The Left Coast Biased

Some weeks are more frustrating than others. This was one such a week. On top of the being sick, and the not-catching-any-freaking-fish, and the being broke, and the car threatening to kick it for the final time any day now, my phone decided to take a break from the world of functionality. My phone serves as my alarm clock, so if I was supposed to wake up at 7 am to have breakfast with you, now you understand why I did not make it.

If you were wondering why I didn't call to explain and apologize, please see the previous paragraph.

My phone also serves as my internet connection, otherwise this would have been posted on Friday giving you all plenty of time to get on board with this week's One Parlay to Rule Them All. In case you were wondering who we went with (bold selections are officially endorsed by UA CatWrap), check out the inset.

In any event, weeks like this last one bring me to a place where little things that annoy me can push me over the top. The guy who doesn’t turn off his bright while riding inches off my tailpipe might get a Gatorade bottle off the windshield (which may or may not be filled with Gatorade). The kid who doesn’t understand offsides might get dragged into position by the throat, repeatedly.

The thing that really might get me to go Ted Kaczynski, though, is the public broadcasting of bodily functions. I have this thing. If it is produced within your body, be it liquid, solid or gaseous, then it should stay in your body around other people. Spitting (yes, sunflower seeds count, unless you are at a sporting event, and even then, you better be wearing pinstripes), belching, farting, coughing, whatever it is either go to the bathroom or hold it. When we are at the table I don’t want to hear you extricating your teeth from whatever sticky morsel you popped in, nor can I share your appreciation of a dish by your broadcasting it.

All of this to say, don’t be so gross. Keep it to yourself. It’s easy.

Given my particular disgust of this sort of thing, there is one place that is an absolute hell for me: multi-person restrooms. There is nothing worse that hearing the person next to you struggle heroically to evacuate his bowels, unless it is the projectile, splashing and gaseous sounds that accompany a success. I would rather take a nine hour flight with a colic ridden nursery.

This is why bathroom music is a life saver. It should be a federal law that if you have a multi-person restroom you should be obligated to provide music to avoid sharing moments where a person can’t turn off the lower fountain.

I am not talking about elevator music, though. I don’t want to hear you wax diuretic, but I am all in favor of making people uncomfortable in other ways. I would break the Greatest Bathroom Anthem List into the following categories for maximum awkwardness while still alleviating the unnecessary horror:

Creepy Stalker Songs

Imagine sitting down and hearing Tiffany’s I Think We’re Alone Now. Do you get a little weirded out? Other songs that score high on the creep factor include: I Touch Myself, You Are Not Alone, Somebody’s Watching Me, and Clay Aiken’s stalker classic - Invisible.

Bathroom Suggestive Helpers

There are always times when we can use a little encouragement, and the john is no different. That’s where Tubthumping, Waterfall, and Push It come in handy. Looking out for you.

Britney Spears’ Category of songs that you can’t get out of your head with anything short of a shotgun, and you’re considering going there

This is just to be mean, but I would make at least half of the songs ones that will stick with you the rest of the day. Not cool ones like Wonderwall, but obnoxious songs like It’s a Small World, or the Song That Never Ends, the Macarena, Barbie Girl or anything from Britney’s first album.

If you have some other suggestions, we’d love to hear them. Hit up the comment box.

This is not a rant about the meaningless commerciality of Valentine’s Day. It is not a belittling of the ridiculous historical farce that tries to pull this holiday out of the depths of pagan eroticism to a more sanctified Christian celebration. This is not even me complaining about being poor and having to spend money on something in which I don’t even believe, in order to preserve something else, peace of mind, the relationship itself, in which I also probably don’t believe. This IS an incarnation of mourning, mourning for a time where all the chutzpah has gone out of men. We live lives of increasingly quieter desperation. Valentine’s Day is an embodiment of t hat.

First, most of the meaning of whatever someone does on Valentine’s is negated by the accompanying sense of expectation, or obligation. In fact, if I just stop at Circle K and get you a little stuffed bear and a little box of chocolates there is going to be a fair amount of resentment because I am a cheap valentine who just took the easy way out. Now, if I were to do the exact same thing in the middle of May? I’m adorable and you are walking around with that ‘I can’t believe how sweet he is’ smile on your face for the next 13 hours. This is an example of how the expectations of the day diminish anything that happens then.

Second, everything that we are told to do for Valentine’s is lame. Commercials try to sell us on the idea of buying pretty, useless frivolous things. Well, except for those of you who are buying her that Lexus for a valentine. You guys keep up the good work. For the rest of us, let’s try to imagine what the great men of history would have given their valentines, and by great men I simply mean men who were great at being men. Would Achilles have ever given a girl flowers? He would have shown his devotion to a girl by bringing her heads of slaughtered kings. The value of a gift is in partly in the difficulty of obtaining it. That’s why knights would give their tournament trophies to their lady, or slay dragons in her honor. This is a theme that is as old humanity, risking life and limb to kill something to proclaim your love. Could you imagine Wyatt Earp giving his girl chocolates? He would just look at her over his glorious mustache and she would be thankful that he was alive and with her for one more day. That was enough. Maybe the problem is that we are not men enough to be a valentine all by ourselves.

Third, well, there is no third but you are supposed to do sequences of at least three’s. This problem with Valentine’s day is symptomatic of our societal distaste for danger. This is not a time for great men. This is a time for wearing your seat belt. Waiting for a little white walkman to tell you that you can cross the street. Not carrying guns, telling little boys not to fight in the school yard. Cops carrying mace and batons instead of firearms. We drink light beer and get manicures.

I contrast this with my grandfather. He is a Native American rancher who looks the part so exquisitely that when we would be sitting at a restaurant kids would whisper and steal glances, then when he stood up and put on his cowboy hat you could hear them, “Look! I told you he was a real cowboy!” He was shot by his own sister. He raised 3 great kids, and my uncle Dan. At 65 he was still breaking his own horses, running a ranch, and I would not have put money on my ability to take him in a fight. This was a man.

So this is my proposal: I declare the last week of February to be National Virility Week. Virility is commonly understood to have heavy connotations of sexual prowess, but the heart of the word is just the adjectival form of the Latin word for man – vir. It is all things manful. After giving ourselves a few weeks to recover from the height of emasculation that is Valentine’s Day, we need to spend a week rediscovering what it means to be a man. Every day of National Virility Week take specific focused action on asserting yourself as a man. Start small. I am not saying that you should go wrestle a mountain lion and wear it’s pelt home as a trophy, but if you do you are the immediate spokesperson for the holiday and I will forfeit all proceeds to you. Go hunt something. Sleep outdoors. Be chivalrous. Shave with a straight razor. Drink whiskey straight. Grow a mustache. Risk something. If you run out of ideas, watch a Steve McQueen movie. Google Burt Reynolds.

For one week come join me as we celebrate a time in which we no longer live: the time for great men, great risk, great audacity. Live bold! National Virility Week!!