If you're like me, and I know I am...

Sunday, February 27, 2005

The multi-talented Drew Barrymore?

Why would anyone at the Oscars introduce
Drew Barrymore as "multi-talented?"
Name one talent. Does being the only one
born into a rich, acting family without
any noticeable acting skills count as talent

All I can think that anyone might be confusing
for talents are the making of shitty movies,
the acting in shitty movies and being a recovered
addict. I mean, nice breasts, honey, but please
don't act any more.

Friday, February 25, 2005

I don't have to outrun the bear...

There is this joke about two friends out in the woods
who come across a bear. They hide up a tree to get
away from him. After a while, it becomes obvious that
the bear is not going away. One friend says to the
other that they should make a run for it. The other
friend says, you can't outrun a bear. The first friend
says, I don't have to outrun the bear, I just have to
outrun you.

I am amazed by families, real families, not mine. With
real families, it's them against the world because if
they don't have each other, they don't have anything.
My family is more like the first friend. They are so
fucking afraid that the bear is going to get them,
before they even see the bear, they want to figure out
who to sacrifice.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

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I never sang for my father either

I am, believe it or not, a communication expert. I've
been a professional writer since 1998. I've won
awards, gained acclaim and, daring hubris, I have
fans. What frustrates me endlessly is that no matter
what I accomplish in writing, I cannot communicate
with my own father.

Here's why. He's deaf. Now, I don't mean he's deaf and
uses sign language to communicate. I don't mean he's
deaf and uses a hearing aid. I mean he can't hear
normal conversation, his hearing gets worse all the
time and he refuses to do anything about it. In
addition to that, he doesn't really listen and hears
only what he wants to hear any way.

My father is like that guy in "Memento." It's like he
can't remember anything except some faulty tidbit he
gleaned God knows how long ago and hangs onto because
that is all he understands. Now imagine the guy in
"Memento" was deaf, didn't speak English, was a bigot,
wore blinders and thought it was perpetually 1954 and
that would be my dad ... pretty much.

My dad is convinced that "me and him don't get along
too good" even though that really isn't the case. We
don't talk because he can't hear. He's never home,
can't hear the phone when it rings and half the time
can't understand the messages you leave on the
machine. He lives a half hour away which is too far
for drop-ins and he only likes to drop-in unexpectedly
because he doesn't like to use the phone and doesn't
like to call people to see if it's cool if he comes
over. I also hate it when people just drop by because
I am never prepared for company. I gotta put some
pants on and clean the toilet, hide the porn and
vacuum the lady bugs up off the floor.

I wrote my father a play, a real "I Never Sang for my
Father" kind of play that illustrated with some skill
and, unfortunately for me, subtlety in mapping out the
change I felt for my father over the last decade or so
a I came to terms with our mutual inability to
communicate with each other. Pretty much everybody got
it and if anythin, I was afraid it was to God damn

My dad said, "It was all right." And that was all he
ever said to me. Of course, he took offense that the
whole play wasn't just some guy standing up there
saying, "I love my daddy, I love my daddy, I love my
daddy." In that event, he probably would have said it
was "totally gay."

Oddly enough, he thinks he gets along with my sister
really well even though they don't talk either. He is
able to stop by her house without calling first only
because she doesn't tell him not to. She might not be
home, but when she is, she is always dressed. He plays
with her kids and ignores her and that's fine with
her. She has always been happy to let him ignore her
and pretend that everything's cool. Me, I don't hide
my frustration well. I'm disgusted by the fact that
old dad likes to get sympathy -- from people whose
business it isn't -- by telling them that he and his
only begotten son don't get along.

He refuses to get a hearing aid because he once bought
a cheap piece of crap from a traveling salesman in
1986. I know what you're thinking. A traveling
salesman in 1986? Of course the guy was operating some
kind of con job on him. He never came back to check up
on him like he was supposed to and the thing didn't
work good at all. He refuses to get a hearing aid
because of this and all of his relationships suffer
because of it.

Ignoring the fact that he clearly got ripped off, it's
21 years later. Technology has advanced immeasurably.
Hearing aids are more than amplifiers today, they
address nerve damage and can make it possible for
people to lead normal lives. To deny that to yourself
is just crazy.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

This week in gender politics

I'd hate to be the president of Harvard about now.
Next week, OK, but this week is just utter chaos. I
don't want to get into whether or not this guy was
right or wrong, or whether the response is a
"witchhunt" or not. It is a talking point either way
pushing the debate about "possible" differences
between men and women into the light of news show
discussion. Yay!

Of course men and women are different. Those
differences are biological as well as socialized. They
are not to be ignored if we are to respect them and
accomodate them.

But it seems like any time, particularly a man,
suggests that these differnces might result in varied
skill levels across gender lines, we go nuts defending
our various territories.

I've worked with a lot of women who said they wished
they didn't work with women because they thought women
were catty, vicous and unpredictable. They all cycle
together and go at it furiously for three days and
then one day they want to be best friends to the
annoyance of everyone. No diggity. But no man is
allowed to think these things even if he doesn't act
on those thoughts.

Let's be honest, though, no one is really worried
about little differences in ability that might go
unnoticed, they are concerned about society as a whole
buying the idea that men are better than women. They
are worried that women as a whole will be left out of
everything just because women's brains (according to
studies most likely done by men) might not be AS
geared toward a specific kind of mathematical
processing as men's minds. That's legit.

On the other side, some women view any notice of
differences as an assault on the whole. Attorney
Gloria Allred used to frequently appear in defense of
women saying that there was no occupation that women
should not be equally represented in regardless of
their qualifications. Even if that meant life and
death as in the cases of firefighters being required
to carry 300 pounds out of a burning building. I bet
there are a few 300 pound women out there who disagree
with that.

The truth in the middle of this debate is that men and
women have different processes that should be catered
to so that all individuals can achieve their
potential. I think that means separate classes for
boys and girls, maybe a few separate colleges for men
and women. And if some man who may or may not be a
dinosaur says "the wrong thing" while attending a
conference addressing this very issue, he probably
shouldn't have his balls cut off just cause he's man
who didn't state the politically correct party line.

And now an anecdote that wouldn't be possible without
differnces between men and women.

There is this insurance commercial on where this woman
comes out in a new dress and asks her husband, who is
focused on reading the newspaper, "Does this dress
makes me look fat." Instantly and without looking at
her he says, "You betcha." He wasn't listening and
gave her the answer he thought she wanted, one that
would allow him to continue reading his paper. She
stands there staring at him for a few seconds until he
feels her eyes on the back of his head. He turns
around almost as an after thought and says, "What?"
She turns away in a beautifully understated huff.

It's a pretty good commercial highlighting once again
the need most women feel to ask obvious questions they
already have the answer to but expect their men to lie
to them so convincingly that they can brainwash
themselves into believing that not only are their
asses not big, but that the unflattering clothes they
wear that make them self conscious are somehow hiding
that fact.

It also humorously depicts how men can be so oblivious
as to screw themselves when they are not 100 percent
focused on the emotional needs of their spouses. I am
biased on this one. I can't count the number of times
I've been mind-fucked like this by women I am not even
in a relationship with.

It's always been my dream to find a woman who won't
play those mind games. I find this behavior bordering
on emotional abuse especially because if men don't
play along, WE get accused of being emotionally
abusive. "He told me I was fat!" "All I said was 'yes,
that dress does make you look fat. You asked!'" That's
the worst kind of mind fucking.

I want a woman who doesn't expect me to say the exact
thing she wants to hear at the exact moment she needs
to hear it in order to not go into a suicidal
tailspin, accuse me of abuse or try to get everyone we
know to hate me too.

"I don't care if you have contagious tuberculosis,
baby, I love you so much that it would be worth dying
just to be with you for a few seconds." This isn't too
far from reality in some cases and, frankly, only a
psychopath would expect the world to dance to this
tune. I'd be more than happy to tell my woman that I
like her big fat ass, but that isn't good enough. I'm
supposed to love it and tell her it's tiny to boot.

Even so, all of this wouldnt be so bad if one could
expect a modicum of reciprocity, but that would be
CRAZY. I can't tell you how many times I've had "the
best sex I've ever had." But I'm supposed to be happy
with comments like "I like the way you touch me" ?!
Screw that! I want to hear, "You are killing me with
your huge penis that tastes like cinnamon, but I love
it and will risk damaging a kidney to get some more!"

I am troubled. I blame my mother.

Monday, February 21, 2005

Anderson Cooper 180

"I don't think I want to live to 100, do you?"

Pretty boy journalist Anderson Cooper said this
tonight on "Anderson Cooper 360" and all I could
think of was "what a tool." Wait, that's not true,
I also thought "immortality has been the dream of
humanity for ages ... dick!"

Anderson Cooper is distinguished in my mind as a
talking head I don't totally hate. I do hate a lot
of them and I don't hide that fact. They get far
too much credit for too little work and looking
too damn good. You can't trust pretty people.
Oh sure, average pretty is OK, but TV pretty? No
thanks. People like that are in it with the MAN.
They are the status quo. They look down upon we
common folk as homonculi ... homonculuses, whatever.

In addition to having a cool theme song, Cooper's
take on the issues is usually pretty dead on. But
only a hipster douchebag would say at 40-something
that living to 100 just seems like too long to live.

Now, my man Dick Walter here in CB is over 80. When
he tells me he's lived too long, I buy it. He's done
it all successfully, lived a good life and is an
ornery old bastard. He's old school and bitches a lot
about how things have declined and how they were better
in the old days and how people today don't know what's
good in life because they don't have his taste. If he
thinks it's time to go, fine.

I've never been very happy and might not ever be.
Mortal ideation is not beyond me, but I'd still
like to live as long and as well as possible. If I were
rich, on TV and could get any tail I wanted, I'd want
to live to 200.

Listening to Cooper talk about Hunter S. Thompson's
suicide and career in journalism tonight was also a drag.
It was like listening to Keanu Reeves talk about Marlon
Brando's mumbling as the key to his success. It was like
listening to Ron Popeil go on about Thomas Edison

Hunter S. Thompson is dead, and I am sad

Often when celebrities die, we mark their passing
with a wistful sentiment. We feel it on the surface,
but reserve our true depth of feeling for those
closer to us, for those who affected us more

When I heard that Hunter S. Thompson shot himself
Sunday night, I cried. I cried for one of my heroes.
I don't use that term, hero, lightly, I never have.
We apply it to just about anyone these days from police
and firefighters to kids who get stuck in wells.
So be it. But HST was MY hero, he wasn't afraid to
put everything on paper, to expose the guts and shit
of a country high on its own sense of righteousness.
He exposed his own excesses and fears. His writing was
tough and beautiful.

He will be missed.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Rubbed up against: Ron Jeremy (not literally)

Having starred in 1,700 "adult" films, one expects big
things from Ron Jeremy ... pun intended. But the
truth is, he is a pretty nice, laid back guy from what I could
tell when I met him at Romantix in Ames, Iowa while on assignment
for the Iowa State Daily. My job was really to go along with our
young female photographer because some people are pretty freaked
out about walking into a porn shop if they've never been before.

And why not? Porn shops are pretty rank. Even the cleanest, best-
maintained, family-owned establishments have an aura like Satan's
waiting room. I don't know if it's the smell of Pine Sol, the glazed-
over look on the pierced faces of the cashiers, the copies of
"Lactating Mamas" or the old dudes who walk in with their own towels,
but you cannot open a dirty book store that isn't rank.

There was a line out the door. Nearly 100 people were in line to
meet Mr. Jeremy and he did everything he could to accomodate all of
them. Handshakes, smiles, kind words. He was short. About 5'9". He
was also dressed kind of shabbily in a running suit. The dude oozed
the sort of sleazy pornstar quality one would expect, but let's be
honest: he invented that. He's like the Shakespeare of porn.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Council Bluffs through time

4th/Broadway 1864

4th/Broadway 1919

4th/Broadway 1950

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

I knew when I got this thing I'd be president

I'm watching "Escape from New York"
on Sci Fi, had meatloaf for dinner
and just got an interview for a
job ... in the Virgin Islands.
That's the Caribbean and I think the
Virgin part is meant to be ironic.
Can you dig it?


Some days aren't so bad.

p.s. the meatloaf was stuffed with
broccoli/mozzarella and topped with
hoisin. Yeah, it was good.

Monday, February 14, 2005

I had caffeine today

. . .

Women be different than men!

Women fascinate me. If we could harness
even a fraction of the energy represented
by their neuroses, their eating disorders
and the spite they inflict on their peers
that cause those eating disorders, we could
be independent of foreign oil without falling
back on windmills and solar panels.

A large hamster wheel, a full-length mirror,
unflattering fluorescent lighting and VOOM!

I like women, but I feel sorry for anyone
who gets really worked up and can't relax
if their husband thinks their fat ass looks
fat in pants that don't properly disguise
that fact. Then again, most men I know would
be wallowing naked in their own filth if
they didn't have a woman to clean and force
them to clean. My college roommates and I
lived together for a year and a half without
cleaning our toilet beyond wiping the piss
and hair off the rim when our parents came
to visit.

And that's good

I don't really watch "Las Vegas," but I'm really
glad that James Caan has a hit TV show.
That's all I have to say about that.

The Good, The Bad, The Indifferent

I know what "good" is. "Good" is not objective.
It's also not totally subjective. "Good" is another
clever term some social scientist/philosopher (maybe
Donald Davidson of UC-Berkeley) came up with: inter-
subjective. Inter-subjectivity basically means that
while the quality and aspect of some things truly
are relative, snobs and power elites get to decide
by consensus among their ranks what is and isn't

Did you know that lobster used to be poor people's
food? It's true. Fishermen and their families used
to be the only people who'd eat lobsters because
they'd pick the things out of their nets while looking
for more commercial items like grouper or something.

Do you think the first person to make crawfish etoufee
was a gourmand? Only Indians used to eat pesole,
now they couldn't afford to buy the stuff at their
local Wal-Mart gourmet foods section.

Burgers, pop music and the epicurean palate

[Preface: a friend of mine used to wonder if her
boyfriend was cheating on her. She consoled herself
with the homily, "Why go out for hamburger when
you can have steak at home?" I said, "Sometimes
it's just easier to grab as burger, especially
after a night of drinking. Besides, burgers are
good. You can put cheese on a burger and toast
the bun. Burgers are great."]

This one is in the category of "You Know You're
Getting Old When ..." But screw it. What else is
there to talk about besides the things that begin
to dawn on you?

I recently worked with a kid, a hipper than thou,
fresh out of college type who would say things
like "Dude, Hoobastank totally rock!" while
looking down upon the lame old people who
"just didn't get it."

Oh I get it all right. Every day some new band
is discovered by some corporate death rock
outfit and we are all expected to ooh and aah
at SUM41, Blink182, MudVayne and God knows who
else is the flavor of the month. Some of these
guys stick around for a couple years, but it
isn't how long they've been around or what kind
of marketable staying power they possess, it's
the fact that they are handed to us pre-packaged
for quick sale as the latest, coolest thing for
kids as if that is somehow important.

Devotees of this kind of fad are almost as tiring
as the people who only ever listens to music they
deem appropriately important. Their bands might
have gotten a hit once or they might only play
small rooms. Their music is by dead guys and the
musician's musicians who also listen to those dead
guys. The Offspring and Garbage aren't just sucky
bands they are the epitome of everything that is
wrong with the music industry today. God help you
if find "The Kids Aren't All Right" or "I'm Only
Happy When It Rains" catchy because you then become,
by extension, a part of the problem.

The truth, I find, is usually somewhere in the middle
ground. Somewhere out there between corporate whore
and musical ascetic is a more relaxed label. I like
the great and important musicians as much as anyone,
but I'm not ready to evangelize on their behalf. Pop
music might lack importance, but everything that I do
doesn't have to reek of eternal truth does it?

Music is like food and though I typically use the term
in the pejorative, you consume both of them. One goes
in your mouth, one goes in your ears. There are things
you consume because they fill you up quick. There are
things you consume because they're good for you. You
consume things that comfort you and things that intoxicate
you. Bonbons and "A Total Eclipse of the Heart" are both
guilty pleasures. Broccoli and anything by Tom Waits are
good for you, but not everybody can stand them.

I find music snobs who eat at McDonalds while talking about
how people who buy Britney Spears CDs are ruining music
laughable. Apparently the American palate is not worth saving.

Not everyone cares about everything, at least not at the same time.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Rubbed up against: Adam West

I was such a great fan of the Batman TV
show when I was a kid. When I found out
that TV's Adam West was coming to my home
town, I was thrilled. I didn't stop nagging
my parents until they agreed to take me to
see him. Luckily, he was appearing at an auto
show, otherwise my dad wouldn't have had any
inclination to take me to see him.

It was pretty gay.

I was only about 8, but it seemed like there
must have been hundreds of people there.
Mr. West came out in a costume that was
cheap and ripped. He made a joke about
running into Catwoman and she scratched him
and that's why his costume was ripped. Nobody
laughed and I was embarrassed for my hero ...
for about a split second.

For it was then that my dad, who had no intention
of hanging around any longer than necessary, grabbed
me from behind under the arms and practically three
me up on the stage. I'm lucky I didn't piss my pants.

"What's your name citizen?"
"Greg," I squeaked.
"There you go," said Adam West and then he shook
my hand as he handed me a signed photo similar to
the one above.

You know, it's not often that one gets to have
contact with one's heroes. I have always found
it a bit disappointing. No one could ever live
up to our expectations. One year, Adam West is
on a hit TV show then the next he's doing a car
show in Omaha? That's rough and it isn't easy to
watch either.

Could anyone live up to our expectations? I bet
you could run into Jesus and feel like, "Hmmm,
I thought he'd be a little less, you know, of
a hippie."

You want to talk about disappointment, I'll have to
tell you about the time I interviewed Dennis Miller.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

I like Ike, too

Military-Industrial Complex Speech, Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1961
"We have been compelled to create a permanent armaments
industry of vast proportions. Added to this, three and
a half million men and women are directly engaged in
the defense establishment. We annually spend on military
security more than the net income of all United States

"The total influence -- economic, political, even spiritual
-- is felt in every city, every State house, every office
of the Federal government.

"In the councils of government, we must guard against
the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether
sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex.

"We must never let the weight of this combination endanger
our liberties or democratic processes."

So ... HOW WE DOIN'?

Can't rhyme with what?

orange ... lozenge ... syringe ... door hinge

Iowa State College circa "The Old Days"

See it up close.

Walking on the moon

Well, walk already.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

NOW the war's over; Iraq has geeks too

By now, most people
have heard that this
American G.I. doll
(a.k.a. Special Ops Cody)
was reportedly taken
hostage and threatened
with decapitation. I don't
know about you, but I have
to think that the occupation
of Iraq is having a positive
affect on the sense of humor of your average insurgent.
The Al Mujahedeen Brigade must be the Monty Python's
Flying Circus of Mesopotamia to think that this was
going to work for very long without giving Americans
a hearty laugh. It does look pretty realistic, but
that actually says more about our ability to make
awesome action figures. See dad, I told you they
weren't just for girls.

Why couldn't we have had great action figures like
this when I was a kid. I had fun with my line of
8-inch DC and Marvel dolls, but they were cheap
as hell. Superman's "S" was a sticker that fell
moments out of the box, the Hulk was actually
shorter than everyone because he was bulkier,
and all the heads were hollow, soft and squidgy.
Been in a comic shop lately? Kids today can buy
action figures that are detailed works of art
worthy of display. No wonder there are so many
geeks with stacks of dolls in the box.

My prediction now is that Special Ops Cody is
going to be a big seller in the next few weeks.
Wait for that story to turn up on FOX.

Fitness made annoying

John Basedow is an
aggrevating mutate
sumbitch. He's on
cable every 10 minutes
hawking his God damned
fitness program in that
ridiculous hip clutching
poseof his talking about
you too can look like a
complete tool. I mean, God bless you John Basedow
for being ripped, but could you please, please,
PLEASE stand like a real man?!

I never thought I'd find anything more
irritating than those Girls Gone Wild
infomercials, but at least I can avoid
those half-hour slut nuggets with a quick
flick of the remote. But Slab Hugelarge
here sneaks in at all hours of the day
and night in his lycra posing pouch to
let us all know that not only is he
genetically superior to us, but he has
enough time on his hands to crunch his
way to freakhood AND make a few million
duckets bilking dipshits.

It was recently rumored that he died
in Thailand during the tsunami. That
turned out to be both wishful thinking
and a ruse perpetrated by his competition.
Why can't these guys just off each other
like the ab-gangstas they pretend to be.

On behalf of late night, desperate loner
TV viewers everywhere, Fuck you Basedow and
in the name of all that is holy would you
stop touching yourself already.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

The Unabridged, Un-coopted Woody Guthrie

My dad's always thought he was a big fan of
Woody Guthrie, the only American I can think
of who's been able to pull off being a communist
AND an American icon.

I'm sure my father would never take my word for it...
I'm just a college boy after all. My father,
on the other hand, is a real American. He works
really hard (with his hands not on his ass like me)
is mostly deaf and half crippled from years of welding
for a company that layed him off after 29 years of service.
And he hates unions.

Why working Americans are so dead set against
making their lives better is beyond me. We are
the sheep that like to get shorn, I reckon.

Here are the complete lyrics to one of the greatest
protest songs ever written, stolen by The Man,
abridged and taught to school children all over
America in its watered-down form.

This land is your land This land is my land
From California to the New York island;
From the red wood forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and Me.

As I was walking that ribbon of highway,
I saw above me that endless skyway:
I saw below me that golden valley:
This land was made for you and me.

I've roamed and rambled and I followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts;
And all around me a voice was sounding:
This land was made for you and me.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds
As the fog was lifting a voice was chanting:
This land was made for you and me.

As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said "No Trespassing."
But on the other side it didn't say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me.

The New Mix Tape

I've always been a big fan of the gift of music. Not
the buying of music products so much, though I did
give Scott Baker a copy of Def Lepard's Pyromania for
his 13th birthday shortly before he sabotaged my love
for his sweet sister, Linda. WHY SCOTT, WHY?!

No, I refer to the act of buying a 90-minute TDK or
Memorex tape (whatever was on sale and of suitable
quality) and compiling a list of songs and bumps,
putting them together in the right order and
presenting them to that special someone. It might be a
girl you dig, a buddy who needs your musical influence
or a teacher looking to get updated.

CDs could be burned in the same way, but at the exact
same moment in history it became possible to burn 15
WAV tracks onto a disk it also became possible for me
to burn 23 hours worth of MP3s and WMA music files
onto a single disk or to e-mail one to three songs at
a time across the ether.

It was a clear spiritual directive, a way of
communicating who and what I am and what people mean
to me one byte (or three million bytes) at a time. I
could do more than just string a few Cure songs along
with a Peter Gabriel track. I could give people a
collection of deep 80s grooves culled by me from my
collection and the net. By sending tunes as I found
them one at a time to friends, I gave them the ability
to create not only a single soundtrack of Greg, but a
sort of radio station of tracks that could be played
randomly as if chosen by the Lord to signify some
deeper meaning.

It's like the advent of stuffed crust pizza. That was
like discovering a new dimension of cheesy flavor
where previously one had not existed. It was kind of a
mind blower. Sure, we take it for granted today, but
at the time... wow.

So make a mix for your crew and send it out over the
net for to played on shuffle and at full volume. It
will be the soundtrack of your life.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Mix it up ... racially

Some people talk about "race-mixing" as if it were a bad
thing. Me, I can't wait for the day when everyone in America
and the world at large looks like Rae Dawn Chong, Ice-T, that
chick from Wayne's World, Mariah Carey (though she is
not the best example), Nia Peeples, Lexa Doig (pictured above), Appalonia, Prince,
Sheila E., all members of the Revolution, really, and me.

I want everyone to be unable to specify what their
ethnicity is without mentioning at least three viable
options of which they are equally proud. I want
everyone to find their pride scattered across the
genetic winds. I want the people of the world to truly
be "of the world."

Take me. I'm Indian, Norman English (which is part
French, part Viking AND Limey) on my dad's side, Dutch
and French on my mom's. As a result, I can't REALLY
hate the French and when I do make jokes about the
cheese eaters, I'm entitled. I mean no real offense
and take none. I am everything and nothing. My DNA
is like a salad bar. I can take what I want
and leave the rest.

It's a very Zen way to be ... in a gluttonous kind of way.