Behold!

I love how people use the language, so in spite of the irritation that is spam email, I actually look forward to the penis enlargement variety.

They didn't used to be this good, but the latest ones that appear in my inbox are very clearly written by people who are not native English speakers. They use the most delightful mix of slang and grandiose verbiage. And for those inclined to obsess over such issues, these short emails are probably very effective. In a few lines they convey a sense of urgency, imply you've been looking for this information all your life, and that at last, by some miracle, now the solution is here. I couldn't make these up if I tried.

Give your girl the surprise you've been planning! Add inches to your penis with the latest cure. Go instantaneously to [insert website name here] and take a look at the groovy therapeutics at hand!

Increase your rocket with loads of inches utilizing the finest treatment! Pursue with haste to [insert website name here] and observe the meritorious cures available.

Don't be shy about your size. Add inches to your willy with this new remedy. Go without hesitation to [insert website name here] and behold the most magnificent therapy now within reach!

I hope nobody really buys this stuff, but I'm sure that millions do. It does no good that the Mayo Clinic, among other sources, assures men that the "average" penis size is 5 to 7 inches. It also does no good to tell men that these "meritorious cures" don't really work either. If they did, you'd find out on the front page of the New York Times, not the spam folder on your email account, and insurance companies would rush to cover it while still denying claims for birth control pills.

It will always be a matter of obsession I fear. But as long as it is an obsession I'll continue to receive these delightful spam emails. They're good for a giggle every day.

My Famous Friends

This is the video of my poker pal Jim at the recent gig he had with Lanisa Keith. She's a Contemporary Christian singer from California. You may recall that Jim is one half of Jim & Jess, two of my favorite poker buddies. I don't know if I mentioned before that they play guitar, which is a thing I envy deeply. Anyhow, Jim got the job for this particular show. He's the one playing that nice Taylor cutaway acoustic in the black Fender T-shirt. The cameraman, or "trained camera monkey" as he put it, was Jess. I think Jim was pretty nervous about the whole thing, but it looks like everything went well. He's got a few more jobs coming up too.

It's nice to see people doing things they like love to do and enjoying it. It's good to have friends, too, who share those things with you. I'm glad I ran into them on the poker tables. I enjoy observing their friendship. It encourages me about people.

Katrina Revisited

Three years ago today I was in New York City reading the front page stories in every newspaper and crying because the place my heart longs for most in the world was being sucked into the Gulf of Mexico and washed away by the Mississippi River and Lake Ponchartrain, and its people drowned like unwanted kittens or left to rot in the sun like discarded rubbish. Yes, I'm still bitter. Imagine if I actually lived there?

My ire was raised over the issue again today when I read this article from yahoo regarding the city's preparations for Gustav. It seems Ray Nagin thinks it's a good idea for persons without cars or other means to be transported to shelters in North Louisiana by bus. I suppose I don't need to remind you of these buses from three years ago.

I realize I should be happy that such preparations are now deemed a good idea, after all, it is good to learn from our mistakes, particularly when those mistakes are so monumentally stultifying. But I still stand in shocked wonder at how this idea was NOT considered important then. If I, as a mere tourist and general idiot, know that New Orleans is a largely poor city with a significant population living in government housing and without things we take for granted like so much as a Ford POS, then why didn't their mayor know this? Why didn't their governor? Did they just forget that NOLA is below sea level?

Before people jump on board and begin the W bashing, I'll do it for you. The cluster-fuck that was New Orleans after the levees failed was horrific, and I don't know that there was a way to handle the ensuing disaster more quickly than it was handled. I'm not an expert on disaster response and don't know anyone who is. But I feel confident, probably due to being a parent, that I would make a helluva preemtive striker. You picture the worst possible consequence and you take action to avoid it. When it became apparent that Mayor Nagin and Governor Blanco were willing to neglect their duties to care for their citizens, call for mandatory evacuations, provide for transport out of the the path of a CATEGORY 5 HURRICANE or call for the early aid of the National Guard, I would love to know why the hell he didn't just take over? I mean, he's The Decider. He doesn't operate on the whims of opinion polls. He doesn't worry whether people like him or not. So where was the cowboy then? Why not activate the Guard without request and evacuate the city merely because New Orleans is a strategic port of signficant national security interest? How 'bout that, Decider?

Whatever. What's done is done. Let's just not do it again.

Classic Example of a Woman Bitching About Something Stupid

A friend pointed out this article about some woman in an airport complaining about the security check. In case you don't want to read it, I'll sum up: A large breasted woman set off the metal detector with her underwire bra. She protested the "pat-down," saying that it was "humiliating," even though they offered to do it in a private area away from other airport patrons. Her solution for this dilemma was to remove her bra completely and pass through the metal detector again. Airport security agreed, and there ya go.

See, there's where I get hung up. To be patted by a female security guard is more humiliating than prancing through the airport, tits-a-swinging? It's more humiliating than going to the newspaper with a story that draws attention, not only to your enormous boobies but also to the fact that you are a whining about something stupid?

You think I have no empathy? Oh, but I do!

I have had limited opportunities to travel by plane. In fact, the first time I did it was a mere three years ago. Due to a job in which I had to travel occasionally, I made a total of five trips by plane over three years. That's 10 flights (not counting connecting flights), and in 10 flights I had to go through the big security check six times. By that, I mean I had to go through not just the metal detector and bag x-ray that everyone does, but also the deal where they make you empty everything from your purse and carry-on bag, and then they swab it all down for chemical residue and all that. And yes! On one rare occasion when I didn't have the big security check, I set off the alarm with my underwire bra. How did I ever cope? I just raised my arms, let the lady pat me down, and went on about my business. Believe me, the traveling world is well aware of the fact that women have breasts. If crazy lady had just submitted to the pat-down, she would have been in and out of security in 30 seconds instead of 40 minutes, and she wouldn't have missed her flight.

Is the security process a bit heavy-handed? Probably. But it is what it is. Believe me, the bag search is far more intrusive than a pat-down. That's when all your oddities can be revealed. The inside purse pocked with the condoms and peppermints. The deck of tarot cards. Your child's Transformer head. Who cares? I figure they've seen worse than what I have. In fact, I take a certain amount of pleasure in the idea that some poor baggage handler has been able to fill out her Checked Baggage Search Bingo card upon discovering the elusive vibrator-and-teddy-bear combo in my suitcase, and won the betting pool for the day. Good for her.

If you don't like it, feel free to drive your ass across the country next time. Or don't wear the underwire.

My Favorite TV Show

CSI: Miami is the best show on television. Don't shake your head and disagree. It's the most kick-ass show on TV, and I know this is true because I don't watch TV but I do watch CSI: Miami. Of all the shows available, it is the only one that has grabbed my attention. I suppose, though, that can be good or bad.

I've discussed my love of the show among friends. Our mothers LOVE the show because they LOVE David Caruso and they think it's cool. We love the show because we laugh our asses off from start to finish. It's a combination of soap drama and pure camp. And to the credit of those who make the show, I'm pretty sure they know this because it seems to be getting worse/better with every episode.

To start, the primary character is named Horatio. You can't beat that. You can only emulate. (Proof is the lead character named Jethro on NCIS, a similar program.) Horatio dresses in black from head to toe in the middle of the day in Miami. He can do this because he is that cool. He speaks in a series of one-liners, filled with pregnant pauses during which he can put on or remove his sunglasses. For instance, ehem, "The verdict is in Frank, [puts on shades] but the jury is out."

To make it even cooler, Horatio's first one-liner of the show is punctuated with with the voice of Roger Daltry screaming "YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" from The Who's song Won't Get Fooled Again. It's absolutely perfect.

And so is everyone on the show. These forensics people in Miami are HOT. They're all smart and beautiful and ethnically diverse. Their hair is perfect, their clothes are high style. Best of all, the forensics lab looks like a night club.

Luckily, I discovered the show once it was in syndication, so every few days I can catch a couple of back-to-back episodes on A&E. I love it more every time. I really hope that if I'm ever brutally murdered, it's in Miami.

Do You Believe In Magic?

This little cutie has been associated with the Cleveland Browns since the founding of the team, and though he was notably pushed aside for a long period of time, he has seen a resurgence of late. Some of my fellow fans disapprove, saying the emblem is "silly," "wimpy," or "kid stuff." Know your mythology, boys. Brownies hold powerful magic and are known as the guardians of dragons. But that aside, even if you don't buy into the myth, any respectable sports fan should be slightly superstitious, and the long misery of the Cleveland Browns can be tied directly to the departure of the Brownie Elf. It's just like what Crash said: "If you believe you're playing well because you're getting laid, or because you're not getting laid, or because you wear women's underwear [or have an Elf logo], then you ARE! And you should know that!"

Making the Case for the Brownie Elf

The Browns were lovingly called The Brownies by fans almost from the beginning of the franchise in 1946. The Browns played in 10 consecutive league championship games in their first 10 years of existence, winning seven of those games. All the while, the little Brownie Elf was a popular logo.

Art "The Shart" Modell purchased the team in 1961. Though he fired Paul Brown in 1963, the Browns managed to win their eighth AND LAST league championship in 1964 under the guidance of Brown's longtime assistant coach Blanton Collier.

It was about this time that Modell eliminated the Brownie Elf from Cleveland iconography.

Since the elimination of the Brownie Elf, the Browns have won the Division only 10 times in 44 years and have made the playoffs only 14 times in that same period. Worse, the number of winning seasons versus losing seasons in that time period is 14-30.

It was not until 2004 that the Brownie Elf reappeared as a recognized team logo. Three seasons later, the Browns go 10-6, and this year, the Browns are poised for a playoff run and a Division Title.

COINCIDENCE? You make the call.

Adventures in School Supplies

I confess, I have an office supplies fetish. It started with school supplies.

Never loved school so much, but loved buying school supplies. Fresh notebooks, pencils and pencil cases, folders with pockets...it was like an early Christmas except better. As thrifty as my mother always was, I could convince her to buy nearly any sort of school supply because it was for the advancement of my education. I got to pick the colors I liked best AND I'd get a new bag to put it all in, which now makes me think my bag fetish can be blamed on school supplies too.

So now I'm the mom and I take Scooter to shop for his supplies and it's fun, though he isn't nearly as jazzed about colored pencils as I am. But since the beginning of his school career the fun of shopping for school supplies has been steadily drained by the ever-complex and ridiculous supply list provided by the school. I wonder at the need for every child in a third grade class to bring a can of Lysol spray to school. I suspect that having every kindergartner bring a ream of paper might be overkill. Still, I buy it. The only thing I ever balked at on the supply list was red pens. A red pen is only used for grading papers. I buy supplies for my child, not the teacher.

Shopping for supplies can also be dangerous. Last year the store we chose was overrun with parents and kids looking for loose leaf paper and protractors, and I had managed to grab the last package of dry erase markers in the store. Out of the corner of my eye, while perusing the No. 2 pencil display, I saw a woman reach into my shopping buggy and grab my dry erase markers. For a second I was taken aback, but instinct seized me and I seized her arm. I said nothing. Just looked her in the eyes, and she dropped the markers. That was a good choice.

So today we're off to buy our bundle of goodies. Somehow I think an extra notepad will end up in the mix for mommy. Combat pay.