa glass. Huhuhuhuh!"

Harpers, there's only one institution that's allowed to offer science without evidence - the government.

Oooooooh, it looks like you've been out in the sun too long, Harpers, cause you just got Buuuurrrrrrrrnnnned! (Stupid SNL/NBC, pulling their Youtube clips. Seriously, it was a really funny clip. Really.)

Sprechen zie boredom?

These days I'm helping out on a project. Ordinarily, one says "project," and images of construction paper and sweet, delicious paste come to mind. But the particular project I'm working on has no such creative outlet. I don't even have internet access: all of a sudden I have three extra hours in my workday that used to be strictly reserved for checking e-mail. 

My day is spent thusly: I get to review hundreds of documents produced in conjunction with a lawsuit against a multinational conglomerate. Relevancy, confidentiality, privilege - such are the slots into which I organize my many articles, e-mails, and memoranda. From there they are further broken down by keywords, issues, authors, etc. And ordinarily, even this ridiculously boring task would occupy me - people at work write some crazy stuff, believing their correspondence will remain forever secret. 

But not on this "project." Oh, no sirree Bob. No, the docs I have to review are about chemical compounds and drug cocktails (and not the fun drug cocktails, like heroin and vodka. Mmmmm, I love my Silent Killer). And sure, I'm not any sort of science person - a Mr. Wizard, a Bill Nye, Science Guy. Frankly, I think science is what people substitute for religion if they don't like a good story. And the formulas, the Venn diagrams? I'll take my invisible, omniscient deity, thanks very much.

Forget the science stuff, though. What really makes this job awkward is that most of the documents are in German. And no, I'm not going near the Jewness/German thing, just superficially, the language barrier makes my day endless. I'm supposed to discern what szprefrugenfargen means, and how it relates to ligands and chelates (who's the science guy now? Look out!)? All I want to do is read the frigging e-mail, and Dr. Fraulein has to be all consonant-y about some upcoming vacation. Helga! English! 

Some thoughts while sitting in the hospital watching Child sleep

Of all the unnerving aspects of the birthing process - and there are so, so many - the one that tops the list, and was most unexpected, was the sheer volume of knowledge I got about my mother-in-law's pregnancys and subsequent biological quirks. For instance, did you know that, 30 years ago, they shaved the hair around the birthing area? I put it delicately because you're not old enough to understand, but ask your older brother, he'll be more than happy to explain it with charts and videos. Aren't you glad you know this?

Science lied to me once again. And all you people who mocked me for disbelieving the whole baby-hoohaa connection can suck a lemon. It turns out there is a different method for removing children from inside mothers - through the gut. What, is the real story not gruesome enough to release to the general public? Got to scare everyone with tall tales of pooping and baby-sized babies squeezing through hoo-haa-sized hoo-haas? I'll never believe anything science has to say, ever again. Which is why Child had his first pastrami sandwich tonight - because milk goes on cereal.

Also, hospital food isn't terrible. What was it, People Who Make Up Old Sayings, you didn't have time to try the vegetable soup? I wish everyone would stop lying to me.

I never knew that I would see literally dozens of men and women come into my room, brazenly whip out Wife's boob, and start massaging it, and I wouldn't punch any of them. She's like an exhibit in a museum, she is.

Hospital wifi is a revelation. How better to mess with your friend's heads than by e-mailing them while Wife recovers from delivery? The key, though, guys, is to wait for your wife to fall asleep. If she's awake, it will not end well for you.

Why aren't arms good enough anymore?

This is my last week before an impossibly loud midget who doesn't speak English will explode through the bottom of Wife and into my existence, preventing me from sleeping past 7 am for the next eighteen years. And even then, I'll be used to getting up so damn early - hell, I'll probably have a regular squash game with Conroy and Fitzpatrick down at the club at 6:30, Monday Wednesday and Thursday. Which is worse than you think, because Conroy cheats, and Fitzpatrick won't shut up about his lawn. So hoooray for that. 

Anyhoo, I've learned many things these past few months. The first thing I learned is that there is no stork - that story is complete crap. Or maybe I'm the stork...I'm not sure anymore. 

The most recent thing I've been taught is that there are dozens, nay, several billion different methods and apparati for carrying a baby. I thought the Swedes, with their Baby Bjorn (it's BJorn, dammit, not BYorn. ENGLISH, people!) were the pacesetters in this industry, but it turns out they're not so great, those gigantic, blond bastards. Aside for the standard B-Giorn there are pouches, and slings, and wheelbarrows that can be wrapped around you, and chairs that can be clamped, via titanium bolts, into your spine. Evidently one is supposed to have a variety to offer your child, because certainly a pygmy who can't see past its nose can determine that a sling is better for its itty bitty spine. And in its place I'm supposed to make a decision about this? I can't even decide if Fetus is a boy or girl. Sure, science tells me that the decision's already made, but it also says that it's natural for babies to pass through vaginas. Does that sound like the sort of thing right-thinking people accept? No, that sounds like some crazy witch-doctor shit. 

So we're copping out, Wife and I. We're getting the pu-pu platter (haha! Chinese food is funny!), and going with the Swedes, and the hippies, and the Japanese. Because nothing is too good for Fetus, except college.

The secret scourge of winter

In these frigid times people complain about snow, and sleet, and bitter winds that seep through cracks and crannies into their very bones. Then there are the attendant illnesses and maladies, from the sniffles to walking pneumonia (also the boogie-woogie flu, but an outbreak hasn't been reported since the late 70's, and hopefully will never be heard from again).

None of these affect me too badly. Being from Wisconsin I never really feel alive unless it's 20 below, with swirling wind and lake-effect snow. And as a guy I refuse to admit vulnerability or weakness, so as far as any of you know I never get sick. 

There is one other hidden aggravation, one that doesn't come up in polite conversation, unless it's a discussion between two fifth-graders. It causes no small amount of discomfort, and is almost completely unexpected; a silent killer, if you will. I'm referring, of course, to static electricity.

We recently got a new couch (for free! Yay Jewness!). Slowly but surely we're tenderizing the cushions so they're perfectly cushiony, and the best configuration for the two of us to nap comfortably at the same time. So far it's matched up quite well against our old couch. Except for one small, itsy-bitsy problem.

Every time I sit on it, and get up, and touch something or someone, I get a nasty shock. I've seen the tiny bolt of electricity shoot from my finger to Wife, or to a fork, or to the microwave. There is no remedy, no preventative measure to protect me. I'm at a loss. I can't not sit on the couch: it's my couch. But now I can't go from my couch to the kitchen without inflicting upon myself some substantial pain. 

I want to love my new couch, I truly do. But this is really pissing me off. So I may have to light it on fire. And then not only will there be no more static shocks, but our apartment will also be much warmer. There's something to say for that. 

Where's my kerosene?

OJ is a killer - of teeth

This is what I don't understand about healthy food. Evidently, sometimes it's healthy, and sometimes not. Orange juice, for example. Drink it in the morning, noon, afternoon, evening, dusk, tea-time, brunch, morning snack, afternoon snack, pre-nap munchy time - all good. Drink it at night, however... and the evil OJ molecules start wailing away on your tooth enamel like an ex-wife and her new boyfriend. According to "science," vitamin C turns, werewolf style, into an acid-like substance, somehow related to citric acid.

Whatever. No one can take away my orange-y goodness.

Also, here are my top five foods I use to perform mold experiments in my fridge. Kids, take note - each of these products can be used for at least a B on a science fair project.

5) Apples. In a plastic bag they make a nice juicy slurry chock-full of bacteria.

4) Potatoes. They shrink, grow new potatoes, and somehow transmogrify into yams. Magic!

3) Salad. Whether it's the mix of vegetables, dressing and croutons, or maybe the fact that it tends to get lost in the back behind the english muffins and the glorious, glorious orange juice.

2) Bread. You'd think, with its protective shell of yeast organisms and whatnot, that it would survive the frozen tundra of my GE. But then it's forgotten, and the greenies get it, some white spots, and then the apple-y slush.

1) Milk. This is a no-brainer. It has almost no shelf life, and it's white, which is somehow more fragile. Also, it's got all that goddamn lactose, which makes holy hell in my large intestine, so it becomes some sort of divine retribution of epic proportions. Also, it gets chunky.

I'll show you genius

A couple of weeks ago the MacArthur Foundation (www.macfound.org) announced its newest crop of 24 genius grants ($100k/year for 5 years). Oh, I’m sorry, they don’t like the term “genius.” Well, I don’t like the term “borderline sociopathic personality,” but sometimes it’s not up to us, is it?

Anyhoo, once again I was not an honoree. Banners, kazoos, and thousands of yards of colored tissue paper were wasted. I’m not ashamed to admit I took it hard. But after a few weeks of refusing to shower, or even change out of my tuxedo, I’m back with a vengeance.

I did some research, and according to David Plotz, John and Cathy don’t accept applications. That’s hundreds of dollars in postage I wasted! So on the off chance that one of you is a MacArthur talent scout, here is why I should be shortlisted for the 2008 MacArthur Fellowship:

As a “professor without portfolio” for several third tier universities in San Francisco and New York, I don’t have much free time for my true passion – leading blind children on photographic safaris to Darfur. There is no purer, more heartbreaking way to view genocide than through the eyes of a child, even if those eyes don’t actually work. Sure, parents and child-rights organizations poopoo my methods, and protest regularly outside my office. But they are bound by the leathery chaps of tradition, and cannot escape the mildewy burlap sack of conventional wisdom.

This closemindedness will bring civilization to a cataclysmic end if I am not able to continue these adventures, which are merely part of my research into the Supersensory Compensation Theorem. The blind children for which I am responsible may eventually develop super hearing, or even an heroic ability to distinguish between sweet and savory foods. We may never know, unless I can afford to continue with the hormone therapies and sleep deprivation procedures. Those hormones are not cheap, by the way, or easy to obtain. One can’t just walk into the local pharmaceutical concern, order 150 gallons of equine lycopene, and not expect some sort of hubbub. The total cost of these therapies, combined with our annual photographic journeys to Darfur for twenty sightless boys and girls, will run to just under $100,000 over the next five years.

And this is above and beyond my work to maintain our security in the face of the sinister bovine threat.

So I put it to you, anonymous talent scout. Do you think the world should be denied my efforts? If you want to put 20 blind kids out on the street, children who haven’t slept in weeks and are all hopped up on horse proteins, then go ahead – award the $500k to someone else. But if you’re tantalized by the idea of millions of boys and girls who can smell strawberry jam from 3 miles away, then you understand how much I – we – need that money.

We are very, very tiny

Scientists, in their eternal struggle to make the rest of us feel as small and useless as they did in junior high, have made a cute little video showing just how tiny and insignificant our fine planet really is.

Although someone should make up some better names for stars. Cephei? How about Badass Motherfucker? Or maybe The Great Blazing Soul of the Devil? Now that's hardcore.