Pajama Jeans And Other Great Re-gifting Ideas

Really, all you need to know about the direction that Western Civilization is heading is summed up neatly in two words: “pajama jeans.”

This “as-seen-on-TV.” item that can be found on late-night television and on the shelves of fine department stores everywhere needs no explanation or one minute commercial because the name of the item says it all; “pajama jeans.” Asking what pajama jeans are is like asking yourself “I wonder what that movie Snakes On A Plane is about.”

But somewhere there was a copy editor intern with some marketing company who was tasked with the unenviable job of coming up with the script for a one minute commercial about Pajama Jeans that would run ad nausum on the FX channel during the holiday season. I can see that young man or woman now, sitting at their desk with a pair of pajama jeans in front of them saying “how am I going to get a minute commercial out of these things.”

He or she (we’ll call him or her “Terry”) would probably start with the obvious. Perhaps a statement like “Pajama Jeans, the jeans you can wear to bed and the pajamas you can wear to work!”

Once this salient detail has been covered there would still be about fifty seconds of commercial space left to fill and no more information about the product to offer. Terry, by now in a cold sweat over the prospect of losing his or her job, would most likely try to milk twenty or so seconds out of the convenience angle. That line (said by that great voice over actor who does all sorts of great items like the “Snuggie” and my personal favorite late-night commercial item, “Mr. Steamy”) would go something like “have you ever thought to yourself ‘man, I wish I could just go to bed right here and now, this very second, but I have these darn jeans on and I’m going to have to take them off before I crawl under the covers’? Well fear no more my friend; your agonizing evenings are over! With Pajama Jeans you will never have to take off your pants again!”

Yes, with Pajama Jeans you will never have to take off your pants again.

Then young intern Terry will have to figure out thirty more seconds of commercial, and perhaps he or she turns to the coveted “celebrity endorsement” to fill space. Perhaps Terry has as rolodex filled with potential celebrity endorsers and chooses David Hasselhoff of Knight Rider and Baywatch fame to craft a request e-mail to. Terry works feverishly through the late night hours to craft words that will convince Hasselhoff to endorse Pajama Jeans.

And perhaps towards the two o’clock hour young Terry finishes the e-mail and fires it off to David Hasselhoff’s agent and then goes out to get a late night burrito to celebrate his or her accomplishment. Surely Hasselhoff could not say no to lending his name to such a fine product as Pajama Jeans. They practically sell themselves! They’re pajamas and jeans at the same time!

But then, as Terry munches into that first bite of mouth watering, late night burrito a horrifying thought enters his or her head; Pajama Jeans are a female item that only come in women’s sizes! That whole e-mail to Hasselhoff’s agent was wasted time because what Terry really needs is an endorsement from a female celebrity!

But who to call at this late hour? What young lady of fame and fortune will rise to the call and speak up for this finest of all garments, this futuristic marvel of comfort and ease?

Rest easy young intern Terry; I have just the celebrity female endorsement you are seeking close at hand. My wonderful and beautiful wife, Special Sauce Caldwell, would like to voice her approval, nay, her delight, in her newly acquired for Christmas comfort item, the Pajama Jeans.

I knew the instant I laid eyes on this item on the shelf near the cash register at my local box store that this was the item that would make Special Sauce’s Christmas complete. So I chose the appropriate size and purchased the item forthwith.

She was in fact delighted with this present, as evidenced by the fact that she immediately changed into the pants and has worn them all day. She is now resting comfortably in our bed, curled up with a good book (also a gift from your’s truly) and secure in the knowledge that, should the occasion require it, she could jump out of bed tomorrow morning and immediately be ready to seize the day, clad in her handy dandy Pajama Jeans.

So young intern Terry, Special Sauce Caldwell, wife of world famous and beloved columnist Tincan Caldwell, is awaiting your phone call. She will gladly endorse your fine product and fill in the remaining thirty seconds or so of your television commercial.

And should you ever develop a Pajama Suit that I could wear to a banquet and to bed that night I will gladly lend my worthy name to such a product.

After all, it practically sells itself.

Princess Supergirl And The Virgin Mary

Well, it’s official. I’m the proud father of an aspiring actress. My own beloved five year old (almost six, as she will tell anyone within earshot), Princess Supergirl, has secured the role of Mary in this year’s Sunday school “modern day retelling of the Christmas story” Christmas play, No Room At The Holy Day Inn.

And I couldn’t be prouder.

Quite frankly, she is a natural. And she is at her comic best when she has to produce “going into labor” like sounds when the hotel trainee manager tells Mary and Joseph that there is no room in at The Holy Day Inn, but there is a janitor’s closet that the holy couple can use for delivery. Her convincing moans had the rehearsal audiences in stitches and have been great dinner party tricks. (“Sweetheart, make those “going into labor” sounds for the nice party guests here. Oh, did that punch just come out your nose sir? So sorry about that.”)

Seeing her up there on that stage, holding her own with actors twice her age and belting out memorized lines with the gusto of a young Meryl Streep (and the looks of a young Charlize Theron) brings out the proud dad in me that I didn’t even know existed.

When the play parts were announced a month or so ago she voiced to me in no uncertain terms that nothing less than the role of Mary would do. As this was her first play, I offered that perhaps a part of an angel in the choir or a sheep or a cow in the stable would be a good first time role. This would ease her transition into the world of the theatre and save her mother Special Sauce and I sleepless nights worrying about memorized lines and all those early morning rehearsals. But an angel or a sheep would just not do. She wanted to dive into the deep end of the pool.

This came as no surprise to us, because Princess Supergirl is a marvel of a little girl, who has more bravery per square inch than Tom Cruise in that new Mission Impossible movie. She learned to swim by herself, (she really wanted to go down a water slide at the lake) and she has never met a stranger she wouldn’t talk to if we allowed her. She really was born to entertain the troops on an overseas tour someday.

So it came as a great surprise the other morning when she confessed to us in the car before play rehearsal that she was feeling afraid of forgetting her lines. She looked over at me with tears in her eyes as we sat there in the parking lot outside of our church and said “Mom, Dad, I don’t want to be Mary any more. What if I forget my lines and everybody laughs at me?”

Wait a minute? Princess Supergirl, the little lady who bungee jumped out of a high tree last summer and hit Kindergarten directing traffic in the parking lot and telling the other kids where they needed to go on the first day of class, is afraid of something?

Couldn’t be. But here we were. And I knew it was delicate territory.

Sometimes I forget that she is only five years old. She seems ready to join the Marine Corps on some days, and on other days she wants to snuggle on the couch and has the same fears and concerns as any kid her age. Five years old is five years old.

And as we sit there in the car, her crying and her mother and I thinking about how to handle the situation, (we are, in fine Caldwell tradition, already running few minutes late) I think about the real Mary, the one who was given a most awesome task, and I wonder what sort of fears she had in the days and months after the angel’s announcement.

Did she have a mom and dad to tell all of her fears and concerns to? After all, according to most biblical scholars she was probably only ten or so years older than my daughter is now. She was still someone’s daughter, some father’s Princess Supergirl. What did that guy go through? Did he believe Mary? Did he like Joseph? Did he remember his newly pregnant daughter as a little girl that he used to give airplane and piggyback rides to? (Or the ancient Middle Eastern equivalent of the airplane ride.) Did her parents worry when she (heavily pregnant) and Joseph set off on their trip to Bethlehem to be counted in the census? Did they stand and wave as the couple and their donkey crested the ridge outside of Nazareth and faded from view?

When a few minutes have passed and her mom and I have given a few hugs and gently insisted that she took the role and it’s too late to back out now, Princess Supergirl recovers a bit and heads in to play rehearsal. She then proceeds to tear it up over the next two hours of practice.

No Room In The Holy Day Inn is going to be a fine production, and while it might not be ready for Broadway just yet, there is a little girl in the Mary role who might just get there someday.

And when and if she does, I hope to be there (backstage if she’ll let me), to give hugs and remember the days when I gave her piggyback and airplane rides.

No Pink Christmas Trees Here Please

Tis’ the season for Christmas trees - big, beautiful, real Christmas trees. Woe be to those who traffic in fake plastic trees. May their imitation trees and pine tree scented spray and candles melt away into the night in the fake fire of a DVD fireplace on their television.

And double woe be to those who perpetuate the pink or white fake plastic Christmas tree. May they move to Del Vista Boca, Florida (the home and place of origin of the fake plastic Christmas tree) never to return to these shores again.

My beautiful wife, Special Sauce Caldwell, and I had exactly two disagreements in the first year of our marriage (in the year of our Lord, 2001). They were whether or not you should leave the shower curtain pulled open after a shower, (she was right, those black mildew lines appear pretty quickly when the curtain is left in a folded state after a shower) and whether we should get a real tree or use the fake plastic one that had been handed down to us from her family and came in a gym bag the size of a dog sled (harnessed dog team and all).

I’m not sure who won the argument that first year, but we reached an armistice agreement whereby we would alternate yearly between fake plastic tree and real, glorious, divine, fragrant, real Christmas tree.

Her argument runs thusly: A real tree is pretty much a cleaning nightmare. There are needles everywhere for months afterwards, you have to somehow properly dispose of the tree afterwards (and not like my dad who simply threw our old tree in the back woods of our house on a pile of thirty years worth of Christmas trees) and you have to remember to water the tree. When she comments on the mess of a real tree I often think of responding with “we should see if we can get some fake kids as well, you should see the puddle of cereal milk in the playroom!”

And in the last few years she has added an environmental component to her argument, which goes “why should we support the cutting down of precious trees when they help to gobble up all that carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.” This is a powerful argument indeed. Trees are being cut down all over the world as we speak; to clear land for cattle grazing so that we can have our double cheeseburgers, to further suburban sprawl etc. Why should we add millions and millions of pine and fur trees to this total just for one month’s enjoyment each year?

I would be swayed by this appeal to Mother Nature if the alternative were not a plastic Christmas trees. I’m fairly sure that the production of millions and millions of tons of plastic from limited fossil fuels that support unstable and tyrannical governments in a particular part of the world does not count as a progressive argument against real Christmas trees. If there were a corn starch, alternative plastic tree out there then maybe, just maybe I would be moved by this appeal to the environment. But the last time I checked my local box store; all the fake trees were run-of-the-mill polypropylene types.

My argument for a real tree goes like this: A real tree is better! (I’m not known far and wide for my stunning logic.)

But, there is no getting by how great it is to go to a Christmas tree farm or a local tree lot and pick out that year’s tree. (Or in my family’s case, that bi-annual year’s tree.) We usually head straight to the twenty dollar rack and see what sort of sad sack tree we can take home and transform into a glorious family Christmas tree. I like to find the one that is sitting in the corner of the lot on its side and pull it to a standing position and imagine it in my cozy living room. It’s sort of my contribution to the world, the adopting of the homely pine tree. It’s a variation on the Orphan Annie theme.

And that’s another knock against the fake tree, it’s the same one every year! There is no variation, no surprise, no resurrection, and no personality. It’s all too antiseptic and perfect, like a freakish clone sitting where a tree with character should be.

This year we were scheduled to get a real tree, and as she always does, my wife made one last bi-yearly appeal to think about getting the fake tree out of the barn. I said “sweetheart, we have to honor the armistice that we signed all those years ago. If we start fudging on this one point then everything else goes “kabloowy”.

But man oh man did this year’s tree leave a mess in the old minivan. We will be finding needles till August. Also, when I went to screw in the tree into the tree stand I was treated to the wonderful site of a nest of spiders that came with the tree. It was the Temple of Doom under there. For the record, I don’t dig spiders. All this, plus it took forever to get the pitch off of my hands afterwards.

So maybe a plastic tree is not such a bad idea…

Ahh! What’s happening to me!

A Republican Primary Christmas Special

(The scene opens with a crackling fire place and a man in an easy chair talking to the camera. He is wearing an old fashioned housecoat and appears to be drinking a comically large mug of cocao.)

“Hello citizens of New Hampshire (and any Iowa folks who happen to be tuned in), former Massachusetts Governor and current presidential candidate Mitt Romney here. I know many of you were expecting to see Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer in this TV time slot, but I convinced (to the tune of $30 Million) this fine network you are watching to sell me this coveted piece of prime time real estate to bring you an hour of my thoughts on Christmas. You may be disappointed not to see your favorite characters, like Rudolph, Santa, Cornelius and that Bumble that bounces (by the way, does that Island of misfit toys seem like the rest of the field of Republican candidates this year? Know what I mean? Har har), but I think you will find my holiday trip down memory lane both heart warming and stimulating.”

(Taking a big sip of his cocao) “Ahh, I remember the many Christmases of my childhood. I grew up in a hard working middle class family like so many of you. Mine just happened to live in the Michigan gubernatorial mansion. I remember the many holiday seasons where we were not sure if we were going to be able to afford that year’s Jamaican Christmas vacation. There was no doubt about it, family and faith (Mormonism, for the record, but don’t let that fool you, we celebrate Christmas just like everyone else, by spending entirely too much money) got us through some very lean times there in Lansing. One year funds were so tight that we had to send my youngest brother to a state school instead of Brown University. He still hasn’t ever fully recovered! Yes, Christmas means a great deal to me when I think back all those years ago. And it still means a lot to me today, so much so that I want to treat the great state of New Hampshire to a whole new set of roads! That’s right; I’m going to fund the repair and future upkeep of every mile of road in the great Granite State just because the Christmas spirit has overcome me! All that I ask is that you maybe, consider, just maybe, throwing a vote or two my way this coming January. Oh, and speaking of roads, if you should happen to see, say, Rick Perry or Newt Gingrich out there on the highways and byways of your state, perhaps you could, you know, drive a little slower in front of their motorcade and cause them to miss an event or two. And just between you and me, a few stolen opposition yard signs never hurt anyone.”

(At this moment the signal goes to static and then the smiling face of Newt Gingrich appears sitting “news anchor man” style behind a desk.)

“Hi there folks, the old “Newtster” here. I used some old congressional contacts I had to take over the airwaves of this network for just a few minutes to tell you some of my thoughts on this blessed yuletide season.” Yes, family is important to me too. Very important. I don’t know what I would do without my family. (He stomps on the floor and pounds his fist on the desk each time he says the word ‘family’) Yes, family is what it’s all about. Yes, Christmas means one word to me; family. It means so much I’ll say it three more times! Family family family!” (Continues to stomp and pound his fist, becoming a little more unhinged each time)

(Just then the signal again changes abruptly, revealing the figure of Texas Governor Rick Perry dressed in an orange camouflaged hunting outfit with a rifle slung over his shoulder. There is the head of an impressive ten point buck mounted on the wall behind him)

“Howdy folks, Governor Rick Perry at your service here. All this talk of Christmas reminds me of all the times we went huntin’ for a Christmas tree back in my Texas A&M fraternity days. We would go riding around all day, every day, during exam week looking for the perfect tree to chop down to bring back to the frat house and decorate with beer cans. This one time we spied the perfect one on the lawn of the University President (did I just say “president?”) and we got Bobby-Jim and Johnny-Joe to knock on the president’s front door and distract him with fraternity sensitive questions while Billy-Bob and I snuck around back and made a try for that tree. We didn’t have time to chop that sucker down, so I got out a stick of dynamite and “bammo” we had that thing down in no time. Oh, man, good times.

(The signal changes again showing the confused face of Gov. Romney)

“What’s happening here? How much time do we have left? Five seconds! Vote Romney!”

(As the credits roll the screen splits in two, the credits rolling on one side and a group of figures crowed in the other)

(Michele Bachman speaking) “Hello Granite Staters!” Michele Bachman, Rick Santorum, Ron Paul and John Huntsman here. We pooled together our campaign funds and were able to purchase this twenty second block of time during the credits. Won’t you consider one of us this primary season? We promise to all keep saying “merry Christmas” and not that demonic phrase “happy holidays”. In fact, what would Christmas be without a brief conversation with your cashier?"

(Scene fades out to a car commercial)

Goodbye Borders Bookstore (Or, Looking Smart Is Easy)

“I’m not a genius, or are I?” - Homer Simpson


And now, a lesson on how to look smart (or “intelligent” as some smart people might say).

Go to a bookstore (remember those) and look for an ancient book on philosophy like The Republic by Plato or a classic work of literature, like perhaps Don Quixote or The Complete Works Of Shakespeare (this one is also good for holding open heavy doors and crushing walnuts).

When you have selected your tome of choice, buy all the copies that are available in the store. For this technique to work properly you must have at least four copies of your book of choice, and the more you have at your disposal the better.

You then take this book and prominently display it everywhere you can; the bathroom in your house, on your coffee table, on the corner of your desk in your office at work (with the spine of the book pointing out of course), on your bedside table and of course keep one copy to carry around with you at all times. Read this copy while standing in line at the bank or while sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. (Resist mightily the urge to pick up that copy of Us Weekly or People Magazine.)

Also, carry this book along with you to any job interviews or first dates.

If you like, you can hollow out the insides of this book and fill in the space with the reading material of your choice. The bigger the book the more space you have to work with. If the book is large enough you may be able to fit a Spiderman comic book inside. (I would not know anything about this or course.)

It is also advisable to do a little research on the book in order to answer any questions that are asked beyond “Is that a good book?” I know this seems like a lot of work, but just a few minutes on the Wikipedia web site can save you a whole lot of embarrassment. And if all else fails you can always respond to any book inquiries with “Oh, I just started this thing; ask me again in a week.” (This is then a crucial time to go on Wikipedia and get the information you need.)

The above method of impressing others with your erudite tastes and high I.Q. was perfected by a college roommate of mine, who piled high the ancient texts on our dorm room coffee table and carried an abridged copy of The Socratic Dialogues in his backpack on our semester overseas in the Middle East.

The irony of course was that he eventually ended up reading many of the works that were hanging around our place and went on to actually become a very smart person(while yours truly still reads Mad Magazine regularly).

This is why I will miss the nearby and recently shuttered Border’s Bookstore location in Concord, because it was my source of “smart guy” books.

This is also the great tragedy of the electronic age we live in. It is extremely difficult to display all my electronic books on the shelves of my home for maximum viewer impact.

Take for instance my downstairs bathroom.

When I know that we will have a house full of guests, say for a dinner party or family get together, I will copiously arrange the books in the bathroom in order to weed out the comic books and volumes of Twilight (they belong to my wife, I swear!) or Harry Potter.
And in their place I will stack copies of The New Yorker (I’m not really smart enough to even get the cartoons in this magazine) and a strategically placed copy of that 3,000 page John Adams biography that came out a few years ago.

This sadness also applies to music. When someone browses your iPod they are sure to see all your musical guilty pleasures (Michael Jackson, Phil Collins, Garth Brooks) and not the cool, hip stuff (your complete works of Thelonious Monk, your Chopin collection) you wish to be seen.

I was actually the second to last customer at the Concord Borders branch, desperately looking for new titles to add to my farcical collection, because to keep this rues going long term, you need to switch out the books once and a while.

But alas, as I scanned the one remaining book shelf full of 90% off books, there were no smart book options. The only reading material left was a collection of odd celebrity publishings that never sold, like Ashton Kutcher’s Guide To Bow Hunting, The Sarah Palin Tribute To J.F.K. and that weird Tom Brokaw book about disco.

As the overhead speaker announced that the store was about to be closing for good I sighed a deep sigh and admitted to myself that the smart guy con I was running was about to get much harder, as my steady supply of books was about to dry up.

Does anyone know of any smart people currently having a yard sale?

My Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Acceptance Speech

Tonight, thanks to my beautiful and resourceful wife, we’re headed off to see Mr. Bob Dylan at Meadowbrook, and it’s got me thinking about the first time I saw Bob in concert and the great advice he gave me that night about my Rock and Roll Hall of Fame acceptance speech.

It was the fall of the year 2000, and the world had not come to a screeching halt due to Y2K dysfunction and I was feeling high on life due to the fact that I finally had everything utterly and completely in order. Due to the impending doomsday, I had dotted every “I” and crossed every “T” in my life, and I was eager to move on to future projects.

Just an interesting note here, but I still have everything completely in order, and now I’m organizing my daughter’s lives. I’m narrowing in on a husband for both of them and names for their children. I’m leaning towards Jack, Diane Mick and Keith (in the true spirit of rock and roll).

That night back in 2000 I managed to sneak back stage after Bob’s set (how many hallways must a man walk down you ask? About three.) and knock on his dressing room door.

He graciously asked me in (the room service cart and venue name tag I just happened upon helped a bit) and I explained to him that I had just started playing guitar the month before and I was concerned about my eventual and future need to give a speech at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame acceptance dinner.

Bob was very gracious and admitted that he too had had these fears when he first picked up the guitar back in 50’s era Minnesota.

We talked for a while over dinner procured from the food service cart and at the end of the hour he said “we should call Bruce to weigh in on this conversation. He is due to be inducted any day now and he must have some good perspective to offer.”

So using his giant cell phone (remember those?) he dialed up Bruce Springsteen and handed the phone over to me.

The Boss was very kind, and though he was simultaneously lifting weights and writing new songs, he gave me some sage advice.

He explained, that much like rock and roll itself, it’s important to look cool and detached while accepting any award. You may be so excited inside that you want to giggle like a school girl, but it’s important to stay calm and unemotional up there.

He then said “it’s been great talkin’ with you kid, but the person you should really chat with is Willie.”
“Willie Nelson?” I said. “Isn’t he in the Country Music Hall of Fame?”

“Willie’s so cool that he is in both Halls of Fame” replied Bruce.

I knew that this was not true (he was thinking of Johnny Cash), but I did not question the Boss; after all, he got that nickname for a reason.

Willie Nelson was a bit foggy on the phone (must have been the time difference between here and Texas) and kept mistaking me for the exterminator who had not shown up at his mansion (since reposed by Uncle Sam for back taxes purposes) that day.

But he did give me some great songwriting advice, and tips on how to get rid of red Texas fire ants in your kitchen.

I then noticed Bob check his watch (I was after all on a long distance call on his gigantic cell phone) and politely ended my conversation with the Country Music legend.

After a call to security by Bob, I quickly thanked him for his time and hit the road with lots to think about.

I promptly made my way back home and wrote an epic song about the whole affair.

All that was left to do was make a few classic albums and play cool venues like the Great Wall of China and the Eifel Tower (with a few coffee shops and street corners thrown in for good measure).

Thanks for your time Bob; I’m looking forward to seeing you again tonight.

Has anyone seen a stray food cart and an ID?

A Friendly Open Letter To Internet Scam Artists

Dear Nigerian business men, European lottery winner announcers and various and sundry other internet scam artists. (Especially the one used my email last week and purported to be me)

How are you? How is the weather there in Eastern Europe or Central Asia, or any other place where statistics say that you reside. The weather here in New Hampshire has been pretty hot recently, but then again it is summer here.

What season is it where you reside? (Really, I’m not trying to help the F.B.I. track you down. Seriously!) Is it hot where you are, or perhaps it’s the rainy season? Maybe you could just tell me the first letter of the country you live in.

I just realized that you may not even speak English. The poor grammar and misspelling of my name in the emotional plea for money you sent from my email account might suggest that you are not a native speaker. What greeting should I open this letter with? Namaste? Perhaps the Czech word “nazdar” or the Estonian traditional greeting “tervist.” Please let me know which greeting you would prefer.

I’m really fond of going to the ocean in the summertime. Is there an ocean near where you are or are you in more of a land locked place? Really, I’m very curious.

Do you enjoy the Olympics? During the march of nations in the opening ceremonies does your country march in the stadium in the beginning of the procession or towards the end? Where were you in the medal count in the last Olympics? Does your country enjoy more success in the Summer or Winter games? Again, it would just be nice to get to know the things that are important to you.

If I was to spin a globe and my hands just happened to come down near, say Uzbekistan, would I be anywhere near your neck of the woods?

I was actually so moved by your hard luck story of being mugged and penniless in the UK (even though, in your story you were pretending to be me to all my friends and acquaintances in my contact list) that I would like to send you some cash to get a flight home. To what address might I send the money?

Oh, wire it to an undisclosed location you say?

That’s no good as I have just withdrawn the money from an ATM and the banks are now closed. I love to send it directly to you though. How much postage will I be needing? Will I need a customs receipt?

Or maybe you can have me bring it to your embassy here in the states. Surely your country has one of those. (At general assembly of the United Nations does the representative of your country sit to the right or left of the speaker? Just wondering.)

You know, it’s funny. Since you hacked my account and sent out that message I have been in touch with all kinds of folks that I had not heard from in years, but who it appears were still in my data base. My old high school math teacher says “hi” and that guy who lived down the hall from me freshman year of college, who’s address I had in my account because I once asked him for a ride to the airport also suggested that we get together sometime when I’m in Kansas City next. It has been quite a ride!

Actually, I have been very moved by all the wonderful folks I know who called me immediately upon receiving the email. The avalanche of phone calls at 7 am (by the way, what time is that where you are?) let me know just how many folks I have in my life who care about me, including the roughly 200 or so wonderful people at my church (some of whom called the American embassy in London on my behalf) who’s concern for me was life affirming. I am still fielding concerned phone calls days later. Each frantic phone call and email response is a little bit of heaven, because now I know that if I was ever actually mugged and penniless in Great Britain there would an army of help available to me.

I have also learned to take internet security seriously. No more three letter passwords for me!

So it turns out that I have a great deal to thank you for. (Is it sir or madam?) I’d love to send you a thank you note.

Where should I send it?

How to Make Small Talk in Four Easy Steps

According to a 2005 Stanford University study that I read recently (I intermix the reading of academic studies with old issues of The Rolling Stone and X-Men comic books), the measure of success in the business world for graduates of the school’s MBA program was not so much the grades they earned in college, but the student’s ability to make conversation in social situations like a mixer for new employees or a business convention.

In other words, a student’s ability to make ‘small talk” (or “shoot the breeze” in other parlance) was worth more than a 4.0 GPA.

Making small talk is a time honored tradition and the practice has been around since the dawn of man. I can see those early Mesopotamians sitting around their fires and saying things like “Hey Thag, this sure is a hot fire, how do you get it so big?” (To which Thag replies, “Sticks my friend, sticks!”)

But participating in small talk is anguishing to some folks, causing them to rush through transactions at the store, face the wall when riding in an elevator and avoid dinner parties all together. We have all been in a place where we were tired, or in a hurry to get somewhere and someone else wanted to make small talk and it just wasn’t the time for it.
And, with the increasing isolation of technology (“Hmm, what should I do this weekend? I know, I’ll stay in and stream all eight seasons of Magnum P.I. on Netflix!”) the art form of small talk is in danger of being phased out all together.

There are little things we do as individuals that may inconvenience us for a minute, or not make sense right away, but add immeasurably to society around us. These are things like letting a car turn in front of you if said car has thirty vehicles waiting behind it (make sure to make a friendly wave if a kind soul does this for you), tipping a morning or holiday wait person a little more and picking up your dog’s leavings so the next person along the way doesn’t have an unpleasant few moments with his shoes.

I would add small talk to this list.

Some folks have to work a little harder at this, but it is worth doing because believe it or not is does add to the overall community feel of where you live.

I was fortunate to have great teachers in High School who believe it or not held classes in how to have a conversation, complete with a final exam which consisted of you and the teacher having an informal chat in front of the class on a subject of the teacher’s choosing. (I got the subject NASCAR, which I still know nothing about, but I asked the right questions and low and behold a conversation appeared! Perhaps this is what led me to a career in journalism.)

In that spirit I offer a few tips on how to get the old conversation ball going:

The weather: This is probably the most common starting point for people everywhere because it is the thing that affects absolutely everybody, and it is almost full proof when it comes to starting chit chat. Since we are currently in a massive heat wave in this part of the country, it’s a safe bet that everyone has some opinion of the weather out there. Don’t be afraid to start here. Embrace the cliché’, but don’t stop there.

Questions: Don’t be afraid to ask questions. This is tough because some folks are embarrassed to show that they don’t know something, but I say embrace asking questions as a life style. (I know my daughter Princess Supergirl sure does.) If that teenager selling you your coffee and sticky bun is wearing a scary rock and roll t-shirt ask them about the band. (“So what does a clown on fire riding a unicorn have to do with music? Ohh!”)

Compliments: It’s amazing how a small compliment can lighten up a whole situation. If your elevator companion has electric blue hair, let her know that it’s “really unique”. Be thoughtful here, because it’s easy to get into trouble quickly (“Ohh, that’s not a cat but really a small dog. My mistake!”), but don’t fear saying something positive to make someone’s day.

Observe: Just a small glance will let you know that someone is perhaps a Harry Potter enthusiast or a passionate kayaker. People love to talk about what they are passionate about (just ask me about my kids sometime), and one or two quick observations can get the conversation snowball going full speed down the mountain.

So go ahead, start that small talk today. You will make someone’s day, contribute to your community and according to the bright folks at Stanford University (they brought us social networking after all) make you more successful.

So, how ‘bout this heat wave?

I'm Under the Cooking Curse

Maybe I have watched one too many Disney movies recently, or perhaps my Harry Potter excitement is finally getting to me, but I think I’m under a curse.

I can’t cook a thing, and it’s getting worse.

It would seem by some form of osmosis or just plain luck that someone my age should be able to master a few dishes by now, but the simple process of mixing, mincing, chopping, flambéing, broiling, par-boiling, sautéing, grilling, or baking ingredients together is so far beyond my scope of abilities it boggles the mind.

Even the basic skill of boiling something has eluded me. (“Here Tincan, boil this egg…ahh, call the fire department!”)

There are a few things I can do well, like play the guitar and write songs (I play a killer ‘G’ chord), shoot a basket ball (I’m an utter failure at the other aspects of basketball, like dribbling, passing and playing defense, but watch out world when it comes to playing H.O.R.S.E.) and write, but when I enter a kitchen I break out in cold sweat like a horse passing a glue factory.

This makes me feel like I’m an exhibit in one of those old fashioned traveling freak shows. (“Step right up folks and see the man who can follow the directions on the box or recipe down to the microgram and still have his food taste like it was prepared on the backside of a baboon!”)

The other night I butchered a batch of macaroni and cheese and though the look on my two daughter’s faces said it all, my five year old (Princess Supergirl) tried to make me feel better about my caveman like culinary skills.

“Dad, this is really good. If there was some kind of cooking contest you should enter this.”

When a five year old is taking pity on you and trying to make you feel better you know two things: you have a fantastic kid and you really need to see someone about this (like, perhaps a witch doctor).

This culinary inability extends even to making coffee.

Both my beautiful wife Special Sauce Caldwell and the creative wonder that is my mother have tried to teach me how to do this, showing me the proper water-to-scoop-of-coffee ratio that is best for a robust cup of morning java, but no matter how many scoops I do or how exacting I am in following directions, my coffee is always inferior and bland.

Recently while on vacation the curse briefly lifted and one morning I tasted my coffee and almost died of shock right there in my pajamas.

It was delicious.

My extended family all agreed that I could not have possibly made this pot of coffee, and when the video evidence was reviewed and the startling truth was revealed joyous phone calls were made and faxes were sent: “The curse has been lifted!”

The next morning I confidently scooped out coffee grounds while whistling We Are the Champions and when I smugly put the coffee to my lips a wave of disappointment hit me as the same old bland taste had returned.

The curse had found me while on vacation. It took a day or so to track me down, but like a GPS device the signal had finally came through.

Conversely, my wife has a magical touch with food. She could make a gourmet meal out of tin foil.

After ten years of marriage I’m still amazed at what she can concoct out of the basic elements of food or whatever leftovers are around. I’ll be convinced that there is nothing in the house to eat and on the phone with the Chinese food place down the street and she will calmly serve a fantastic meal that I’m convinced was created by mysterious forces that hide in our pantry.

So needless to say, there is a distinct division of responsibilities in our house, and I will, till the day I shuffle off this mortal coil, happily take out the garbage, scoop the cat box, do all the driving and remove all the headless mice and frogs our cats drag into the house if I can but enjoy the sumptuous meals she serves.

Right now she is currently out of the country finishing up some schooling in Spain and no doubt whipping up a batch of tapas for her roommates, who are no doubt saying the same thing I do (only in Spanish of course). “Wow, how did you make this out of the dust bunnies that are in our cupboards.”

Please hurry home dear; the girls can only eat so many hot dogs.

No Stuffed Animal Left Behind

Planning and packing for a trip takes 99% of the roughly 8% of my brain I am currently using.

There are some things you can do without even thinking about it, things that comes as natural to you as mouth-breathing was to a caveman.

For some athletics come easy; they have been catching balls or hitting slap shots since infancy and the desire to do so was always kind of around.

Some folks were born organized. The desire for order and structure are ever-present and they were probably organizing their own diaper bags(“Let's see, daytime diapers go here, overnights go right here and my selection of color coded pacifiers fits nicely here“) and writing memos to their mothers about the water-to-powder ratio in their formula mix (“Just a teaspoon more of Perrier water should do the trick mother“).

It’s not to say that there is not work and effort involved in being a truly great athlete or an organizing guru with your own line of self help books and a cable access TV show, it’s just that the original spark was there in most of these folks and absent in the rest of us.

For me, being creative always just sort came easy. I was making up stories since infancy, and thanks to a wonderful mother with a distinct collector’s gene, I have every story and scrap of creative idea that I ever had gumption to put down on paper. (Including the Pulitzer Prize worthy first grade story “Mighty Mustard and Crazy Catsup Fight the Evil Mayonnaise Man”, a story so profound and insightful that my teacher wept openly and sent it straight to the White House to be awarded a medal of honor.)

I have friends for whom public speaking or other creative endeavors are truly stressful ordeals. They sweat for weeks trying to come up with an original idea for a ten minute presentation. It takes everything they have.

But not this cat, I could write this column in my sleep. (Don’t tell my editor this, please!) Being funny and creative come pretty easy to me. (Of course the “funny” part is much more subjective than, say, the ability to shoot a basketball well, and depends greatly on the audience. I am considered a comedy genius in parts of the South and in the country of Korea, but people in Idaho and Russia have expressly told me to find another line of work.)

But what I find incredibly difficult is organizing my life, say for something like packing for the vacation I am currently enjoying on a beach in a certain state north of here. (Incidentally, the sand just now is warm and the gulls are circling overhead. Circling, circling…Oh no, everybody put up your umbrellas!)

Packing for a vacation that involves children takes about as much planning and forethought as the D-day invasion of France, only those brave soldiers never had to worry about running out of diapers on the turnpike in 100 degree weather.

I have learned that if I spread out the packing over the course of, say, five days, life is much easier.

Of course with five days to go till V-day my brain says to me “take it easy big guy; there’s plenty of time to make that checklist.”

Then, with less than twenty hours to go the panic button deep in the recesses of my subconscious finally gets pressed and it’s time to start thinking about what the family will need while “relaxing” somewhere.

Because if there is not a bit of forethought you will spend all of your precious beach time running from store to store trying to find that elusive item that you have ten of at home, yet here you are buying the eleventh one (say a child’s bathing suit or a cell phone re-charger). Also, that money you are spending on the fourteenth pair of flip-flops could be better spent on a novelty t-shirt that says “Maine, The Ninth Best Place To Live In America“, or “Maine, Now With Indoor Plumbing!”

And don’t forget that precious and beloved stuffed animal that your child can not sleep without. It would be better to forget the first aid kit or the tooth paste than this critically important and ragged ball of cotton with eyes on it. (“Is that a sheep or a monkey sweet heart? Oh, it’s a camel!”)

I call this whole packing and planning activity “Operation ’No Stuffed Animal Left Behind’.”

I can say with full confidence and swagger that this particular vacation I’m on was pulled off nicely and it helped that I put every single stuffed animal in my house in a garbage bag and brought them all along.

Now if you will excuse me, I think I spy an ice cream stand on the boardwalk.

And since I didn’t have to buy those flip flops, I think I’ll get a chocolate sundae.

Porta Potty Anxiety

“The 4th of July, when a man’s thoughts turn to freedom, family and porta potties" - Thomas Jefferson


There are four heroes of the summertime.

The first is the ice cream man.

This brave young man (usually a college student or roaming hippy) lures the children of my neighborhood out to the street with the tinkle of sweet music and then attempts to not run them over as they stream towards his moving vehicle.

This whole process could use a slight overhaul.

The second great hero of the summertime is the lifeguard. Without this stalwart guy or gal (again, usually a college student) sitting perch over the beaches of our fair land, parents could never go to sleep on their towels whilst their children frolic in the surf and eat sand.

The third is the camp counselor.

I myself spent my teen years (just before college) gloriously marching campers around in formation and playing epic games of Capture the Flag.

I greatly enjoyed my camp counselor years (the rugged conditions, the low pay, the spiders in my sleeping bag) and without them I would not know how to march my own children around and I would have missed learning the great song “There Ain’t No Flies On Us.”

The forth hero of the summertime is the guy who empties out the porta potties of the world (usually a recent college graduate who majored in Communications).

In the past decade many states have passed regulations that stipulate that a porta potty must be emptied at least once a week.

Thank your lucky stars if you live in one of these states.

My question when it comes to common sense issues like this is “if the modern porta potty has been around for, say, about fifty years, who was the porta potty owner that was so irresponsible that he forced a state to come up with a porta potty statute.”

Actually, I think I once used that porta potty in the summer of ‘83. (It still haunts me.)

I am pleased to report that the porta potty has come a long way since that fateful day at the state fair in the early 80’s.

The modern porta potty boasts such amenities as a mirror on the door, hand sanitizer dispenser (usually bone dry) and, new this year, a working lock on the door!

I have two strict policies when all other options fail and porta potty use cannot be avoided. These are “no staying inside for more than 30 seconds and absolutely no sitting.”

When you see a porta potty portrayed (a fun sentence to type) in a movie there is always a character sitting inside a sparkling clean unit reading a newspaper.

This is absolute nonsense. There is not a human being I’m aware of that would spend the time necessary to read anything while sitting casually inside a porta potty. The human survival instinct to too strong.

My two firm and fast porta potty policies (again, really fun to type) were sorely tested this past weekend while at a local festival.

I have made it 34 years in my life without sitting in a porta potty, but that particular afternoon it became plain to me that I had eaten some “fair food” that was causing me some distress and as I stood facing a neat row of units (otherwise known as the “porta potty party pack”) I questioned my sanity as I prepared to sit inside for the first time in my life.

But fear not dear readers, I was saved by my intricate knowledge of all the available bathrooms in the tri-state area (ranked in order of cleanliness, availability to the road and whether or not you need to ask for a key).

My bathroom knowledge index paid great dividends this day, and I remembered a nearby facility that saved my heretofore unbroken streak.

I highly suggest that you make a similar list for yourself. Go do it now. I’ll wait.

Are you back?

Great, you will thank me someday. (I take personal checks now too.)

I’m thankful for the gift of indoor plumbing, for I was told every day by my parents while growing up about the “outhouse days” of yore when a midnight urge necessitated a trip outside in the cold and dark.

And we won’t even talk about the disastrous “two story, double-decker” outhouse invented by the above mentioned Thomas Jefferson for use at his home plantation of Monticello in Virginia.

Is anyone feeling the need to excuse themselves for a minute?

Happy 4th of July everybody.

The Legend Of Sleeping Daddy (A True Fairy Tale)

Morning people run the world and night people entertain them.

Raise your hand if you are a morning person.

I see those hands.

If your are indeed one of the many who actively enjoy the morning time (I have never actually seen any of you as I am usually still asleep), then you are most likely reading this column while nursing a steaming cup of coffee that is no doubt subtly backlight by the early dawn light gently wafting in your kitchen window.

But if you are like me you are reading this delightfully amusing missive by the glaring light of noon while sipping coffee your beloved spouse brewed hours ago and eating a slice of last night’s pepperoni pizza.

I believe that Francis Scott Key, the writer of our beloved national anthem (which I would hear as a teenager late at night when the TV channels would go off the air, remember those days?), was a morning person.

The evidence for this is in the first line of the Star Spangled Banner, which says “O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light.”

If I had been on that British ship in Baltimore Harbor that day and had written this fantastic ode to our flag it would have gone like this, “O say can you see, by the hazy midmorning light as I stumble sleepily around the quarterdeck trying not to fall into the ocean before I can score a cup of grog and a rock-hard biscuit for breakfast.”

It’s not that I’m not a morning person. I’m simply a “night person.”

I’m tired of defining myself by something that I’m not. I don’t define myself as a man by saying “I’m not a woman” or as a married man by saying “I’m not single”, so why do I refer to myself as a night person by saying “I’m not a morning person”?

I’m proud of my identity as a night person. Some of the best writers and thinkers in history were night people.

I’m told that King David, writer of the sacred Psalms of the Bible, was a night person, and that his first foe Goliath was a morning person. This was one of the great “morning person-night guy” conflicts in history.

Score one for the night guys.

Also, I’m told that Hemmingway was a great night owl, and that he wrote A Farwell To Arms while frequenting Parisian all-night coffee shops. He was tagged as being a grumpy person by all of the old school editors of the time who insisted on meeting with him about his manuscripts at lunch time. This is why he spent his last years in Cuba. It’s way too hot there to go out in the daytime.

Incidentally, Paris, the city of light and culture, (the lights are tremendously important for a population that only comes out only at night) is the home base for us night guys, while I believe the home base for the morning people of the world was the old U.S.S.R.

Okay, that was too harsh.

I shall attempt to convey my feelings about the morning in the following parable…

Once upon a time in the far away kingdom of Snoozalot there was a prince born in the royal castle and the king and queen named him Prince Daddy.

This greatly confused the population of Snoozalot, but they were used to strange pronouncements from the castle, so they just went with it.

As Prince Daddy grew he enjoyed a great many naps and late mornings.

In the summer time when many in the royal household would arise early to watch the sunrise from the castle walls Prince Daddy would enjoy the sunset as he drank his royal chocolate milk or later, his royal coffee.

Then one day Prince Daddy, while proficiently playing bass guitar in a local band, spied Princess Morning Person across the performance hall and was captivated by her smoky voice, beautiful face and lovely green scarf she was wearing which reminded Prince Daddy of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany‘s.

After a brief courtship the Prince and Princess married and greatly enjoyed each other’s company, though they could only communicate well between the hours of 9 am and 8 pm when Princess Morning Person turned into a pumpkin and had to go to bed.

Despite this difference, the Kingdom greatly rejoiced in this pairing.

And then Prince Daddy became an actual daddy, and his two princesses were no respecters of Price Daddy’s inability to think or make rational decisions in the morning. They would inexplicably be hungry at 7 am, forcing Prince Daddy to prepare food in his sleepy state.

"What vexes my children so that they desire to wake up a the ungodly hour of 6 am" he wondered over and over to himself.

But Prince Daddy greatly loved his royal family, and got up exactly at 7:30 am (after a great deal of coaxing from all of his princesses) and greet the day.

“Someday“, Prince Daddy would say to himself, “this will become easier to do.”

It’s up to you dear readers, to decide what parts of this parable is true and what indeed is a fairy tale.

Just don’t ask the night people to do it before 11 am.

Princess Supergirl Needs To Go To School

The following is a transcript from a conversation that took place at my house a few mornings ago:

"Dad, guess who I am!"

"Well sweetheart, I'd judge by the Snow White dress and Superman cape that you're wearing that you are some sort of royal superhero hybrid that I was previously unaware of."

"I'm Princess Supergirl."

"Oh, I see that now. How did I ever miss that? Well, Princess Supergirl needs to get ready for school."

"Princess Supergirl doesn't go to school."

"Oh no?"

"No, she stays home and fights crime."

Well I hate to disappoint Princess Supergirl, but there is not much crime around here. But there are a few lollipops missing from the jar of candy in the cupboard. Does Princess Supergirl know anything about what might have happened to them?"

"Uh, Princess Supergirl doesn't know anything about that."

"Could it have been your partner over there, Slobber Girl, who's sitting in her booster seat and nicely eating her breakfast?"

"It might have been her, it's hard to know."

"Well, let's go back to the subject of school. Does Princess Supergirl think it might be important to learn how to read? It's hard to fight crime when you can't read street signs or the instruction manual for the Super Jet."

"Princess Supergirl's dad could go with her to fight crime, and then he could also read to her at night when she was tired. He could be 'Dad-man'."

"Does Princess Supergirl know that Dad-man has a bad knee right now from when he fell out of the tree in the front yard when he was putting up Christmas lights?"

"That wasn't Dad-man's finest hour."

"No, no it wasn't."

"Well, maybe Mom-lady can drive Princess Supergirl around when she needs to fight crime."

"Well, Mom-lady also teaches Spanish. That could be useful when you go up against super villains from South America. Would Princess Supergirl prefer to fight crime in the Hyundai or the mini-van?"

"Would Princess Supergirl need to sit in her car seat, or could she sit in the front seat?"

"Princess Supergirl would still have to sit in her car seat."

"What if Princess Supergirl's cape gets caught in the sliding door?"

"That's a risk Princess Supergirl is going to have to take. Does she still want to fight crime?"

"Could Princess Supergirl still live at home?"

"Oh, I don't know about that. Superheroes usually fight crime from their secret hideouts."

"Could Princess Supergirl fight crime from her room?"

"She might need to take down that 'My Little Pony' poster that she has on her door."

"What if Princess Supergirl really likes that poster?"

"Well, I suppose it could stay, your secret identity could be as a little girl who lives with her parents."

"That's a great idea! Dad-man is pretty smart."

"He tries. Now I think Princess Supergirl should get her shoes on and get ready to go to school."

"Okay Dad-man."

"Does Princess Supergirl really want to wear her cowgirl boots to school with the rest of her costume? That seems to be sending a few mixed messages about her super identity."

"Princess Supergirl always wears her cowgirl boots to school."

"Is Princess Supergirl aware that she still has maple syrup on her face?"

"No she wasn't. Should she go wash her face?"

"Yes. Princess Supergirl should go wash her face."

End of transcript.

Readers note: Princess Supergirl is conveniently available for your crime fighting needs the hour between school and naptime and for one hour after supper.

Standing in Massachusetts with a Dollar in My Hand

I'm standing in Massachusetts with a cup of coffee in one hand and a dollar bill in the other.

I've stopped off at this particular gas station because the trip home is long, the hour is late and the need for coffee is urgent.

The sign for a ninety-nine cent cup of coffee persuaded me to pull in to this particular establishment because it just so happens that a dollar is what I have in the cup holder in the front of my mini-van, and after a day of swimming and barbecuing my wallet is somewhere in a bag in the back of the vehicle, directly under my sleeping children.

So I grabbed the dollar bill, hoping against hope that there is enough change left in there to pay the one toll on the way home.

I carefully selected the ninety-nine cent "small" sized cup and fill it to the brim with sweet hazelnut coffee, forgetting as always to leave a modicum of space for cream and sugar.

And now here I stand in line, ready to make my purchase and resume my life behind the wheel as "driving dad."

When the time comes I jovially set the cup of coffee on the counter and plunk down my dollar like a kid who's buying the latest version of his favorite comic book. (Something I know a little something about.)

But then a freezing chill comes over me as I hear the buttons on the cash register being pushed and a little blue set of digits appear on the readout that is facing towards me.

$1.07

Oh, yes I suddenly remember, sales tax!

Now, perhaps it's because I've spent too much time in the winds and waves today and I'm a little punch drunk from all that outside time, (I am after all a writer who's natural habitat is a dark coffee shop) but all of a sudden this seemingly simple transaction has taken on an epic air; the simple tired traveler versus the faceless corporation, a mere citizen versus big government run amok.

When I was a kid growing up in a certain other state, I could figure out sales tax like it was no one's business, computing numbers in my head on the fly when purchasing that coveted candy bar or comic book.

Because back then computation was an urgent skill needed because money was hard to come by and having exact change was as necessary to small town life (with one general store selling the required candy bars and Spider Man comic books) as knowing how to swim is to a Hawaiian.

Woe to the child who tried to buy a Snickers bar and came up five cents short.

You could either bike back home to get the nickel from your dad's change jar, or you could wait around on the general store porch and wait for someone you knew to lend you the sought after five cent piece.

I could knock out 7% sales tax like it was a frog on a lily pad and I was a kid with a B.B. gun.

I had to. Spider Man was calling.

But on this particular day I realize that living in the great State Of New Hampshire has made me soft in a couple of ways.

I have quite forgotten that the rest of the world has sales tax, and I'm not sure I could do the percentage math anymore if it was required of me.

And as all these thoughts fly through my head in a millisecond, I steal a quick, hopeful glance at the "take a penny, leave a penny" tray and realize with mounting dread that there isn't one.

Chalk it up as another piece of Americana lost to the technological age we find ourselves in. Debit cards are no doubt used in this establishment ninety percent of the time, and the spare change tray was deemed no longer necessary and was replaced with a display of small bottles of energy boosting liquids.

My options suddenly become clear, I can either depend on the good will of the young man behind the counter, (Phil, as his name tag says) explain to him my particular funny predicament ("honestly Phil, where I live the coffee really would be ninety-nine cents") and depend on his understanding and generous spirit, or I can trudge back out to the car and desperately search the seats for seven cents and run the risk of waking up the sleeping kids in the back.

In the end, Phil the cashier is generous and waves me along, and I breath a sigh of relief as I exit the convenience store with my steaming cup of brew in my hands; thankful to be returning to the land where coffee is the price that it is advertised to be.

The state of Massachusetts roads (poor)

Well, as the flat-as-a-board tire on my minivan can attest to, the state of Massachusetts did it to me again.

I've had only one accident and a few fender-benders in my adult driving life (I don't think that the first few months after you get your driver's license should count) and they have all been in the state of Massachusetts. Add to those accidents and fender-benders a series of flat tires (almost always during the holidays; "Merry Christmas and pass that tire iron") and the sum total of my road woes have come within the confines of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, a place where I do not live and only occasionally visit.

I have driven in such diverse places as China, Egypt and Israel and Ireland, yet I never feared for my life the way I do when that "Welcome To Massachusetts" sign appears on the horizon.

It's telling that this welcome sign does not have a tagline like other state signs do, such as Maine's "A Nice Place To Live", Vermont's "A Community Place" or New Jersey's "Prepare To Hold Your Breath."

The Massachusetts welcome sign should read, "Welcome To Massachusetts, We're Really Sorry For What's About To Happen To You."

You can feel the anger surge as you cross the border.

It's almost as if the drivers around me on the highway are werewolves and the state line is a full moon.

All of a sudden people are honking angrily, passing on the right at 95 miles an hour and simultaneously texting, drinking coffee and doing their makeup at the wheel.

Until this past visit I had never experienced the driving technique of passing multiple cars on the right on a two-lane road by driving on grass and sidewalks for 200 yards.

And the pot holes, oh my, the pot holes. (What's up with the term "pot hole"? There are no pots or pans out there, it's just a hole. And it's big enough to fit a family of bears in it for the winter.)

Now, all states have bad roads and bad drivers (except maybe Connecticut where folks are courteous and are so rich that the tollbooth attendant hands you money when you drive through), but it just feels like Massachusetts has made surviving a trip to the grocery store an art form.

Perhaps it's all a conspiracy pulled off by the state's auto body industry.

These folks must make a killing.

When I had my one bad accident back in 2002, I took my beloved, totaled Saab to a shop in Andover, Mass., and the grizzled technician took one look at the heap of metal that once had been the rear end of my car and, like a calm surgeon on the battlefield, said, "I've seen worse; I can have it back to you next week."

The state's auto body industry should advertise out of state. ("Is your car totaled? Send it to Massachusetts for repair; we've seen it all!")

Here is my solution.

If they can make a "Big Dig" that can let you traverse the city of Boston underground, then I propose and even "Bigger Dig" that lets you cross the state completely underground, with stops only at Fenway Park and the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield.

And to my family, friends and other assorted loved ones that call Massachusetts home, may all your road trips be incident-free, and please, please come see us next time.

Ode To A Cup Coffee

Where would we be without coffee?

Coffee, you elixir of life, you lifter of spirits, you happiness in a mug, you cup of sunshine; we owe you so much.

Coffee has had a pretty good run the last twenty years or so.

Once upon a time coffee was just one more breakfast option, right there with prune juice and an English Muffin.

But sometime in the mid-eighties late-night TV became all the rage, (thank you David Letterman and Saturday Night Live) and the need to stay awake during the work day became a pivotal challenge of the go-go times we found ourselves in.

Coffee should send late-night television a big "thank you" bouquet of flowers.

And once upon a time tea (the hot drink favored by the Red Coats in colonial days) was the big kid on the block.

Tea enjoyed a run of about five hundred years of popularity thanks to the British Empire and their co-opting of everything cool within their borders. (Which famously, the sun never set on.)

Coffee is like tea's little brother who somehow became massively successful due to simply being in the right place at the right time.

There are about three million cool ways to consume coffee to two ways for tea; traditionally in hot water or in the "iced" version. (I'm sure the British could enlighten me to a few more.)

Perhaps that's why we Americans favor one hot beverage over the other, it's "our" drink. (I guess we forgot about a couple of thousand years of Arabic culture where coffee was a central feature of a proper table.)

Have you ever tried to get a "proper" cup of coffee in a foreign country?

In Spain they favor the tiny, thimble sized, cup of "café" which we know over here as an espresso.

This miniature morning jolt may do its job, but if you are looking to nurse a cup of coffee, Spain is no country for you. ("Thank you for this darling, child's tea party sized cup of coffee Francisco, now run along and get the adult sized cup will you?")

On my first visit there two years ago I was jonesing for a traditional cup of American style coffee one morning to help me shake off the effects of jet lag and to sip pensively as the Spanish countryside passed by the windows of my train car. (Didn't Hemingway sit for hours in Spanish cafes' in all those short stories I read in college? Did he have thousands of those tiny cups littering his table as he typed away?)

In the fine, capital city of Madrid there exists exactly one Starbucks, and it opens promptly at 10 am. This is because the average Spaniard gets up at 9:30 am. (I'm not sure how this county gets anything done; perhaps they should drink bigger cups of coffee.)

The trouble with the Starbucks opening at 10 am is that my morning train left at 9 am and I had woken up in the hotel this particular morning from a dream where I was enjoying a whole pot of coffee.

The kindly Spanish baristas, who were sitting inside drinking coffee from large cups and enjoying their morning, took pity on this tired American as I pressed my face to the window like an orphan in a Charles Dickens novel, and opened early for me.

I tried not to moan out loud when I had my first sip, and I did my best to hide the beverage as long as I could from my contentious, Spanish-culture-loving wife.

Where would I be without coffee? It's a writer's best friend.

So here is a toast to coffee: "To coffee, your teeth staining tendencies are but a small price to pay for staying awake behind the wheel, good conversation...and a regular bowel movement."

And adios to you, small cup of "café."

Oh, and a special thank you goes out to my lovely wife Julie, who got me the best gift a "coffee dog" can get for Christmas, a Kerig, single serving coffee machine.