Just Suck It Up And Carry The Popcorn And Diet Coke, Guys

“Sex And The City” opens in theaters this weekend striking fear into the hearts of men across America. NPR devoted a large chunk of time to the subject today with Chicago Tribune columnist John Kass talking about his article “Because No Man Should Feel The Agony of This Film.” Men called in to commiserate and offer their own personal avoidance schemes. Armed with a myriad of excuses, bargains, bribes and elaborate fake emergency summons plans, it appears men are prepared to go to extreme lengths to avoid the ultimate chick flick. But no matter how much he-man talk of power tools, meat grilling, and “just say no” resolve they bandied about, most ultimately admitted they’d be spending two hours and fifteen minutes of their weekend watching the women of SATC talk about Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choo. The mere fact that they know these names means their battle is already lost.

Vegans Beware

From Williams-Sonoma "A Personlized Gift For Dad"

If your dad is a closet sadist, or just wants to be sure everyone at the family reunion knows who paid for the damn steaks, here's the perfect gift. The Monogrammed Steak Brand is available online at Williams-Sonoma.com for $39.95. Order right away to ensure delivery for father’s day on June 15. If Dad is a real hell-raiser, consider having it monogrammed with 666 in place of Dad’s initials. Make sure to keep pets, small children and vegans away from the grilling area when Dad heats this baby up.

Tina Fey, Will You Be My New BFF?

When my best friends in high school decided to try out for cheerleading, I knew things were about to get ugly. But I wasn’t prepared for how ugly. It took about one day from the moment they saw their names on the squad list for them to decide they needed to rethink their social network. If we’d had cell phones then, I would have been purged from their Five. That’s when I started reading Ayn Rand and cutting my own hair. I might have been spared many embarrassing moments trying to prove I was a non-cheerleader by choice if I’d had a friend like Tina Fey.

Now that she’s responsible for one of television’s top-rated comedies with “30 Rock,” star of a No. 1 movie “Baby Mama,” not to mention former head writer of SNL, I guess we’re past the stage of getting together to watch “Love Boat” and eat Rocky Road straight from the carton. But, Tina, if you’re ever in San Francisco and just want to get together to play Scrabble and gloat over how much better our lives turned out than those of our former cheerleading friends (especially yours), I’m available. But not in a creepy, "I know your favorite color and your first pet’s name" kind of way. Just in an "I totally get sandwich day" kind of way. Call me.

Government Says Blind People Have Gotten Along Fine So Far

Blind people can’t tell whether they’re handing over a five or a twenty when they pay for a bottle of Frederic Fekkai shampoo. Actually, they can’t be sure that’s Frederic Fekkai and not Suave. But U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit only addressed the money issue in its ruling today that says the U.S. discriminates against blind people with paper currency that offers no way for them to distinguish the bill’s value. The ruling in favor of the American Council for the Blind ended a nearly six-year battle for the rights of the visually, but not shopping impaired.

The U.S. government had argued that blind people have adapted and should simply continue to rely on the honesty of the store clerk or a fellow patron to tell them which bill to fork over. What a great idea. Because we all know that the guy selling Cheetos and Big-Gulps for eight hours a day, who then goes home to play GTA4 for the remaining sixteen, would never take advantage of a person who might inadvertently pull out a Benjamin when a single would suffice.

The government also praised the resourcefulness of blind people, many of whom have created their own systems for distinguishing bills, like folding or tearing the corners. I guess blind people should see it as an opportunity to sharpen their magic skills. Following that logic, why should we bother with all those accessibility rules? Just let those ingenuitive paraplegics figure out how to get up the steps on their own. It will toughen them up.

Good, Bad, WTF: An Educational Guide To Grad Gifting

College graduation is upon us and you’re wondering what to get for that special young achiever in your life. You need something that says, “Congratulations. Get ready to work your ass off.”

Before you pull out your credit card, a few words to the wise regarding some popular gift ideas.

A weekend in Vegas: Do you really want to be responsible for what stays in Vegas?

A car: How will he get motivated to go to a soul-crushing job every day if he thinks cars just appear in the driveway?

A Pen Set: This gift hasn’t been good since 1959. A simple Rollerball with gel grip does the job just as well for a lot less money and she won’t feel guilty when she loses it.

Gym Membership: This gift says, “Way to go! You made it through college, now get ready to sit behind a desk and pack on the pounds.”

Cash: You can never really go wrong with cash, except at college graduation. This gift says, “You just achieved one of life’s major milestones, and I was too lazy to get so much as a gift certificate, a variety of which are readily available at the supermarket I pass through several times a week.”

The X-Rocker Home Theater Floor Chair from Brookstone:
He’s seen his last kegger. He’s ready for furniture that puts a couple feet between him and the floor.

A Tie: You cheap, uninspired bastard.

Jewelry:
It had better be from the fine jewelry department and fall into the category of keepsake. Think precious metals, pearls and gemstones. Tip: Anything in a Tiffany box.

Six-Pack: Unless you’re graduating with the recipient, um, no.Even if it’s the world’s largest six-pack, still no.

Golf Club Drink Dispenser:
Perfect for the business grad. A little schmoozing and boozing on the back nine and your graduate will be prepared to navigate even the messiest scandal.

It’s 5:00 Somewhere Neon Sculpture:
What a great way to say, “Welcome to the 9 to 5!"

IPod Touch: Excellent choice (and not just because I want my Apple shares to go up).


Google Stock: Boring, but he’ll thank the hell out of you in a few years if he doesn’t sell it to buy a flat screen TV first.

Flat Screen TV: What size?

Eurail Pass: Make sure he hasn’t already accepted a great job that, when he comes back three months later, unshaven, stinking of hash and Nutella, will have been given to his college roommate who’s moved to the city, leaving him with no place to stay but your couch.

A Chess Set: Classy. Intelligent. Lasting. As long as the pieces aren’t shot glasses.

Barenaked Ladies: Something For The Kids

Is it just me, or is there something a little wrong about a band named Barenaked Ladies putting out a children’s album called Snacktime!? How many ways might this warp a young child’s perception of both ladies and snacktime? Will they demand their teachers bring out juice boxes wearing nothing but a few strategically placed gold stars?

What happens when they realize these Barenaked Ladies are actually a bunch of hairy Canadian dudes?

Then there’s the content of the songs. “Raisins come from grapes. People come from apes. I come from Canada.” Do these guys think with a little clever wordplay and a jaunty melody they can slip under the radar of the folks at the Intelligent Design Network? Anyone can see a raisin is not a grape. I don’t care what all that science says.

And what about an alphabet song that teaches kids J is for jalapeño? We teach our kids English here in America, eh. J is for jet fighter pilot, jock, Jell-o and justice for all.

In “The Canadian Snacktime Trilogy” Barenaked Canadian dudes invite your child to “walk me down to Vegetable Town where we can ride the zucchini subway.” There’s a sure way to get an entire generation to trade vegetables for Cheezies and Molson.

But just when you think Snacktime! is all left-wing propaganda in the guise of silly songs, they go and slip in an anti-transexual tune. “I like my big sister, but I don’t want to wear her coat,” vocalist Ed Robertson sings in “My Big Sister.” “May be black. May fit perfect. But you and I both know it’s a girl’s coat.”

Just exactly what is their game?

Happy Mother's Day!

Practice all you want, you're still going to screw it up.

How Long Does A Science Writer Wait For A Headline Like This?

James Frey's New Novel Needs A Dude With A Sock Puppet

James Frey, the author who got an Oprah smackdown after it was revealed that his memoir A Million Little Pieces was more fiction than non, is back with what his publisher is calling his first novel. Maybe they should say second just to be safe. An activist reader group might sue.

Bright Shiny Morning (available May 13) is described as a “sweeping chronicle of contemporary Los Angeles.” It delves into the lives of a handful of lost souls who represent the many faces of the city: a struggling immigrant, a self-absorbed action-movie star, a young couple transplanted from a small town, a homeless alchoholic and a meth-addled teenager. He forgot stripper, wannabe rock star, the guy with the sock puppet who sits in front of the Hollywood Bowl singing opera, and my white trash neighbor who preferred sex outdoors, and who never once bought lemonade from my son’s stand, but sent her kids over to borrow cups and a pitcher when they decided to set up shop in their own driveway.

To Irvine Robbins

Co-founder of Baskin-Robbins, who died today at the age of 90 in Rancho Mirage, CA.

Dear Mr. Robbins,

Thanks for giving us a place to go on summer evenings when dinner was over and it was too early to head to the family room and watch TV, but too late to go out and play. Dad would say, “Let’s go to Baskin-Robbins,” and we’d be out the door and on our way in our pale yellow, wood paneled, Country Squire wagon.

Soon I’d be standing in front of the long glass case examining all thirty-one flavors even though I already knew I was getting Daiquiri Ice. We’d walk out into the warm evening air, ice cream in hand, the heat rising up off the asphalt parking lot, the neon signs beginning to glow up and down the street, sky turning the color of rainbow sherbet.

We’d drive home slowly, maybe taking the long way through the canyon just to see the open land and smell the sage and eucalyptus in the air while we savored our frozen treats. These were the days when we all had time. There was no email to check. No web to surf. Maybe we’d catch “The Rockford Files” when we got home. There was no hurry. These were simple outings. In the scheme of things, they don’t add up to much yet they are among those lynch pin moments that form the structure of my childhood memories.

In his seventies, my dad was well known at the Baskin-Robbins near his home. He often placed special orders for his favorite German Chocolate Cake ice cream. He died this past December. The week of his passing, there was a message on his machine. “Mr. Hall, we have a half gallon of German Chocolate for you if you’d like to come in.” I picked it up and we all shared a scoop in his honor. I ate it thinking of those summer evenings.

Dear Mr. Robbins, thanks for all the sweetness.

Pangea Day: Spend It With A Few Million Of Your Closest Friends

When I was a teenager, I had a surefire plan for world peace. Set up massive Marshall stacks every hundred yards or so all the way around the globe so the entire world’s population could sing along to the same song at the same moment. I was convinced that all the world’s injustices, misunderstanding and prejudices would just melt away under that unifying bond of song. It was the era of Coke’s “I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing” commercials, so it probably wasn’t the most original idea, but it was sincere. I really believed it would work. I just had no idea how it could be done. So like most people with an insurmountable goal, I forgot about it and began working on something more within my control, finishing college and amassing a mountain of debt before I was twenty-five.

Turns out, some other people had a similar idea (the global unity thing, not the debt), and clearly a whole lot more vision and fortitude because they actually made it happen. At the Ted Conference in 2006, filmmaker Jehane Noujaim revealed her wish to “bond people together, to cross borders, and to help understand the other” through a communal day of film. She invited other like-minded creative people to join with her in developing the concept. Pangea Day is the culmination of that dream.

This Saturday, May 10, in an unprecedented harnessing of technology and human spirit, people from all over the world will come together for four hours of global empathy building. The event will feature twenty-four short films, music and visionary speakers broadcast live from six locations—Cairo, Kigali, London, Los Angeles, Mumbai and Rio de Janeiro. The entire program will also be streamed online.

Selected from among 2500 entries from more than a hundred countries, the films were chosen “based on their ability to inspire, transform and help us see the world through another person’s eyes.” They take on subjects ranging from war and poverty to Indian laughing clubs, embark on journeys big and small, show us determination in the face of adversity, and uncover hope in the most unlikely of places. Ultimately, they remind us of the underlying connections we all share.

Speakers include Queen Noor of Jordan, CNN’s Christiane Amanpour, memoirist Ishmael Beah, Oxygen Network host Lisa Ling, and artist and computer scientist Jonathan Harris (check out his amazing talk at last year’s Ted Conference). And it wouldn’t be a global consciousness-raising event without Sir Bob Geldof who will perform his song “This Is The World Calling” with Eurythmics mastermind Dave Stewart. A performance by the rapidly emerging Iranian rock band Hypernova is a story in itself.

Robin Williams, Forest Whitaker, Cameron Diaz and David Blaine are among the celebrities who have thrown their support behind the global meet and greet, which you can watch online, on TV, on your mobile phone (though at four hours, I wouldn’t recommend it), or at one of more than 1000 events planned worldwide. Photos, videos and text messages from these events will be incorporated into the live broadcast making the whole thing a truly interactive experience.

My only suggestion to the event organizers: a different name. I know naming it for the supercontinent that existed before the land mass split apart is logical, but I can’t get past the fact that Pangea sounds more like a new strain of bird flu than a global unity fest. How about something a little more celebratory like "Fandanglobal" or "Popcorn For All"? In fact, could you actually make it rain popcorn during the event? That would be my second suggestion.

The Pangea Day website has tons of information about how and where to view the event, details about the films, speakers and musicians, and a lot of other really interesting stuff. Check it out.

Smokey Says, "Go Easy On The Lighter Fluid"

With barbecue season officially underway, it’s time for a little common sense reminder. Don't put the barbecue right next to the house. This goes double if you live if you live in an apartment because there are all those other apartments adjacent to yours and the whole thing is likely to go up like a Chinese fireworks factory.

Some cook-out enthusiasts in Sunnyvale, CA learned that lesson the hard way this weekend when their balcony weenie roast turned into a three-alarm fire seriously damaging all eighteen apartments in their building. Their neighbors are really pissed. Not only do they have to find a new place to live, but they weren't even invited to the party.

Can the people who brought you the McShaker Salad seriously be a threat to Starbucks?

It probably depends on how deeply indoctrinated you are in the church of the divine roast. If you save your religious fervor for the deeper parts of your soul, then McCafe is probably okay for you. If Sunday mornings mean some serious communing with your espresso machine, then you’ll probably agree with my assessment.

First, McCafe is hardly the premium coffee bar its described as. It’s one corner of the regular McDonald’s counter with a bistro inspired logo above a completely automated plastic machine. The barista training presumably consists of a quick tutorial of which button to push. Forget the laundry list of choices available at Starbucks and other premium coffee outlets. McCafe keeps it simple: latte, cappuccino, regular, non-fat, three syrup choices, plus sugar-free. I ordered a non-fat vanilla latte and asked for two pumps of syrup instead of the standard four.

The coffee tastes exactly as you’d expect, just a notch above the stuff you get from the vending machine outside the jury duty waiting room. There’s none of the bold edge that comes from the slow forcing of the hot water through the tightly packed grounds. The milk and espresso come out together from the same spout, so one could contest even calling it an espresso drink. Even with the syrup cut in half, it’s too sweet, and there's a hint of cleaning product in the aroma. To top it off, at $2.79 + tax ($3.02), I pocket a mere eighteen cents in savings. Hardly worth the sacrifice.

That said, I don’t think Starbucks is the pinnacle of coffee either. It’s just highly consistent, readily available, and pleasantly satisfying. If I’m going to pay for a premium coffee, that’s usually what I get, but there’s certainly better out there.

Maybe if my parents had been taking me to McDonald’s for a stiff cup of scalding liquid asphalt instead of Happy Meals all those years, I might have a soft spot for their java. But I’m definitely not loving it.

Mucho de Mayo: The Mother Of All Months

May is a heady month. It's a robust, fecund, hopeful time when the earth and its inhabitants are preparing for the glorious days when the vine is heavy, the corn is high in the field, and the living is easy. In Mutual of Omaha's "Wild Kingdom" speak, we might say we are in nature’s cycle of renewal. In other words, the whole planet—from honey bee to muskrat to grizzly bear—is waking up and getting it on.

Since ancient times, people have been inspired by all this earthly delight and have sought to harness this energy through ritual and ceremony to ensure their own fertility and bountiful harvest.

The Celtic people were big on fire, using it in ceremonies of purification and rejuvenation. Young men leapt across fires to ensure fertility. Cows were driven between two bonfires to cleanse them of evil spirits and bring buckets of sweet milk. Little did these folks know, they were just a beer and a basting away from another great spring ritual, the barbecue.

In towns and villages across Europe, this is the time of year young men drag a tree from the forest, hack off its limbs, and erect it in the village square for the popular May Pole phallus dance. In Japan, they don’t bother with symbolism. They just parade huge penises through the center of town in the Kanamara Matsuri Festival held in Kawasaki (technically, that was last month, but close enough).

Everywhere, except maybe South Dakota, which got 36 inches of snow this morning, there are reminders that it’s time to shave, break out the Bermudas, and get ready to fly your freak flag.

But May is not just about revelry, it’s about remembering. There’s Cinco de Mayo, or as it’s known in America, Cerveza Day, a celebration of the battle in which 5,000 Mexican soldiers trounced France’s better dressed, better armed, and much larger army. There’s May Day, which honors workers who, a little more than a century ago, gave their lives so you could get off work in time for happy hour. And, of course, there’s Memorial Day, when we honor the many brave men and women who’ve given so much in the name of freedom. Though laborers don’t get their due until September, when we officially celebrate Labor Day with the traditional price slashing at malls and car dealerships, Americans do remember the hardest working among us during the month of May: Mothers.

So here’s to a ripe and randy world, which prods the industrious honey bee toward prolific pollination, which ensures a bountiful harvest, which keeps the wine flowing, which allows us to raise a glass to courage, and to all the workers of the world, especially Mom.

Break out the barbecue, crack open a cold one, and let the rituals begin. May is on.

This American Life Returns To Television

Sometimes the beauty of a story lies as much in the telling as in the tale itself. No one is more aware of that than Ira Glass, the creator, host and executive producer of the hugely popular, award-winning radio and television series “This American Life," which returns for its second season on Showtime this Sunday night.

Each show features a handful of real life stories centering on a single theme. What makes theses stories stand out is their ability to reveal so much with so little contrivance. The stories emerge with startling simplicity, leading to revelations that often seem to surprise even the producers themselves.

In the coming television season, a rancher refuses to believe that the clone of his favorite pet bull is different from the original animal even after it seriously injures him. A fourteen- year-old boy decides, even before he’s experienced it, that love will never be worth the pain. An Iraqi travels around the country setting up a booth with a large sign inviting people to “Talk To An Iraqi” and engaging in conversation with a variety of people including and eleven-year-old girl whose father is a soldier in Iraq. And a small town Southern politician runs his Congressional campaign with total honesty—to the point of admitting affairs, homosexual experiences, drug use and STDs.

Tonight, you can experience a rare opportunity to see “This American Life” on the big screen. In an exclusive broadcast live from New York via satellite to select theaters around the country, Glass will show previously unreleased footage, outtakes, and answer audience questions. Check the Showtime website for a theater near you.

The show, which began its life on Chicago Public Radio more than fifteen years ago and now boasts more than 1.7 listeners, airs Sunday nights at 10:00 p.m. on Showtime beginning this Sunday, May 4. It can be heard weekly on over 500 NPR stations around the country.