Your Eyelids are Feeling Very Heavy ...

There are innumerable occasions when sleep seems to reach a level of importance beyond necessity; however, two particular occasions over-ride all others – when one is in a hospital bed, or seated in an airplane.

A few years ago, my wife delivered our youngest child. He was bashful, and didn’t emerge until the wee hours of the morning. Of course, by that point, my wife had been awake for a particularly eventful and exhausting 24 hours, and although she felt compelled to handle her new bundle of joy, all she really wanted to do was kick everyone out of the room so she could sleep.

Since I had to work that day, I kissed her goodbye after the din of birth wound down to a routine hum and went home to shower and prepare for my day. I returned in the afternoon, only to find my wife sobbing at my arrival.

I don’t care who you are, no man feels any sort of ego boost when his mere presence is greeted with tearful bursts of dismay by his significant other.

Once she stopped hyperventilating, my wife informed me that it wasn’t my image that caused the crying jag, but rather the fact she had collected less than twenty minutes of continuous sleep since I had left several hours earlier. I was dumbfounded by that comment because it seemed counterintuitive to me.



What’s the best thing for most patients to do in a hospital? I would have assumed “sleep” would be the correct answer.

In reality, it seems hospitals staffs are downright maniacal about keeping exhausted patients awake. Nearly every half hour, or so, someone would come into my wife’s room and ask her some inane question (like waking her up to ask her if she needed to take any medication to help her sleep). Every time a doctor or nurse’s shift would end or begin, like the changing of the guard at the palace, the job-swappers would bid farewell or greet her, depending upon whether they were coming or going. It seemed there were around 6,000 medical employees assigned to that floor, and by all indications, shifts changed every 45 seconds.

Of course, legitimate reasons for waking her were also interspersed throughout the day – blood pressure checks, visits by breast feeding advocates, bringing the baby in periodically for feedings or to help with crossword puzzles, etc.

By the time I got there, my dear wife was fatigued beyond the point of insanity. I literally thought she was going to commit homicide when the haplessly well-intended maintenance employee woke her up to see if she had any questions about how the television worked.

The first decent moment of slumber she enjoyed was two days later in the car on the way home from the hospital.


This same practice, let’s call it “Slumber Interruptus,” is practiced 30,000 feet above the Earth in confining airplanes everywhere.

Being a passenger on an airplane is an incredibly uncomfortable experience, but that’s a rant for another day. One of the most-recommended measures for surviving the “air travel experience” is entering virtual hibernation – going to sleep as quickly as possible and staying asleep, ideally until the second before the doors open and it’s time to step off the plane.

The goals of the flight crew are quite different. Their actions prove their intent is to keep you awake by any means possible so you can’t help but consciously endure every single monotonous instant of flight.

Once you’re seated, if you nod off, you’ll be awakened by flight attendants reminding you to move your seat to an up-right position, or slide your bag under the seat in front of you, or turn off various electronic equipment. Moments later, as you feel yourself lulling back into a stupor, you’ll be abruptly shocked by the unnecessarily loud recitation of the plane’s many safety features, how to fasten your lap belt, and what to do when the plane begins plummeting toward the Earth and cups and hoses (and likely luggage) drop down into your lap from the overhead compartments.

Finally, story time ends, and as you begin your next futile venture into la-la land, the chipper pilot comes across the public address system to welcome you aboard, confirm your destination, share how long the trip will be and how high the plane will be traveling above the planet, and then thanking you for traveling with him and his crew.

This time, you don’t bother trying to fall back to sleep right away. You groggily wait several moments to be sure everyone has said their piece and you can finally be left alone.

Satisfied that the interruptions have ended, you successfully return to a state of placidity – eyes shut, dreams in full swing – when, suddenly, the drink cart slams into your kneecap, waking you with a start.

The words “I’m sorry” are replaced by a disapproving glare from the flight attendant and the phrase “you need to keep your arms and legs in”

At this point, you surrender. Between the oafish flight attendants, the territorial row mates vying for elbow and knee room, waling children, loud-talking strangers and the unmistakable odor of people who have fiendishly removed their shoes and freed their sweaty, stocking feet, you realize this trip, and every one like it, will be excruciating reminders of why man was not meant to fly.

All I wanted to do while I wrote this was sleep. Instead, the flight attendant repeatedly assaulted me with the beverage cart. She and the large man seated next to me spilled cranberry juice on my pants, and the pilot provided up-dates regarding our geographical location at twenty minute intervals.




130 years ago, to cross our nation, settlers pushed and pulled handcarts, livestock and grumbling spouses and offspring across hostile territory, for weeks or months at a time, enduring natural hardships and occasional native attacks. – lucky bastards.

Honey! Have You Seen the Broom???

July 19th has not always been kind to the fairer sex. Just ask Sarah Good who perished on this date in 1692 in Massachusetts after failing to convince a judge, a jury and a vengeful crowd of fickle townsfolk that she was not a witch. Fortunately for her, Monty Python was not there doling out sentences, and instead of being burned at the stake while wearing a carrot for a nose, she was hung. Of course, regardless the method, the result was still the same.

It's been nearly 320 years since that ill-fated moment in history, and now, Cathleen Miller of Chicago Ridge, Illinois has been arrested. Apparently, the 40 year-old mother has been accused of getting her 14 year-old daughter's young male friends drunk, high and laid. Testimony alleges she had intercourse with two of the teens, oral sex with another, and merely fondled a fourth.

Of course, the parents of the boys are outraged, and for good reason. As a parent of two young boys, I find her behavior reprehensible and would seek full legal recourse if my children were involved. However, if I was a 14 or 15 year-old boy, I would have been hanging out at Cathleen's house ... a lot!

Ironically, both of these July 19th events began as crimes against youths, though there is some skepticism about the whole witch saga.

Compelling testimony exists to support the young boys' claims against Cathleen, but back in the 1690s, teenaged girls provided nothing more than theatrics and fanciful stories to play upon the superstitions of the adults within their communities. Sarah Good was little more than a homeless wife, and mother of a 4 year-old daughter. She actually delivered an infant while in prison, but only after both her husband and daughter were forced to testify against her. Her infant didn't survive her time in prison, and the 4 year-old (Dorothy, AKA Dorcas) was imprisoned as an accused witch as well. She was released when she was 5, but displayed the effects of that psychological trama for the remainder of her days - go figure!

So what of this? Is there some sort of karma on this date of which women should be aware? Unlikely. The messages here are probably a little more mundane and sensible.

First of all, we all need to recognize the power of suggestion, especially when it is being convincingly shared by a cherubic young girl. No matter the story's basis in truth, if it is compelling enough, some people will tend to believe it. And if enough people believe it, they may act on it. And if, by some horrible twist of fate, the fictional tale accuses you, be sure you have some traveling cash handy and a quick escape route picked out.

The only thing worse than being caught doing something wrong is being convicted of something you didn't do. Just ask Sarah!

The second lesson is use your freaking head!!! When your child brings friends home for a playdate, don't seduce them.

Ann Bancroft was an incredibly sexy woman, and Dustin Hoffman was a lucky son of a bitch to be propositioned by her, but that was all just a movie, and besides, Hoffman's character had just graduated from college, not 7th grade.

Cathleen is a very disturbed woman, but she's not alone. How often do we hear stories of school teachers having affairs with the young boys or girls who have been placed in their care?

The weird part is, the teachers usually aren't physically repulsive. They should be able to find age-appropriate partners (like this guy), although, to be fair, those hypothetical partners may not be as interesting as the youngsters since I don't know many 40 year olds who still play Chutes and Ladders, or build LEGOs. Well, for the sake of clarification, I don't know any 40 year olds like that who don't still live with their mothers ...

The world is, and always has been, a very strange place, and after a span of 317 July 19ths, it appears we haven't made any progress toward restraint or sanity.

And to think, all this time we've been afraid of Alien anal probes and mind control, when the real threat was an administrative clerk in a small Illinois town ...

Yesterday's Calendar is so ... "Yesterday"

Let us reflect, for a moment, upon the concept of obsolescence - when something is no longer desirable and is en route to being obsolete (ie: useless).

In 1970, my father ordered a "Granada Gold" Pontiac Catalina (exactly like the one Ron Burgundy drove). This was exciting stuff. During that era, cars were custom-ordered, so we waited weeks for the assembly line workers in Detroit to nap their way through the process of producing this land-barge. When the big day finally arrived, we took delivery of our shiny new leviathan, but only after we inspected it for defects, which took a long time, because the thing was as poorly produced as a closed-circuit high school news broadcast.

The windshield and rear view mirror were cracked. The rear bumper was lop-sided. The paint was chipped. Neither the electric clock, nor the gas gauge functioned, and the air conditioner compressor wouldn't kick-on. The list of deficiencies went on and on, and could have filled a college blue book.

We scheduled time with the service department to get all the punch-list items addressed, and then we piled into our new prize and drove home. That night, before retiring to bed, my older brother and I begged our dad to let us steal one last glimpse of our family's shiny new conveyance. Dad acquiesced, probably because he wanted an excuse to take another look himself, and we opened the garage door.

It was like we were slapped in the face with a wall of stench. Fortunately, neither of my parents were smokers, because if they were, I'd be writing this to you from the afterlife. Our new car's fuel tank had a leak, and purged its entire 27 gallon gas supply onto the garage floor.

The next morning, the dealership retrieved the behemoth with a tow truck, and for the next several months, that car resided in the dealer's garage more often than it did in ours. All the while, we were provided "loaners," which was cool for me and my brother, since my parents got to drive virtually every model in Pontiac's vast arsenal - all of it was complete rubbish.

Strangely, my parents took this in stride, because it was par for the course. This is what one endured when taking possession of a new car. Cars were practically hand-made, and the lack of quality was chalked-up to human error.

Although it was nearly ten years, and 80,000 miles before we parted company with that car, it began deteriorating pretty much the first time the key twisted in the ignition, and it qualified as dilapidated junk by 1976. That rolling street turd squeaked so loudly, it could be heard coming from a block away, and it evolved into a bottomless pit of embarrassment for us whenever mom would drop us off or pick us up at school.

Back then, this rapid deterioration was attributed to planned obsolescence (the assumed conspiracy that automakers intentionally made junk so buyers would have to replace one generation of refuse with the next generation in short order - 3 to 5 years). Whether planned obsolescence was intentional or not was irrelevant, because the end result was the one manufacturers desired - a predictable sales volume, year-in and year-out.

Then the Japanese came along and screwed everything up with their fuel efficiency and product reliability. Damn them right to hell!

After a couple decades of trying to swim up-stream, American automakers, through bankruptcies, near bankruptcies, and ever-diminishing market shares finally conceded to the tide and began producing respectable products. Now, it seems only cars produced from the former Eastern Block, or China are unreliable crap, and a new car can run forever if properly maintained and used.

Well, that created a whole new problem - if consumers purchased reliable cars that lasted decades, why would they replace them? Please welcome the marketer's new tool: functional obsolescence, where a product may still work, but it possesses few of the features that entice today's buyers.

How is that possible, you ask? Isn't a car, by its nature, merely a motorized box with wheels that enables one to travel from one location to another and back again (the back again part doesn't apply to French or Italian cars)? Well, sure, in its most-basic form that's true, but most-consumers now seek things like "crumple zones," and air bags, and anti-lock brakes, and back-up sensors, satellite navigation systems, MP3 connections, satellite radio, rear-seat DVD entertainment systems, heated/air conditioned seats and steering wheels, and blah blah blah ad nauseum.

And as if that wasn't devious enough, now, automakers have taken the next step and begun to entice consumers with an alternative to the revered internal combustion engine with hybrid systems that support the traditional motor with electric ones. Then there are the cars that eschew the internal combustion engine entirely and operate solely on electricity or hydrogen. Some cars retain the internal combustion engine, but replace fossil fuels with stuff produced from corn. As such alternative methods of turning a crank are adopted, more functional obsolescence will exist.

Where did the auto industry learn such diabolical techniques of consumer manipulation? From the technology sector, of course. Anyone out there still using an IBM with a 286 processor and Windows 95? Probably not. It seems every year or two, we are coerced into replacing our computers because the hardware isn't fast enough, doesn't possess enough storage capacity to operate in the current world, and is operated by software that is no longer either supported or capable of performing even the most-mundane tasks.

Case in point? In 2007, the first iPhone came to market. Three years later, Apple is selling the iPhone 4, and every prior generation of that product is considered to be nothing more than a doorstop.

Who's to blame for this? To quote Pogo:



If we weren't such chattel, we'd scream "no mas" and stop buying the latest and greatest gizmos and doohickies, but we can't control ourselves, and the marketing gods know this. They realized long ago that we are goldfish with feet - if it's shiny, we must have it.

Sadly, we are the architects of our own economic demise, and if we're not careful, we're going to buy ourselves straight into destitution. Beware, my savy cohorts, for there is poverty in them thar iPhones, and iPods, and Sat Navs, and 3-D LCD Flat Screen TVs that are only about a half inch wide.

Have you seen one of these things by the way? They're amazing. I just order two - one for each end of my Jacuzzi soaking tub. They came with complimentary Blue Ray DVD players, and an amusement park-style popcorn maker ...

Not Happy? We've Developed a Pill for That ...

Sir Isaac Newton is renowned for identifying three basic laws of physics. Not to take anything away from the importance of his first two laws, but today we're going to focus on his 3rd law, and how it applies to pretty much everything, especially the effects of technology.

According to Newton's 3rd law, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction - a yin for every yang, if you will. In the case of technology, for every instance of improved efficiency, I submit to you there is something else in the queue waiting to consume whatever benefit has been created.

As an example of efficiency, let us contemplate the simple act of sending a note and receiving a response from a client.

Twenty-five years ago, when corporate dinosaurs roamed the Earth, faxes and "mobile phones" were novelties; e-mail and the internet didn't exist, and no one except Bill gates had a computer on his or her work desk.

Back then, if you wanted to send something to your client, you had to write a note on a piece of paper and place it in your communal, chain-smoking secretary's "in-bin." The paper would migrate down to the bottom of the stack, and would be returned to you, typed, three days, or six packs of cigarettes later, whichever came first. You would then review the letter and re-submit it with changes, realizing full-well it would take another few days to get re-typed and returned to you.

After two or three edits, and a week-and-a-half's time, the letter would be placed in an envelope and dispatched to the mail box. Three days later, assuming the envelope was properly addressed and the correct amount of postage was placed on it, your letter would arrive on the desk of the intended recipient. He or she would read it (you hope), draft a response, submit it to a secretary for processing, and you would receive something a week later. All together, the entire process would take about three weeks.

Today, even the most intellectually taxing e-mail can be composed, edited, proofread and sent in about an hour, and a response will be received sometimes within moments.

This is incredibly efficient, and equally frustrating. See? Newton's 3rd law in action.

Why is this frustrating you ask? Well, before this spectacular efficiency became common place, the world had a different pace. Expectations were more reasonable. When you told someone you'd send them a proposal, the intended party expected that proposal would arrive in a matter of weeks, not hours. Now, not only do your clients expect you to turn everything around in minutes, but every one of your clients expects that level of responsiveness all at the same time.

So if we're this much more productive, we must be incredibly effective, successful and happy, right? Well, I haven't noticed that. Have you?

I mean, sure, we get a lot more done in less time, but are we more profitable? I don't think we're happier.

Technological advances have always been sold on the promise of happiness - "instead of beating the rugs outside with a stick, m'am, you could purchase this Suxdeluxe vacuum cleaner and have your carpets cleaner, quicker. You'll be much happier with all the time you'll save."

Well, ask any haus frau, and you'll learn all that "saved time" got used up doing the dishes, or waxing the floors, or beating the laundry in the creek with a rock. The fact is we've just replaced doing one task with three tasks within the same hour, and productivity is not the same as happiness.

I remember the peace and quiet we would enjoy years ago playing golf. The links was a place of desolation, surrounded by nature and friends. It was five hours of disconnection from the rest of the world, where we could focus our frustration on poor play and the simple betrayal of the 14 clubs in our bags. That tranquility has been shattered, first by pagers, then by cell phones, then by smart phones.

Today, it's routine to wait for a playing partner to compose and transmit a text or e-mail before lining up a putt. Our sanctuary has been invaded and over-taken by the convenience of technology, and the simple joy of golfing with friends has been lost forever.

I would submit to everyone that technology does not always improve our lives. To the contrary, I think it creates angst. We're all so accessible, now, that we can never be away from work. Downtime is a lost commodity.

Today, more than ever before, we are at the world's beck and call every hour of every day. Clients feel no sense of compunction for e-mailing or calling us at all hours, any day of the week, and expecting us to respond immediately, because they realize we're probably reading e-mails in the check-out line at the supermarket, or while we're waiting for the traffic light to change.

Of course, I'm taking an extreme position, here. Not all technology is bad. Certainly, Mankind's discovery of fire, and the wheel, and breast augmentation have had positive effects on society, but where are we on the Bell Curve? Perhaps we've gone beyond the point where technology makes things better, and have entered the realm where change only makes things different.

To harken back to Newtown's 3rd law, what have we gained? In recent decades, through computer advances, we've gained better access to one another, at greater speed.

What is the equal, and opposite force? Since virtually nowhere is safe from work demands, it appears the yang is our profound loss of privacy and freedom.

Everyone who's funny, take one step forward ... not so fast, you.

Isn't it funny how everyone thinks they're funny? Honestly, have you ever met anyone who openly admits he or she isn't funny? In real life, though, some people are better at some things than others; no one is good at everything, and no single thing is done well by everyone. Therefore, it stands to reason that some people are mis-guided or delusional if they believe they're funny.

In the 1982 film "my Favourite Year," Peter O'Toole plays an aging movie star named Alan Swan opposite Mark Linn-Baker's Benji Stone; Stone has been assigned to keep Swan sober enough to perform on television. In one scene, the young Stone asks the aged and experienced Swan: "Do you think there are funny people and not-funny people?" To which Swan replies "Yes. Definitely. On the funny side there are the Marx Brothers, except Zeppo; the Ritz Brothers, no exceptions; both Laurel *and* Hardy; and Woody Woodpecker. On the unfunny side there's anyone who has ever played the accordion professionally."

Personally, I agree with Mr. Swan, on all accounts, and have an anecdote I'd like to share here to illustrate that exact point.

Back home, there's a local pasta company owned by two brothers, called "P&S Ravioli." The "P" stands for Primo, and the "S" stands for Segundo - that means "first" and "second" in Italian. Those are their names - Primo is the oldest; Segundo is second oldest. There are 8 siblings all together, and they are named ordinally.

We have two young sons, so for the sake of this blog post, and out of "rispetto" for P&S Ravioli, let's refer to our oldest as Primo, and our youngest as Segundo.

Our Primo is a beautiful child with a warm, gentle soul and a great sense of humor. My love for this child is boundless, yet he's about as funny as a technical manual. He tries. Honestly. He does. He laughs all the time, acts silly, and tries to relate funny stories, but in the end, the only person he cracks up is himself. He has a lot of other talents, but I'm afraid he's destined to be a professional accordion player.

Segundo is a different story, entirely. He inspires laughter with a look, or gesture. When he tries to be funny, he is, and even when he's not trying, he's still funny. Allow me to expound.

One morning before work, I was standing at the kitchen island, deciding whether or not to go back to bed, and Segundo, already dressed for kindergarten, walked into the kitchen with a stuffed penguin in one hand and a plastic Whack-a-Mole mallet in the other. See? You're probably already smiling. Anyway, he held the penguin up and said "Daddy, watch this." He then proceeded to knock the penguin up-side its head with the mallet, and the stuffed critter flew across the room.

I asked Segundo why he did that, and he replied that he was the penguin's chiropractor. I suggested that even the most inept chiropractor in the world probably wouldn't slam his patient in the head with a mallet, and Segundo replied that this was a special case, because "this penguin has (insert moment while he visibly searched his mind for the right word) ... TESTICLE difficulties."

My wife immediately left the room for fear he'd see her laughing, so I was left alone to fight back the guffaw and explain that the proper term was "TECHNICAL" difficulties. "Technical," not "testicle" ... big difference. Then I put my head down so he wouldn't see me convulsively containing my laughter.

This kid does this all the time. He's a natural, and is the embodiment of the difference between people with a good sense of humor, and people who are genuinely funny.

Steve Martin is one of those naturally funny people, and 30+ years ago, he said, when people asked him how he can be so f'ing funny, he'd reply that he'd take a slice of bologna and put it in each shoe, and then he'd just FEEL funny. Well, if that's what it takes, I'm afraid a lot of people are going to need to take a number at the deli counter, or they'll need to schedule accordion lessons.

I believe O'Toole said it best as Swan: "Dying is easy. Comedy is hard."

What Van Gogh Didn't Know

For some strange reason, ears have played a memorable role in forming our social fabric. Take the 1888 severing of Vincent Van Gogh's ear; some believe he mutilated himself, while historians believe fellow artist, Paul Gauguin actually cut the ear off with a sword in an effort to protect himself from Van Gogh's attack (Van Gogh was upset that Gaugin was moving away). No matter how it happened, Van Gogh did present the liberated ear to a prostitute, who fainted.

Most people remember Van Gogh was an artist, but nearly everyone remembers his ear was lopped off.

More recently, an ear took center stage when, in Quentin Tarantino's cult hit "Reservoir Dogs," Mr. Blonde danced to Stealers Wheel, straddled a bound, seated "beat cop," whom he'd captured, and methodically vivisected the cop's ear with a straight razor. Mr. Blonde then tickled himself as he engaged in a brief conversation with the dangling appendage.

In every day life, ears face even stranger risks.

When I was a kid, only ladies pierced their ears, and even then, many preferred the "clip-on earring" alternative. Of course, those were the days when people wore suits and dresses to baseball games.

During my adolescence, defiant rock 'n rollers of both sexes began piercing their ears, and girls began getting a second, or even a third hole pierced in one ear or the other.

Today, piercings have evolved to a point where everything imaginable is being pierced, not just ears. Any more, it's almost common place to have a waiter or waitress lisp their way through the day's specials because they have a stud in their tongue.

Like tattooing, piercing has become a method for personal distinction, and I marvel at peoples' willingness to undertake such extreme measures to achieve uniqueness. A recent trend, though, makes me laugh. This would be the act of "stretch piercing," or "gauging."

Instead of merely piercing one's ear lobe with an 18-20 gauge hole (which is typical), devotees of stretching strive to grow the hole gradually. I assume they do this to accommodate larger and larger jewelry, but oft times, the hole is merely left wide open and the skin flaps in the breeze. As is the case with wire, gauges grow in size as the number decreases. For example, an 18 gauge hole is approximately 1 mm in diameter, while a zero gauge is 8 mm (1/3"). Gauges are measured up to "000" which is 11mm (7/16"), but the holes have been known to get stretched far beyond that size.

Of course, ear lobes aren't the only things to get stretched. Some people (like this guy)give the works to their septums, while others (like the lady below) expand their lips, but we're discussing ears, here, so I'll try to stay on point.










What strikes me funny about this is not the personal expression, or the whistling that can probably be heard as gusts of wind blow across one's shoulder, but rather the image it conjures in my own mind.

Back in grade school, while learning about the Spanish explorer, Cortes, we learned of a game call Ullamaliztli. As early as 1200 BC, the Aztecs played this game where teams attempted to send a heavy rubber ball (9-15 pounds) through a small (35" diameter), wall-mounted ring 8-10 feet above the playing surface. This is the epic game where it's believed the losing coach, or team, or even the fans would be sacrificed immediately after the match. Over time, though, that theory has come under criticism. Since being sacrificed was considered a privilege, it's believed the WINNING team (or fans or coach) was sacrified.

Can't you just hear the conversation at home before that game? "See ya, honey, I'm off to the Ullamaliztli match downtown. I'll either be home for dinner, or sacrificed, depending on how the home team does."

Because of my own personal life history, every time I see someone with gauges in their ears, I imagine little Aztecs on that person's shoulders, trying to kick a rubber ball through their hoop. I also imagine little poodles jumping through the hoops at the circus, but that's actually pretty disturbing.

Now, every time you see those gauges you'll probably have similar images. perhaps you should have worn your aluminum foil hat before you started reading this ...

Driving Miss Dizzy

This morning, a 75 year old woman in Atlanta Georgia created her own drive-through liquor store. Unfortunately, the liquor store in question already existed WITHOUT a drive-through.

This particular lady drove her white Mazda Miata through the front window when she failed to stop at the end of the parking lot. This is the second time she has crashed into this same liquor store. Sadly, a store employee was slightly injured, and more than 1,500 bottles of alcohol were mortally wounded.

So what's the first thing that pops into your head? - probably something relating to the diminished driving skills of the elderly, and how something should be done to keep them off our roads.

It's pretty typical, I suspect, for one to assume geriatrics shouldn't be allowed to drive. After all, driving is a privilege for those with the faculties to perform and, like it or not, our physical and mental faculties erode over time.

Researchers believe our intellectual peak occurs at 22, and erosion begins at 27. - unsettling news for those of us who are decades beyond those particular milestones. One's physical peak occurs between the ages of 28 and 33. Again, bad news for us geezers.

In 1900, geriatric drivers would have been of little concern, especially considering how few Americans owned cars back then. At the turn of the last century, the average life expectancy was 47 years, and only 4.1% of the population (a scant 3 million citizens) were over the age of 65. Today's a different story, though. Between medical advancements and peoples' natural desire to linger until the Chicago Cubs win a World Series, the average life span of an American has increased by more than 30 years, and senior citizens now account for nearly 13% of our nation's population (30 million people). That means there are a LOT of people out there who are oblivious to the fact that their turn signals have been on for the last two hours.

At the risk of committing ageism, there's probably sound cause for concern about elderly drivers. Several states in the Union share that concern. Illinois, for example, requires every 75 year old driver to take a road test to qualify for a renewed license. Between the ages of 81 and 86, drivers must be retested every other year. After 86, they must pass annual tests. Fifteen states share similar legislation.

Well, if the government says it's right, it must be right. Right? Right. Well, maybe ... sort of ...

Yes, the elderly tend to be quite wrinkly, but are they necessarily any worse behind the wheel than anyone else? Probably the best source to answer that sort of query is the insurance institute, since their clientele base their premiums on the statistical likelihood of accidents by various demographic groups (age, sex, profession, etc). According to those actuarial gurus, drivers over the age of 85 are statistically as likely to be in a fatal accident as a 16-19 year old driver.

Wait. What?!

Well, if that's true, then young people with fresh skills and cat-like reflexes are just as dangerous on the roads as decrepit, saggy people, and if that's true why don't these tykes have to take tests every year, also? Are you smelling the conspiracy???

Chances are, physical skills are only partially at fault for vehicle accidents. Stupidity probably plays a far greater role.

Today, everyone's abuzz about drivers texting and e-mailing and talking on cell phones while behind the wheel of their four-wheeled death machines. Certainly, these modern conveniences are the bane of responsible, attentive driving, but distracted drivers are not a new phenomenon.

For years, I spent several hours every day commuting to and from work. I've seen people reading the newspaper while driving, propping novels on their steering wheels, SHAVING (in one case, a guy was shaving his bald head ... with shaving cream and a straight razor), applying make-up, brushing teeth and, of course, eating and drinking. Back in the old days, we didn't need technology to distract us. We could rely solely on poor judgment. Kids today are soft and lack creativity.

Oh sure, there are some seniors who need to stop driving, but there are a lot of younger people who should be removed as well. What we should be doing is focusing on improving driving skills, and holding people accountable for their own stupidity - caught reading a romance novel at the wheel of your SUV? No more driving for you. - caught texting? Text yourself a cab, 'cause you're done.

The elderly lady in Georgia is a motoring menace, and shouldn't be driving anymore, but would you interpret the story differently if you learned she wasn't merely elderly, but was actually "sexting" as she pulled into the parking lot, and failed to watch where she was going? First of all, you probably threw up a little in your mouth just now, but then you probably realized that there are far worse things to be doing behind the wheel than aging.

There's a conspiracy against the elderly because they're an easy target. Let's test them, but then let's test everyone else as well, and then let's not just test to determine physical inabilities; let's also test for stupidity.

Got ink?

When I was a kid, the only people with tattoos were grizzled old sailors with hula girls or anchors turning blue on their forearms, but today, it's practically mainstream to be tattooed with everything from fraternity letters on the ankles of bankers, to rose buds on the shoulder blades of middle-aged soccer moms.

The fascination for me is not whether or not someone gets tattooed, but rather how someone commits to a single image that will likely be with them for eternity.

Back in 1980, I wore skinny ties and was a fan of Adam and the Ants. That was thirty years and nearly 100 pounds ago.

I can't remember the last time I listened to Adam Ant, and if I had gotten a tattoo of him in 1980, between the proliferation of body hair that has subsequently invaded my body, and the abundance of cheeseburger-imposed flab I've collected, "Adam" would now resemble a Salvador Dali version of an Al Qaeda operative.

To me, it's a matter of design obsolescence across an ever-morphing landscape.

Let's face it; personal taste is totally fungible. One day, you're wearing a gigantic Led Zeppelin belt buckle to hold up your Wranglers, and twenty years later, you're wearing Bermuda shorts, humming "Saturday Night Fever" while lining up a putt at a country club. As long as you have the legs for the shorts, there's nothing wrong with that sort of change. It's natural. We grow up, and external forces help shape us. What WOULD be wrong is NOT changing.

Wouldn't you feel ridiculous with a Led Zeppelin (or worse yet a KC and the Sunshine Band) tattoo emblazoned across your forehead while you're plotting that 30 foot putt?

Regardless of whether or not society sanctions the tattoo you're sporting, what are the odds YOU'LL still love the sentiment or design as time goes by? To me, that's design obsolescence.

And what about how our bodies change as we ... um ... mature.

Long ago, I heard a comedian describe a young girl who had the image of a butterfly tattooed onto her firm breast, only to be asked by her grandchildren, years later, to show them her pterodactyl.

We're not static billboards - forever long and flat after enduring the tests of time and nature. We're evolutionary beings whose metabolisms and lifestyles change and whose body shapes follow suit - the ever-morphing landscape.

Today, people of all ages are plastering themselves with tattoos, and I wonder if anyone has asked them how hey're going to feel about those tattoos in time. Will they want to hide their defiant slogans when they go for that job interview after law school? Will they want to hide their proclamation of love for Jim when they walk down the aisle with Bob? Will they want to hide the lewd, finger pointing character they had tattooed prominently on their arm one drunken evening when they are campaigning to be the president of the PTA years in the future?

Some people probably love their tattoos as much today as they did the day they got them, but is that sentiment universal?

According to a Washington Post article, 25% of Americans between the ages of 18 and 30 have at least one tattoo. That percentage is about the same for those who are between 26 and 40. Unfortunately, about 20% of people who have tattoos regret getting them, and 6% of the tattooed public is trying to get the infernal things removed. Nearly 70% of those seeking removal are female.

And what of cost? It typically costs up to a couple hundred dollars per hour to get tattooed, and removal takes between 5 and 20 sessions, costing $200-$500 per session.

There are approximately 50 million Americans between the ages of 18 and 30, so if 25% of them have at least one tattoo, there are 12.5 million tattoed people in that age group. Let's assume each tattoo takes at least two sessions for completion, and we're looking at a total expense from that group of our society of $2.5 billion.

Removal for the portion seeking it (6%, or 750,000 people) would be nearly $4 billion. This is big business folks for the nearly 15,000 estimated tattoo parlors dotted across America, and even bigger business for the thousands of laser removal clinics popping up here, there and everywhere.

As much as I hated their domineering, oppressive rules in my youth, I have come to appreciate the brilliance of my parents. Their rule: no tattoos or piercings as long as we lived under their roof and relied on them to pay our bills. For better or worse, by the time they were neither housing nor supporting us, we decided to eschew tattoos and piercings.

This decision has saved me thousands of dollars, and even though my physique is flabby and hairy, when my shirt comes off at the beach, I don't have "Frankie Says Relax" plastered in large block letters between my shoulder blades. For the sake of everyone, that's probably a good thing.

By the way, do sailors get anchors and hula girl tattoos anymore?