Forced Hugging

I'm not a hugger by nature. Some people are, some aren't. Intense, intimate contact with people whose name I'm not sure of is uncomfortable. I'm not a germophobe. I am on good terms with my germs and I assume your germs are no worse.
The other night I was at an outdoor concert in Jersey City. I know people in JC and they are all serial huggers. You see these same folks everywhere, smiling, hugging, engaging in intense conversation about very important things. Sometimes they pat each other on the butt. I am okay with most of this, but I wonder how close is this friendship? It sure looks like they are hugging for the benefit of others. See how loved I am. See how popular. If something bad happened to me, look at all those who would jump to my assistance.
After about an hour watching this, I closed the book I was reading and looked around for someone to hug. Yes, I was feeling a bit lost and abandoned. I couldn't hug the musicians or vendors, none of whom I knew. A woman next to me asked the time. I suppose I could have used that as an excuse to toss a light hug her way. She seemed happy and happy people are more likely to hug strangers.
There is far too much hugging at the Olympics, but that is another level of contact altogether.
I left the concert having hugged no one. I have now gone 161 days without hugging anyone and I tell you it's not as bad as it sounds. My super is cutting the grass. He is a stocky Latino and we get along fine. I believe I should go out and give him a hug. First I'll gargle, floss, spray deodorant and slap on moisturizer. I want my infrequent hugs to be memorable.

Shopping Cart Conspiracy

Why is it the shopping cart I choose never rolls? Hundreds of carts in the parking lot, I pick the one that stutters or lurches to the side or makes unacceptable rattling noises. No matter where I shop this happens.
Sometimes the cart will play games with me. It will roll along beautifully for 50 feet, then suddenly stop short causing a punctured bowel. Invariably I have to get another, but not without struggling to place the defective one where it's not blocking traffic. More than once I've gotten a solid citizen cart prepared to do its job, and on the way into the store I'll spot someone taking my damaged cart, unknowingly. If I were possessing integrity, I'd warn them. But since I'm me, I just wait and watch them get suckered in, eventually cursing loudly.
Another cart problem occurs when they are attached and you have to pull the first one loose. I keep yanking to no avail. Then I move to another line and try again without success. Meanwhile some 100 pound woman has no trouble detaching the very cart that stubbornly refused my efforts. Recently I discovered the trick others have been using. Raise the basket located by the handle and the cart releases without hesitation. Why didn't anyone tell me this?
Wal-Mart carts are too big for what I need. I know this is a subconscious sales tactic to get me to spend more than I intend. I may not be shopping cart savvy, but I know my sales techniques. Because I'm a detail guy, I've only misplaced my full cart a handful of times. Instead of panicking, I quietly traverse the entire store until I come upon it. Should I not find it, I confront the store manager, demand he lock all exits and accompany me on a cart by cart inspection until we find the culprit. The down side of that is he or she usually manages to sell me stuff I don't need, like camping equipment. If you ever find me out camping somewhere, call assisted living immediately. My mind has left the building.

Spoiler Alert

Don't read this is you don't want to know the information.

Lions 8, Christians 0.
Gore Vidal is dead.
King Lear has his hands full.
There is no actual mockingbird in To Kill a Mockingbird.
Most of your Facebook friends contain Malware and viruses.
No one is reading your blog.
Bungee jumping peaked in 1998.
Sir Paul forgets the words.
There are only six genuine poets left in NYC.
Peeing starts to hurt around age 50.
Portland isn't as cool as we're led to believe.
Opera singers take too long with our National Anthem.
He who laughs last is probably single.
Going green requires a spread sheet.
Monks are not easily impressed.
Boat owners never wear socks.
Craig stole some of his list from my list.
The latest Mars landing was photo shopped.

Branding

Every Olympic athlete who competes needs a brand to sell to corporations. One swimmer smiles and giggles, a gymnast repeats the question before carefully spouting rehearsed responses. A sprinter does his lightning bolt stance, others mug for the camera at the starting line.
Girl gymnasts with little in the way of curves and squirrel voices pronounce how they WANT that medal. A woman weightlifter does her comedy routine. Athletes preen and strut and smile on cue, drape themselves in their countries flag, fall to the ground in pain or ecstasy. It's all choreographed down to the facial expressions. Meanwhile, boxing, once a staple of the games, has virtually no coverage because research has shown it doesn't entice viewers like it did.
BP and TD Ameritrade are not even American companies and their commercials state how proud they are to support our athletes.
The US girl that missed her vault and got silver instead of gold looked shocked, sitting there unblinking. The announcers came right out and stated she would win long before her turn came. The difference between gold and silver amounts to millions in endorsements. I wish that little fact would have been mentioned.
Her fragile brand was damaged.

Sunday Times

I love buying the Sunday NY Times. Anticipation builds to a fever pitch by Sunday morning. I will not buy the Saturday early edition because it lacks late sports results.
I love reading the International section which explains serious problems in other countries, some of which I actually care about.
I love the travel section describing places I can never visit, the style section reporting on parties I will never attend full of celebrities I will never meet wearing clothes I can never afford.
I enjoy the auto section featuring cars way out of my price range, the real estate section listing property larger than some Third World countries on the market for the gross national product equal of many Eastern European countries.
I love the week in Review featuring esoteric think pieces by successful authors who can just sit home and think.
I love the sports section covering sports no other paper will touch, like team handball.
I love the book review section and all those tomes on worthy, but obscure subjects and contemporary fiction by minimalist stylists and all those best seller lists and quirky opinion pieces and haiku attempts.
I love the magazine section with its in-depth profiles of people I should at least be acquainted with and solid investigative journalism on the shortage of fiber in prisons.
I love the Metropolitan section and all its off the wall stories about slightly off people with strange ambitions and stranger conflicts.
I love the business section delineating all the different ways hedge fund managers and banks are screwing us.
Mostly I love the Arts & Leisure section because it makes me feel like I have lots of leisure time and am appreciative of the fine arts. Plus, sometimes there's a photo of a hot actress.
Last, I love the Target ads with sales on Tide, Bounty, Puffs, Bounce, Downy, Pampers and Charmin.
Why leave the house at all on Sunday when the Times brings you the whole world?

Dance Challenged

Why can't I dance?
I'm a reasonably athletic guy. I go to the gym. I was good at sports as a kid. I'm comfortable with my body. People in my family can dance like banshees. Friends invite me places where dancing is required. I stand in the corner praying no one will ask me to cut a rug. I can't even scratch a place mat.
It's always been like this. I'm sure I would have been more popular in high school if I could do something resembling a series of moves. I watched the teen dance shows growing up and tried to imitate the participants. Whenever I checked myself in the mirror I resembled someone having an aneurism. I just cannot stay with the beat. I don't even clap on the beat. I thrust my hips, roll my shoulders, jerk my head, fling my arms out, snap my fingers. Scary. At least Martin Short's character, Ed, can shimmy.
My dance grunts are ineffective and sound unhealthy. Yes, I freeze up, but I do that at the urinal and still manage an acceptable pee. Maybe if I took Asian self defense I could incorporate some of those moves. Gene Kelly had to start somewhere. Maybe he took judo lessons and went from there.
Great female dancers are the stuff of fantasy, especially if they sweat. I was thinking of going commando and seeing if that stimulates coordination, helps me toss away self consciousness. Of course I'd have to forgo the limbo. Don't want to frighten anyone.

Snide Remarks

There is an art to executing snide remarks. Below are the essential elements in pulling off successful snide remark impact.
Say it loud enough for people to hear, but not so loud so that it crosses over into outright cruelty.
Accompany it with a look of disdain.
Your target usually should be someone whose life is rolling along carefree.
Only use English. Repeating the same remark in several languages dilutes impact.
Don't include the person's mother, but spouses are fair game.
Before you let loose, gauge the mood of the room. Hostile means postpone until things simmer down.
If everyone seems happy, chuckle when you release your snide comment.
If you intend to school your kids in making these remarks, make certain they know self defense.
Be prepared for your target to retaliate when you least expect it.
Snorting after you've attacked is considered bad form in polite circles.
If your target is the food served by your hostess, say something nice about the salad.
Your remark must contain pithy, but deadly wit. Use an English accent when possible.
Assume that your target will eventually learn of your ambush and you will lose another friend.
For variety, raise an eyebrow like Cary Grant when executing.
Clear your throat first to subtly get attention, pause and release the verbiage.
Snide remarks about celebrities are a good way to hone your gift.
Cruel is a relative term.