Barnes Burning

"Health Care Reform" Rebranded As "Jon Gosselin Sex Tape!!" To Boost Interest, Clicks

As Congress spends its summer recess preparing to inact health care reform legislation, a top campaign goal of President Obama's, when it reconvenes in the fall, key supporters are considering rebranding the effort as "Jon Gosselin's Sex Tape!!" The remessaging is an attempt to bring increased awareness, engagement, and interest to a topic that parties on both sides of the debate admit is complex, misunderstood, and stupefyingly boring.

"We need to jazz up the way we talk to the American public about health care," claims a top aide speaking on condition of anonymity because he's not authorized to talk about White House strategy -- or the top rated Jon and Kate Plus 8 show broadcast around the clock on TLC. "We need to sex it up. If we replace "health care reform" with "New Jon Gosselin Sex Tape!!" in public speeches, online, and in everyday debate we're going to hit Americans right where their attention is: on the ramblin' booty chasin' exploits of Jon Gosselin, the estranged co-star of that exploitive cable show detailing the lives of his eight children in the name of Nielsen ratings points. An average mother of three knows that managed-care reform is important, even crucial, to the well being of her family...but we need to take a more nuanced approach with her. Which magazine article or web link is she going to read? "Blue Dog Democrats Push Privatized Insurance Co-Pay Solution" or "Nanny Watches Kids, Kate Sobs In Bed After Jon Films Sex Tape In Glass Box Above Vegas Strip!"

The ploy simply attempts to get citizens to pay attention, if even only for a second. Once they're roped in with a salacious headline like "Jon Gosselin Promises Second Sex Tape If Kate Doesn't Shut The F#ck Up About The First One" or "Jon Gosselin Sex Tape Involves Glue Gun, Slip 'N Slide, and Madonna...All At Once" the communication will quickly go into detail on the finer, more pertinent points of health care reform. "It's a ruse, no doubt about it. Health care is still as bland and boring as a bowl of Original Shredded Wheat, but the message is more likely to stick once the reader or listener is drawn in with the latest gossip about what's going on in Jon Gosselin's drawers.

Supporters claim that several scandalous themes were considered alongside the Jon Gosselin angle. Ornery senators scanned trending Internet search phrases while staffers picked through Twitter and Facebook updates in an effort to glean current topics and rumors that could be exaggerated for maximum intrigue. "Michael Jackson Autopsy Pics," "Click Here For Free iPhone," "Lady Gaga Ringtones," "Sarah Palin Plastic Surgery Meltdown," "Jonas Brothers Methamphetamine Binge," and "Susan Boyle Sex Dungeon Discovered," were all bandied about as possibilities.

While a cynic might dismiss these tactics as a lowest-common-denominator way of taking advantage of average folks, Obama insiders insist that early testing with focus groups indicate people are more amenable to learning about this important debate once they've been primed with a bit of juicy celebrity gossip. "Health care is a snoozefest," admitted a prominent Senator on the Finance Committee. "Jon Gosselin gelling up his hair, hitting a Cancun nightclub for fruity drinks with 21 year olds, and stumbling off into the night with some floozy...now that's what I call a winning piece of legislation!"

Welcome To My Tearful, Confessional Press Conference

Hello and welcome to members of the media, my political colleagues, employees of The Governor's Office, and citizens of this great state. Three years ago I stood before you in a very different fashion as I took the Oath of Office in Capital Square and pledged to work faithfully as a humble public servant in pursuit of the people's business. While it wasn't spoken of directly, there was another type of business I know you were thinking of that day. A type of business that you expected me to carry out as the Governor of a major state. A sensational, scandalous, prurient, naughty, secret, lustful type of business that makes anyone with a functional brain shake their head and guffaw with indignation and gossipy intrigue. I speak of course of extramarital affair business, or kinky group sex business, or coming-out-of-the-closet-and-marrying-a-secret-male-lover business, or any combination of scenarios that involve me dropping my fancy Italian suit trousers in a strange place with a strange person who most definitely isn't my devoted wife of 25 years.

This type of business is so common among our nation's Governors that I know you expect and demand such conduct of me. So I am here today to tell you that I love my wife dearly and have not cheated on her. Not even close. I've been faithful to the covenants of our marriage, and on a slightly personal note, I am completely enraptured by the special sexual and emotional bond that grows stronger between us with every passing day like a sensual flame kindled by love of God Our Father. I am not a low-down scumbag who makes a fleeting dash at covering up deep-seeded insecurities by flinging around in a cheap motel room with some floozy while his security detail makes up preposterous stories about "a solitary hang-gliding session to relax before stressful budget negotiations." I am a monogamist and family man. I have not had an affair. And I apologize, and am very, very sorry for these actions.

On the day of my inauguration, God whispered something to me as we rode the parade route down Central Avenue. He said..."Do not let power and fame destroy your family. Stay true to your faith and continue putting your family first even though it may seem impossible at times." I had to smile, because that was the only thing I wanted in life: honorable service to my fellow man and a loving family. Golly, it sure was great to have The Big Guy In The Sky back me up! But I know my adherence to a simple code of moral conduct leaves something lacking for you. It's blah. It's drab. It totally lacks sizzle and shock value. You probably have friends in other states who refresh CNN.com on their lunch break to find their Governor, yet again, collapsing on a podium at a press conference as he exposes some sinful and shame-riddled sex act into the media glare like a seeping wound.

I know you've come to anticipate that elected officials will be philandering hypocrites who airily talk about concepts like family values and the sanctity of marriage out of one side of their mouth, while plowing full steam behind the scenes into risky, even dangerous trysts with their friend's spouses, secret mistresses, high-end call girls, and the occasional petting zoo animal. After all, this is what politicians do in our modern world: weird stuff in the bedroom that even the creators of South Park would have a tough time dreaming up. I apologize for upending that stereotype.

I wish I stood here today with better, edgier news. I know you'd have a lot more to talk about around the dinner table if I was liaising with a cocktail waitress named Tammi in my free time instead of fishing with my son, organizing girl scout raffles, and scribbling love haikus for the beautiful woman I've called Mrs. Sweetie Pie for a quarter of a century. I know you'd prefer that I seek validation as an alpha male by wearing a disguise and going on spring break to South Padre Island to pick up college girls half my age...and then having that scandal explode like a neutron bomb when the Daily Examiner intercepts a drunken email written on a state-issued Blackberry to my Chief of Staff bragging about my exploits. Sorry folks, I'm just not that guy. I feel validated as a man by making a hot cup of tea for my wife when she has the sniffles, that's just who I am.

In closing, I know you're disappointed because you're already packing up the cameras and flashbulbs. This press conference won't even be mentioned on the local news. But that's not why I'm crying. These are tears of joy for my family, and for the greater family that we're all a part of under the loving gaze of our Creator. While you're more likely to find me with a potato sack around my ankles at a Father/Daughter picnic than with my pants around my ankles in a State House janitor's closet, that doesn't change the fact that I always have your best interest in mind with every action I take. I apologize for not being the scandal-ridden buffoon you thought you elected. I apologize for being a good man, I know it's boring as all heck.

"Swine Flu" Provides Convenient Cover For "Wine Flu"

Millions of Americans who suffer each and every day from what they euphemistically call the "wine flu" have found refuge in identifying their affliction as the "swine flu" to family, friends, and co-workers.

The swine flu, which originated in Mexico, is a respiratory illness affecting pigs that recently began infecting humans and has caused panic across the globe. "Really, it's just a matter of adding an "s" to the beginning of "wine flu" and that doesn't feel so deceitful. For me, it works," said Serena Miller an aspiring Broadway songstress who has been frittering away her time in New York City (and Daddy's credit limit) by drinking fancy bottles of Cabernet at hipster dinner parties in SoHo. "When I wake up to find I've missed yet another audition because I was arguing in a wine-soaked haze about Hegelian dialectic until three in the morning, saying I'm suffering from the swine flu goes over a lot easier. It makes the calls with Mom and Dad a piece of cake. The swine flu is a global pandemic, whereas the wine flu is only contracted by entitled, upper-middle-class blowhards who think they have a touch of genius about them. It's not a hard choice."

Frank Catellenti agrees. The hard charging Wall Street securities broker has spent the last three years plagued by daily bouts of the wine flu after his affair with a 24-year old co-worker was exposed and his wife and three children moved out. "It used to be, I'd nervously snicker about "a case of the wine flu" to my boss when he found me slumped at my desk with that glazed, hungover look. But this morning I sent my secretary an email saying I was staying home with the swine flu and I've been inundated with cards and flowers all morning. I've never been better!" he chimed as he cracked into a bottle of Clos du Val 2004 Reserve even though the clock read 10:35 AM. "This descent into mid-life alcoholic stupor is going to be painful and wrenching, but it's going to be a hell of a lot more pleasant passing it off as the swine flu."

Those referring to their wine flu as swine flu have two basic tips. Keep your communications about your illness short and don't make yourself available for discussion. Miles Flemming, a handbag designer and general bon vivant recently "tweeted" that he had swine flu to his Twitter network and wouldn't be available for 2-3 days, or more accurately, until The Sex and The City marathon on TBS concluded. Almost instantly, he was deluged with sympathetic responses and questions about the symptoms. "It was like 'ease off everyone!!' If I really had an exotic, highly transmissible disease would I chat about it online for hours on end? All I said was that I had the swine flu, let's just leave it at that." Flemming admitted that he can understand his friends' curiosity and prying questions however. "Everyone's spooked that they might have the swine flu themselves...and if you put back a magnum of rosé before dinner at Morimoto like I did last night, the answer might just be "yes."

This Is My Cash Position, Cover Letter Attached

To The Hiring Committee:

I am writing to express my extreme interest (one could even call it a progressive, increasingly relentless monomania) in the positions listed on your corporate website. Note that I'm not confining the auspices of this communication to a single position. I want, and adore, them all. Associate Manger. Junior Analyst. Senior Vice President of What Have You. According to an authoritative source, as a fully developed bipedal primate in the family Hominidae, I have "a highly developed brain capable of abstract reasoning, language, introspection, and problem solving." This combined with an "erect body carriage that frees the forelimbs for manipulating objects" makes me well qualified for any role the folks in HR could dream up. Indeed, I'm willing to manipulate objects, clients, or co-workers. Whatever you need. Just let me know. I can build tools, synergies, management efficiencies...or petty office rivalries that will ultimately allow me to covertly advance the agenda of your choosing.

Before we go any further, let's get something out of the way. Felony conviction. There, I said it. I know that expert HR professionals like yourself employ sophisticated keyword scanning software to sort through resumes and cover letters, so while the words "felony conviction" are highlighted in yellow on your computer screen, let me get out in front of this one and apologize once and for all for that unfortunate night on the riverboat casino in Shreveport. Neither I nor Tootsie (I believe that was her name) had any idea that Bacardi 151 was combustible to the extent that I, a quiet white boy from the suburbs of Connecticut, could actually breathe fire after a handful (okay...an armload) of cocktails. In truth, if you'd been there you would have been laughing your off ass off right aside Tootsie as I carried out an amazing David Copperfield impression at the high limit blackjack table. "Limit" is an appropriate word here, because now I have one when it comes to quaffing grain liquor, playing with fire, losing my 401K in card rooms, and hanging out with drug-addicted showgirls. Lesson(s) learned, right?

Anyhow, here’s the gist of why I'm writing to some faceless corporate recruiter on a sunny afternoon instead of rollerblading or flirting with the Mommies at my neighborhood pool: I can make cash spit out of a computer like a snowmaking gun. Really, I can. Believe it brother/sister. But heed this warning: if taken on as employee, I cannot be held responsible for any physical injuries or mental twistups that may occur to you or your staff as a result of millions of dollars in newly minted bills streaming around your headquarters at a high rate of speed. Paper cuts, whiplash, asphyxiation, and wanton delirium are just a few of the potential outcomes once I start the magic process, known only to me, of spontaneously creating bucketloads of money out of thin air. Perhaps you’re curious about my exact methods for effecting this “cash craze,” perhaps you want more details, or even a single detail, before committing to my 7-8 figure salary demands (meant to tell you that…my salary needs are in the 7-8 figure range)? Well fellow/lady, I can’t release any more information on the Q3 Cash Out of Nowhere Project until we’re meeting face to face in your office and the ink is dry on my 5-year guaranteed contract with a employee option for the 6^th year. Naturally, as your newly contracted employee, I’ll be more than willing to share the bounty of cold hard currency that follows me wherever I roam like a groupie tagging along behind Lenny Kravitz, but I do suggest that your procure five or six heavy duty lawn rakes and/or steel reinforced pitchforks so we can clear a path between the piles of money and the lunchroom. Lunch is important to me. Please note: I cannot make money shoot out of my computer if I'm even a little bit hungry or if the vending machine runs out of Diet Dr. Pepper.

The potential partnership I’m describing here is the paragon of what some corporate gobblyspeak blowhard might call a “mutually beneficial winback cycle” whereby my magical bottom-line strategy of turning a Dell Latitude E6500 laptop into a funhouse ATM machine results in a year-over-year spike in ecstasy and good tidings. I’m not sure if we’ll need to leverage anything, but I’ll be sure to show up with a crowbar on my starting date, they're always useful for shoveling cash around if one of the rakes snaps in half.

Admittedly, there are a lot of talented candidates out there…but quick question: do any of them have the means to generate revenue from their fingertips like a mother f-ing wizard? I am not just a rising star, I am an acknowledged Spirit Being with mystical powers and a tenderhearted soul. And it’s about time somebody started treating me likewise. I’m thinking your company would be a good place to start.

I look forward to hearing from you...right now. Now. Email me with an offer right now. Do it!

Email me or else!

Sincerely,

The Spirit Being

P.S. I mean it! N-O-W!!

In These Economic Times, May You Find The Strength To Weather "These Economic Times"

In these economic times, do you find yourself using the phrase "in these economic times" approximately 1,597 times a day? Do you find yourself chirping "...in these economic times, in these economic times, in these economic times..." like a drunken and deranged parrot who deserves a firm smack across the bill from his master? In these economic times, do you sometimes think that your wife is having a Grand Mal seizure only to discover that she, yet again, is starting a sentence with "In these economic times..." as if a teleprompter-dependent local news anchor from Omaha has snatched the very soul of your life partner? Kids, are you about to Google "how to make Daddy sleep forever" if he says "in these economic times" even one more time while shaking his jowls like Larry Summers?

Alas, these kinds of economic times demand that we talk about the current economic times like economically depressed and stressed people have never talked about economic times before. While practically nobody knows just what the hell they're talking about, many experts submit that the best way to make it through economic times like these economic times, is to, in any conversation, hearken back to whatever economic experience you may possess, no matter how feeble or fleeting. Perhaps you were an Economics minor, the Treasurer of a school bake sale, or once scared strangers into dropping spare change into a plastic Taco Bell cup by lumbering into their personal space on the sidewalk. Maybe you were the CFO of a small neighborhood lemonade stand. Think hard...did you once save receipts in your wallet and then throw them out in a single bunch every few months? Have you smoothed out a dollar bill before feeding it into a vending machine or tucked one gingerly into a stripper's thong? Filled out an $5 NCAA office pool? Tens of thousands of dollars in debt? Have you tossed a penny into a water fountain? Opened up your daughter's piggy bank on the kitchen table in desperation or photocopied $20 bills on your laser printer in moments of extreme panic and disillusion?

Point is, we're all qualified to talk about these economic times like a blowhard professor with a booming voice and a raging ego because we all have some experience with obtaining and spending money. Really! You might as well buy a tweed jacket, horn-rim glasses, and a silver wig, because you've been approved to pontificate! We all have something to say about the flow of global wealth and the steps we're taking to personally deleverage and recapitalize our ING Orange Savings account equity stakes. And the way we talk about money in these economic times is to start off conversations with a declarative sentences that show how wise and frugal we actually are. For instance, "in these economic times, instead of buying replacement razor heads so expensive CVS assigns a Hells Angel to guard them, I've taken to shaving by scraping a pair of children's scissors across my face." True? Technically, nyet. Evocative of the humility and hardship I'd like to project in these economic times? Absolutely! And don't say, "I'm only filling my gas tank halfway because I can't afford a full one." Try... "these economic times demand that we demonstrate courage, fortitude and down-home American moxie and as such, to reduce our dependence on dirty fuels imported from the Middle East and to shore up my cash position, I now cut my engine when entering the garage at work and coast into my parking spot...an act that's necessitated, quite frankly, and quite, quite, really, truly and very, very honestly by these kinds of economic times (that is to say, the kind of economic times we're experiencing right now)."

Now you're talking!

While talking about these economic times with such bedeviling insincerity will probably cause you to pee your pants once or twice in shame, I urge you to take these economic times head on. Keep talking about them in the kind of vague, cliché-ridden, phony business-speak that got us into these economic times in the first place. Because there is nothing to fear in these economic times except the cessation of blabbing about these economic times ad infinitum to fill the uncomfortable, seeping silence that indicates just how hollow the depths of our souls really are. But don't despair. In these economic times that "nothing" that's firmly lodged in the core of your being and your bank account can always be filled with something. In these economic times, for example...

Mr. Obama, Lemme Tell You...Taxes Can Be Taxing

Dear Mr. President,

I know your first few weeks as Commander In Chief haven't been a cupcake eating convention. Your first appetizer from the buffet of national ridiculousness has been an economy nosediving like U.S. Airways Flight 1549 into the Hudson. Thing is, we don't exactly have Capt. Chesley Sullenberger (personally, I prefer to call him "Sully") in the cockpit to ease us into a safe landing. This might be because Sully's booked for five straight nights on Larry King Live. But the more probable explanation is that for the last five years our financial institutions have been run by people with job titles like Executive Director, Devious Financial Mathematics. That said, before it's all said and done, I have no doubt that Sully and Larry King will be blood brothers, or maybe even conjoined twins. Somewhere in the wilds of the Internet, I bet there’s a picture of Larry climbing onto the wing of the floating Flight 1549 to get the first interviews with Sully and his crew.

Of course there’s also the array of wars across the globe that aren't going our way. It reminds me of a teenager at summer camp getting in way over his head by simultaneously playing three or four games of Risk against his fellow campers. What's that? Did I just compare Our Country ‘Tis Of Thee to a lanky, brace-faced 14-year-old boy? Uh, yeah. Sorry. Bad analogy.

Anyhow, your most recent kerfuffle stems from the tax issues some of the wealthy, influential, and powerful people appointed to your administration have run into. Basically, we've all learned that the best way to become wealthy, influential, and powerful in the first place is to simply not pay a chunk of taxes each year. Who knew?! You'd think that Suze Orman would have passed along this tip at some point.

Given this new culture of tax relief, and given that we're approaching the heart of tax season, now seems an appropriate time to get ahead of the curve and highlight a few tax "misunderstandings" of my own. I’m being totally upfront about these unfortunate circumstances, and to go the extra mile, I’m going to throw in a dash of genuine sorrow and a dribble or two of relatively lukewarm regret. Again, I’ll underscore and double-bold the unfortunate nature of these sad (not bad!) fiduciary oversights. Really, the word I keep coming back to is “unfortunate.” Unfortunate. There, that should do it.

Without belaboring the point, here’s an executive summary of some mild tax errors that I’m totally not responsible for, but that you, as the de facto Boss of The IRS, may want to briefly scan before tossing them into the garbage and wiping them from your memory like a blank flash drive that you just picked off the shelf at Staples.

1996 - Not only did I fail to pay taxes on tips I made as a waiter at Freddy's Fried Fish Joint...I actually wouldn’t even classify them as take home pay since the funds never reached that particular destination. Instead, I fed my tips directly into the Golden Tee and Pop A Shot in the back.

1997 – Some people fail to pay taxes on a housekeeper. And some people look at their yearly wages and wonder if they actually spent the year working as one and somehow didn’t realize it.

1999 – Hey, Prince told us to party like it was 1999! So I did. I like to think that I put the “social” back into social security that year. Instead of contributing to an underfunded government albatross that will go kaput decades before I reach 65, I bought 78 rounds of lemon drop shots.

2001 – Instead of mailing in a tax return, I just photocopied my middle finger and sent that along for IRS review.

2002 – You know that murky provision about deducting gambling losses that everyone talks about, but nobody really understands? Yeah, I unilaterally took a gamble and enacted it.

2003 – The IRS was understandably perplexed by the ballooning roster of dependents who kept showing up on my 1040 and trust me, I’m still trying to sort it out myself. Think about how confusing it is for me! NBA ballers and John and Kate Plus 8 can relate.

2004 – I felt like it was more appropriate to file as an Independent Contractor, since most of my at-work activity consisted of hiding from boss in my cube and fiddling around on YouTube. Talk about solitary confinement.

2007 – I noticed that the blind get a pretty decent tax break. And based on the amount of time I spent snoozing on my couch in front of the TV in 2007, I assure you that I was gazing into thick blackness more often than not.

There you have it Mr. President. I cannot tell a lie. While this process of admitting my sins of omission hasn’t been easy, I’m thankful for the opportunity to serve my country by listing every cheap shortcut and dubious itemized deduction in the book. We’re all Americans. United we stand. Hope for hope. Our way of life. Let freedom ring. And while you’re at it….would you mind looking the other way?

Color Me Badd...For All Eternity

A Scene

The pearly gates of heaven. Shimmering light. Angels blowing majestically on trumpets. Cumulus clouds stacked on each other as far as the eye can see. A general feeling of peace, all-abiding love, and infinite contentment. Basically, God's Crib as you've always imagined it.

PROCESSING OFFICER AT THE GATES OF HEAVEN: Next!

A CHILD OF THE 90s WHO DIED BEFORE HIS TIME: Hello!

PROCESSING OFFICER: ID please.

The CHILD OF THE 90s hands it over. The PROCESSING OFFICER checks it, pulls out a file, and digests the contents. She frowns.

PROCESSING OFFICER: Oh my.

CHILD OF THE 90s: What?

PROCESSING OFFICER: Oh sweet, crystalline nectar squeezed by Jesus Christ The Lord with his own two mitts.

CHILD OF THE 90s: What's!? I just died tragically...and everyone back on earth is mourning my loss!

PROCESSING OFFICER: We have problem here.

CHILD OF THE 90s: Problem? I freely declared all my sins! What is it? The time I wrapped the answers to a calculus test around my wrist like a quarterback in the Super Bowl? My tendency to stockpile incriminating pictures of girlfriends as "insurance" for the inevitable break up? The Oreo Cookie Incident?

PROCESSING OFFICER: The Oreo Cookie Incident?

CHILD OF THE 90s: When I was 13 I ate and replaced a boxful of Oreos when my parents were out at a movie.

PROCESSING OFFICER: I don't know how to say this...

CHILD OF THE 90s: Just tell me!

PROCESSING OFFICER: (singing lightly) To the tick tock ya don't stop...

CHILD OF THE 90s: Huh?

PROCESSING OFFICER: (singing) Come inside take off your coat, I'll make you feel at home. Now let's pour a glass of wine, cuz now we're all alone...

CHILD OF THE 90s: I don't...

PROCESSING OFFICER: (singing louder) I wanna love you down, I WANNA SEX YOU UP! All nite (you make me feel so good) I want to rub you down, I WANNA SEX YOU UP!

CHILD OF THE 90s: NO! I have nothing to do with Color Me Badd!

PROCESSING OFFICER: October 17th, 2007. You burned the Color Me Badd debut album C.M.B. to iTunes from your CD collection.

CHILD OF THE 90s: I burned all my CDs to iTunes! It's an obsessive compulsive thing. Or a cheapskate thing.

PROCESSING OFFICER: You didn't get enough value from the album during the 16 years you owned it?

CHILD OF THE 90s: Actually it's a pack-rat thing. I don't throw anything out. Nothing! Coffee filters, disposable razors, condoms. It's clearly a genetic predisposition that's no fault of my own. I haven't listened to that album in years!

PROCESSING OFFICER: "Bylaw 8 of The Paradise of Heaven, Rule 11, Section 12...The Word of God: None shall gain entrance to mine Kingdom if he hath partaken or disseminated filth that clogs the mind of his fellow man." Sweetie, Color Me Badd is the triple-epoxy super glue clogging our collective memory of the early 90s. The fact that you digitally recorded it for all posterity to your computer hard-drive is heinous. And damning."

CHILD OF THE 90s: It was in my CD book. I figured I might as well burn it since it had been sitting there all those years.

PROCESSING OFFICER: Let's take a look at how that came to pass. First, sometime in 1993 a man's soft falsetto caught your ear on the radio. Fair enough. But you had to take it a step further. You actively purchased the record. You listened to it countless times, singing along as you fantasized your own romancing of a sassy lass with poofy mall hair. To your credit, you stopped listening to the album and eventually renounced Color Me Badd all together, but you didn't get rid of the CD. Oh no, you hoarded it, letting it linger in your collection like a husband hiding his high-school girlfriend's yearbook photo in the back of his sock drawer. Why didn't you throw it out or sell it at a yard sale? Was it a family heirloom? A one-of-a-kind keepsake? Were you waiting for the tide to turn so it was finally acceptable for a grown man to wear a satiny lavender blouse, cut his hair into a swivel, and snicker like a chick while singing for the camera? 

Silence

PROCESSING OFFICER: And then the final indignity. October 17th, 2007. You remove the Color Me Badd disc from you Case Logic and without remorse, place it into your laptop's CD drive. When iTunes asks "Would you like import the CD "C.M.B." into your iTunes library?" you click "Yes." With gusto I might add. As such, the abomination known as Color Me Badd lives on for another generation. The cycle of soft, mushy hip hop is perpetuated. Jesus wept.

The CHILD OF THE 90s goes white with terror.

CHILD OF THE 90S: Jesus wept...

The PROCESSING OFFICER looks at THE CHILD OF THE 90s and back at the stack of papers. She flips through them.

PROCESSING OFFICER: Oh heavenly host. Why didn't you say something!? July 8th, 2008. You burned P.M. Dawn's 1995 album Jesus Wept! You vagabond! You animal! Have you no musical decency? 16 years after the fact you still weren't able to turn away from the mellow quasi-spiritual crooning of P.M. Dawn? Have you no dignity?

The CHILD OF THE 90s begins to weep. The PROCESSING OFFICER notices something in his pocket. She motions to a GUARD.

PROCESSING OFFICER: What's that?

The GUARD removes the item from The CHILD OF THE 90s who doubles over with sobs.

GUARD: An Ace of Base album. The Sign.

CHILD OF THE 90s: (singing off-key, deliriously) ALL THAT SHE WANTS IS ANOTHER BABY, SHE'S GONE TOMORROW BOY...

PROCESSING OFFICER: Get him out of here! Now!

The GUARD drags him towards an ominous, smoky hole. A sign ("Hell Hole") is posted next to it with a downward pointing arrow. The CHILD OF THE 90s struggles briefly and then goes limp before shouting with delirious ecstasy:

CHILD OF THE 90s: ALL THAT SHE WANTS IS ANOTHER BABY, SHE'S GONE TOMORROW BOY, ALL THAT SHE WANTS IS ANOTHER BABY, SHE'S GONE TOMORROW BOY.

PROCESSING OFFICER: What does that even mean?

The GUARD heaves him into the hole. Those waiting in line shield their eyes. An elderly man leans on a companion and wretches. The PROCESSING OFFICER tosses the CHILD OF THE 90s file into the trash and cracks her knuckles.

PROCESSING OFFICER: Next!

What Was Grandpa's Facebook Status During The Great Depression?

Our digital culture provides oodles upon oodles of benefits and efficiencies. You can collaborate with people around the world. You never lose touch with classmates, teachers, or co-workers. In one sitting you can email a long lost Aunt, listen to a Pearl Jam bootleg, research a trip to Madagascar, all while streaming a college hoops game and instant messaging some random Internet friend who's really starting to creep you out.

During this economic downturn and the recent financial crisis, it's been amusing to check in with friends on Facebook via their status updates. Everyone has a different perspective on the event. Which got me thinking...what if our grandparents had Facebook during the Great Depression? Essentially the 1930s equivalent would be Grandpa or Grammy sending off hundreds of identical one-line letters every couple hours. Get out the quill, dip it in ink, scroll the same sentence 200+ times, seal the letter with one of those old-time wax seals (naturally leaving your own special mark) and head to the post office. Repeat as needed. Would this have been a good thing? I'll leave that up to you. Meanwhile, I'm taking a trip down an imagined memory lane to think of some of the updates our grandparents might have made during those lean, difficult years.

"Standing in bread line. Again. Wicked hungry. Stomach growling BIG TIME."

"@FDR please get a public works project going in my neighborhood!!"

"Just pawned my watch for a loaf of bread. Where's the time gone ;)"

"Sent 13 year old boy off to work at textile factory today. Holla if ya dig child labor!"

"Got a new bowler hat and suit. JK! Still wearing the same raggedy ones from 1931."

"The dusty smudges on my face don't look so hot in this light. Sigh."

"Is. The. Stock. Market. Freaking. Kidding. Me."

"Check hot new meal tips on www.EatingTurnips7DaysAWeek.com"

"Tidying up this flophouse. As much as one can tidy up a literal flophouse that is!"

"I'm pretty sure "Great Depression" refers to the current economic climate....but I'm actually really depressed. What do we call that? The Other Depression?"

"LOL, just found a $5 bill in my mattress!!"

"Hey, here's an idea. Next time the economy collapses and unemployment reaches 30%, let's not roll out Prohibition at the same time, K? I need a goddamn drink."

"10 Ways To Turn That Hungry Frown Upside Down :)!!! www.DepressionOptimist.com

"Met a cute guy...he's ill-housed, ill-clad, and ill-fed. But who isn't!"

Tween A Rock And A Hard Place

I don’t have children. I’m not a teacher, and I stridently ignore the little people incessantly playing portable videogames in every public place imaginable. But I’ve just found out that I’m seriously in the dark about a modern phenomenon: I thought those little people were “kids”. Well buster, they’re not. Those are Tweens, the latest American sensation.

I might as well have been sailing across the world for the past few years in an exact replica of the Mayflower. I had no clue. Merrily, even cheerfully, I’ve gone about my business, thinking nothing was amiss. When I was a child, the system was pretty straightforward. If I asked my parents for something, anything, that was non-essential to my day-to-day survival (i.e. anything other than bread, water, or iodine tablets) I received a stern lecture on frugality, was forced to execute 50 push-ups in rapid succession, and was sent off to sleep on a concrete slate to further consider the virtues of thrift. If you were a kid, you were supposed to be at least semi-miserable. You were the young goat of the human kingdom, and nobody was impressed. Why? Well nobody really knew why, that’s just the way they had been doing things for centuries. But it was okay, because eventually you graduated from the serfdom of little-people land and became an adult.

Somewhere along the line the whole kiddie-cart as it were, was tipped over. All the sudden adults became fascinated with kids, who were too old to derive satisfaction from a clean game of Ring Around the Rosie (toddlers), but too young to have their first inkling that it might be fun to smoke a carton of cigarettes while trading raunchy text messages all afternoon (teenagers). Kids were no longer fantastically obnoxious twerps just a few years removed from soiling their pants on daily basis. A new classification emerged for this “between” group suspended in the purgatory of not-adult land. These runny-nosed adolescents, this selfish, narcissistic clan of tantrum throwing spoilsports and whiners had a new name: they were Tweens. Mini Adults. While it would have been entirely excusable to leave this group of people alone until they had actually done something to warrant our attention, a cadre of child psychologists and Just Do It! suburban housewives decided that we all needed to stop fast in our tracks and devote a solid portion of our waking hours to this confederacy of brats.

Contrary to every intuition of mine that is decent and pure, I’ve learned the following: Tweens have opinions, identities and personas. They have important feelings and emotions that have to be considered and lavished-over. Tweens mean business, they want the world, and they want it now. Tweens have zest and zing. They are sophisticates. Life is not hard for Tweens, it is a comfortable escapade that one saunters through with a stuffed belly full of Fried Jalapeno Poppers. Tweens live by several mantras, here is one: “Gimme! Me!” If a Tween falls in the forest, the current protocol is to immediately run to his or her aid with a newly purchased iPhone and a knapsack full of DVDs. Tweens should be lauded and respected. If you are a parent and your Tween is not the most utterly stupendous, most amazing once-in-a-lifetime miracle that has ever happened to you, you are a hideous, unworthy ogre.

Tweens have clout. As has been widely reported in the media, after several high-level meetings, the nation’s advertisers placed a seething-red bulls-eye on the Tween demographic. The reason for this, and for their ever-expanding power, is so obvious: Tweens are practically drowning in cash.

How’s your discretionary income looking? Well, as any advertising Jack or Bob worth his Sprite will tell you, Tweens wallets are practically snow-blowing cash day and night (although a recent story in the New York Times suggests that the economic crisis might curtail some of their fiduciary bravado). “Tweens are so reliable, so consistent. They, collectively, are an unstoppable Cash Cow…picture Godzilla in braces with a Visa Gold Card” says dazed marketing executive Taylor Trumbell. Trumbell adds, “When I was a lad, sometimes I’d pop down to the corner store to buy some animal crackers or marbles with my meager allowance, but this generation is different…they come into the mall guns blazing, and they don’t stop until the amount of merchandise is literally impossible to carry. Then, they hire a team of elephants or a helicopter to cart it away.”

How did they get this cash? Who cares. There is a nasty internet rumor that behind every Tween stands an exasperated father or mother with a gargantuan credit card bill, but to that I say, “Stuff it in your craw, Daddy!”, to which Daddy would say, “Um, okay sport. Sounds great!” The truth is, Tweens are high functioning and operate as autonomous purchasing machines that will stop at nothing until every silly machine, overpriced wardrobe, and ridiculous gadget has been emptied from the country’s malls.

While this might seem like a positive for us adults (if only because it will allow us to find the things that we want and can actually afford, like bananas and paper clips), in reality it is an ominous sign. We are at the cusp of the French Revolution in Parent/Tween relations and things are only going to get increasingly ugly. You see, when the lower classes gain momentum, and can see the mantle of power glowing on high, the rebellion is truly under way and nothing can stop its progress.

Which is why I fully expect to be led to the guillotine by a pack of gum chewing Mylie Cyrus look-alikes in the not-to-distant future.

(Throw) Pillow Talk

Some say that Men Are From Mars And Women Are From Venus. Others see differences between the sexes in the leisure activities they favor: men knock back beers with their buddies watching a game, women prefer shopping and Hollywood gossip. But I've come to believe there’s a single defining trait separating the male and female species. A line in the sand that essentially defines gender as we know it. Women like throw pillows. Guys don't even understand what they are.

To me, throw pillows are a modern Stonehenge. Where did they come from? Why are they here? I think I speak for all men when I say I'm totally baffled and a little spooked out by the whole concept.

Let me emphasize this last point: it's not that we harbor resentment and disdain for the throw pillow...we literally cannot conceive of their utility and purpose. It's as if throw pillows exist in another realm, another dimension beyond our comprehension and sensory perception. Throw pillows are effectively ghosts that can only communicate with and be seen by women. Guys are blind to their cute ruffles and carefully stitched flower patterns. Put a throw pillow in the hands of the average man and he’s likely to lie his scruffy head on it and take a nap…which of course is the number one No No when it comes to these dainty little bundles of comfort. No sleeping allowed! Just observe/admire from a safe distance if you please. In fact, don’t even think about moving it from its strategic perch on the couch. And certainly don’t sit on it! In fact, come to think of it…don’t even look at it.

Our friends at Google have aggregated some definitions that right to the essence of the throw pillow. I like this one the best, as it's short, sweet, and gets right to the point:

“…a small cushion that is used for decorative purposes”

The key phrase here is "decorative purposes." Therein lies the crux of what I consider to be sheer ridiculousness, because in my world there is no decoration. Wouldn’t it just be easier to have one class of generalized pillows serving all cushioning needs alike? When did we get so frilly and fussy? Isn’t a pillow little more than a drool capturing device? And by elevating them into the realm of kitschy “art” aren’t we taking our eye of the important things in life that deserve our attention?

As I considered this sad state of affairs, I came across a couple web sites that made me even more despondent. To the good folks at The Throw Pillow Source, I’d ask “Does the average shockingly obese American really need a pillow with the phrase “Cheesecake: New York Style” emblazoned into it (although maybe, when you’re so fat you can barely breathe and spend your days lollygagging on the couch, it’s nice to have a reminder about what put you there in the first place)?” Over at DecrotiveThrowPillows.net things aren’t much better as they plaster pillows with our favorite sports teams, beer, and the American flag. Original.

The throw pillow reminds me of the ceremonial first pitch in baseball. Overhyped, poorly executed and generally a pretty lame embarrassment that leaves everyone awkwardly blushing and twiddling their thumbs. So enough already. Let's take throw pillows off the inactive list and put them back onto the playing field where they belong.