Rule #16: "Saturday Night Live" ended May 24, 1980

Do I really need to saying anything else?

OK, fine, for those of you who weren't even alive then.  Saturday Night Live, or NBC's Saturday Night, was the funniest, and most important, TV show of the late 70s.  Lorne Michaels pillaged the National Lampoon Radio Hour and Second City Theaters (whose leftovers were so talented they created SCTV and had the 2nd funniest show on TV in the same timeperiod and for some time after) for actors and writers, gave them free reign and enough money to buy whatever drugs they saw fit, and set them loose at a time when no one was home watching TV (except maybe babysitters wondering when the fuck those parents were going to get home and why can't I get this liquor cabinet open).  And the world exploded.

 Even when they did sitcoms they were "Kate & Allie" and "Community"

For five seasons they defied taboos, infuriated censors, created characters and phrases that live to this day, and basically took over the planet.  Then, on May 24, 1980, they aired the last episode with the real cast and writing staff.

Everything after that has been a bad dream concocted through an evil stew of Lorne Michaels' ego, NBC's greed, viewer inertia, and a sweetheart deal with movie studios that makes even the worst idea a full-length feature.

"OK, here's the pitch.  It's about two guys who shake their heads...yeah, that's it."

Saturday Night Live  made it OK, or even cool, to be home on Saturday night from 11:30p to 1:00a Eastern time.  Now, that pale imitation in its time slot makes a case for the eradication of all life on this planet.

Of course, it's easy to take the best of the five years and compare it to the worst of what came after and say "this proves how much better it was."  But I think my friend Steve summed it up best sometime in the 90s when he said about the show "back in the day, you'd watch it and say 'it was great - there was one sketch that didn't work, however.'  Now you watch it and say 'it sucked - there was one sketch that wasn't bad, however.'"

To which I replied "then stop watching it."

The sad, simple fact is that NBC could air 90 minutes of a pile of shit slowly rotating, and so long as it had the name Saturday Night Live it'd get a good rating.  Conversely, a show that is 500x funnier put on in that same timeslot, but called anything else, wouldn't do as well.

And I sincerely believe NBC knows it.  So they just haven't bothered.  For 31 years now.

You can split the show's history into distinct eras.  And all but one of them will make you go "ugh."  Or, at best "well, it wasn't so bad."

Remember, these periods are the reason we have Jimmy Fallon with his own talkshow.  Think about it.  Jimmy Fallon.  Five nights a week.  And in commercials for some fucking bank.

These periods are why The Love Guru was made.

These periods gave us Will Ferrell's ass in 30 different movies.  You know your comedy is sad when the highpoint of your script is showing your ass.

These periods created Joe Piscopo.

They convinced Eddie Murphy he could do no wrong.

Rob Schneider.

David Spade.

And folks...these are considered the BEST they had to offer.  The Charles Rockets (RIP) and Victoria Jacksons of the world I will leave alone now.  They have to live in their infamy and shame.

At this point someone inevitably mentions Tina Fey to me.  Tina Fey is amusing.  That's about all.  I have yet to hear one brilliant, or even very funny, line from her.  She passes the time nicely; she's a soft-rock hit from the 70s that you don't need to hear more than once.

Yes, this is somewhat personal to me.  Saturday Night Live made me want to do sketch comedy (shameless plug for the sketch show I'm doing this month). I was asked once "is your goal to write for Saturday Night Live?"

No.  My goal is to write for the show that finally puts the fork in its dead, bloated carcass.

Rule #15: Romantic Love Proves My Atheism

For the first 12 years and 10 albums of its existence, the J. Geils Band produced high-energy, well played party rock that had the depth and insight one normally expects from a Republican governor of Texas.

Then, suddenly, in 1979, Peter Wolf was struck by an inspiration so profound, so universal, and so simple it boiled down to the two most honest words ever written in the English language.

The fact the there's a root canal in this video, and it

doesn't hurt as much as the subject, should tell you something

Apparently asking all those women to Give It To Me, Make Up Your Mind, and Take It Back didn't work out quite as well as he'd hoped.  Or, it could be that his divorce that year from Faye Dunaway had something to do with it.

As poignant and inspired as the chorus is, to me the genius comes from the opening verse.

You love her
But she loves him
And he loves somebody else

Every time two people get together there are AT LEAST two other people's hearts who have been broken because that couple got together.  Add to that the pain and suffering the couple will no doubt inflict upon each other and you've got four miserable people (again, at least).

 Women crying outside Paul McCartney's first wedding.

Not for joy.  And they got two more opportunities to relive this moment!

But isn't love wonderful?  That elated feeling, the bond with another human being, the sex, the passing fancy that there's another human being on the planet who gives a shit whether you live or die.

In a word, "no."

It WOULD be, if it existed in a vacuum.  In fact, when lovers seem to be the most happy is when they seal themselves off from the world around them.  "I feel like we are the only two people in the universe right now."

So, the perfect scenario for love is the last two people on Earth.  But, of course, so many women have told so many men (and men told women, and women told women, and men told men) that they wouldn't sleep with them EVEN IF s/he was the last man/woman on Earth, even that doesn't seem to be too hopeful.

Well, maybe some can find love in this circumstance

So, since the last two people on Earth doesn't seem to be a good love connection, what about the first two?  God created Adam, saw Adam was lonely, and instead of inventing ESPN, the Fleshlight, or beer, he created love.

God can be a real son of a bitch sometimes.

And you know how well this worked.  Paradise is, literally, lost.  They have two kids, one of whom is a smug bastard and the other kills him out of non-romantic jealousy.  The story has been used to say women are inferior and devious for centuries (well, they are, but so are men so it evens out).  And snakes have gotten a bad rap.

So, if we are to believe that God is a just and loving force, and he created love, we have reached the type of contradiction that philosophers, scientists, and Suduko solvers love.

Ergo, i.e., QED, shut up and listen - love proves God cannot exist.

Remember, you will be in, at most, only one romantic relationship that does not end.  And the only reason it won't end is your DEATH.

OK, maybe there is some hope

Rule #14: Your Cell Phone Doesn't Make You Invisible or Silent

This is another along the lines of "it's obnoxious when anyone else does it, but when I do it it's DIFFERENT!!!! OK!!!!"

I don't understand how a cell phone works.  How it takes my words, converts them into waves, transmits them up to the skies, finds the person I'm talking to, sends the waves back down, coverts the waves into both my words and head cancer, and gets it out of the phone's earpiece.  And then drops the call.

But the even more confusing part to me is what part of the phone makes the user think that no one can see or hear him or her.  No matter how tall or wide s/he is, or how LOUDLY S/HE TALKS INTO THE PHONE!!!

But the part must exist.  There's no other explanation.  Any species filled with animals stupid enough to shout their personal information in public could not have survived an ice age, the Plague, and Disco. 

 

"Yeah, the ointment is starting to work, but it's a real pain getting it up in there...no, the stick is helping, and thanks for letting me borrow it...yes, I'll wash it before I give it back..."

And, really, is there a worse-sounding word than "ointment?"

For some reason, this part of the phone works 346 times better at sporting events. 

 

 Not only did she block this guy's view, she was FURIOUS he was looking at her ass

Here's the deal.  If you're at a game, and your phone rings, there is NO GOOD REASON TO STAND UP!!!!  The phone still works if you remain seated.  The schmuck probably won't see you anyway.

 

"Yeah - I'm the fat fuck with the bandana and the biker T-shirt and a beer 

at a sporting event in Detroit.  You can't miss me!!!!"

If your friend wants to find you, give him/her your section and seat number.  Or, you know, just let them imagine what you look like watching a game.  It's really not that difficult to picture.

The worst, the absolute worst, are the folks who feel the need to stand-up and wave whenever the action on the field/ice gets close enough to them that they know they will be on camera.

I tried to find a better picture of this, but failed miserably.  I entered every set of words into Google Images I could think of.  "Sports fan asshole" "Cell phone hockey please die" "Sit the fuck down I'm trying to watch the game!!!"  This is the best I got.

I know I am to blame.  When these assholes do this, I look.  I have to.  I'd like to think that it's because I'm concerned that they are waving to say "hey - this part of the stadium is on fire!"  But I know better.  If I wasn't visually attracted to pointless activity that just brings attention to someone who doesn't deserve it and doesn't improve anyone's life except the person doing the action, I wouldn't watch sports in the first place.

Rule #13: Dance Music is Fascist

The word "Hitler" is tossed around a lot these days.  So are "Socialist," "Fascist," "Ayn Rand," "Class Warfare," and other terms whose users don't seem to have a fucking clue what they mean.  People also say "irregardless" when they mean "regardless" and/or "irrespective."

However, I am using the term "fascist" advisedly here.  Or wrongly.  Either way.

The lyrics of almost every dance song are a series of orders.  Commands on what steps you HAVE to take.  You are being told by a disembodied voice to "Shake Your Groove Thing," "Dance Dance Dance" or "Freak Out!"  All barked at you over a march-style drumbeat.

This is military-style control of the general population.  To me, that's fascism. 

There are a few exceptions.  "The Time Warp" from Rocky Horror asks you to do it ("LET'S do the Time Warp again") and then tells you the steps without forcing you to do them.  Similarly, Chubby Checker begged one partner to join him ("Come on Baby, let's do the Twist"), and then later asked her (assuming he was looking for a heterosexual dancing arrangement, but who am I to judge) to join him again ("LET'S Twist again, like we did last Summer").  No force, no pressure.  Just a suggestion.

Perhaps the most egregious example is "Da Dip." 

Let's just look at the first verse:

Just get on the floor like I said befo'
Y'all remember that "Down Low"!
Just put a little dip wit' it,
Now roll those hips wit' it
Pop it, push it, rock it, roll it 

In other words, shut up and lie down.  NOW!

Can't control it?  I'll come hold it
It's all in fun so take a chance

I think we've all seen enough Movies of the Week and Afterschool Specials to know that when someone tells you do to something because "it's fun" they don't mean that it's fun for YOU.

Just get on the floor and do that dance, y'all
I know you like this so, don't try to fight it
Turn around, baby, let me see you from the back
Yeah, I like it like that
Get up now, roll those hips, 
Drop down, double-up on those dips
Freak Nasty wanna see,
Can y'all do this right here for me?

Coincidentally, this is exactly what the maid claimed Dominique Strauss-Kahn said to her in his hotel room.

And then, there's the chorus:

I put my hand upon your hip, when I dip, you dip, we dip
You put your hand upon my hip, when you dip, I dip, we dip
I put my hand upon your hip, when I dip, you dip, we dip
You put yours, and I put mine, and we can dip down low and roll and grind! 

Nowhere in the song does he ask if he can put his hand upon her hip.  Nor does he ask if she will put hers on his.  And, she is given no choice in this interaction.  She WILL dip when HE does!  And, when she decides to dip, he is going to join her. 


No one yet has written a dance tune called "Show Me Your Papers," although I suspect Arizona will commission it soon.  So we have to look for the more subtle forms of fascism in our dance music.  And, believe me, it's there.

Rule #12: Working Out Disproves Darwin

I am a devout Darwinian.  We didn't evolve from apes - we and apes evolved from the same ancestor.  Some of us more than others.  But I understand why states like Louisiana and Kentucky don't want to teach evolution - they don't see any evidence of it around them.

Many apes are denying the connection as well

But, like all theories (which means a plausible or scientifically acceptable general principle or body of principles offered to explain phenomena, not shit we just made up like the anti-evolution people think), there can be holes, unexplained aspects, or contradictory thoughts.

For Darwin's Theory of Evolution, one of these contradictions is physical exertion to improve your overall health, otherwise known as "working out."

I recently bought a Groupon for 12 workouts with the Manhattan Strength Camp.  Twelve one-hour strenuous workouts to help me delay death for approximately 20 minutes.  And, they are good workouts, I recommend them.

He's yet to make us use the chains

This Tuesday (two days ago for those of you reading this on tape delay) we did the “Holiday Special” workout…which was:

• 100 Squats
• 100 Push-ups
• 100 Sit-ups
• 100 Burpees

OK, I did 75 of each, (as did my friend Orion).  And the pushups were the kind that would have caused the cast of The Big Bang Theory to call me "wimp!"  The rest of the group, mostly women wearing "Class of 2010" sweatshirts that do not refer to any college, did the whole 100.

Yesterday I felt a bit sore.

Today, every muscle I have is angry with me.  It hurts to type.  Yes, I had bananas, stretched, etc.  It's just that it's an intense workout, I'm 44 and not in the best of shape, and...

according to evolutionary theory working out is bad for you.

Here's how this works.  The body creates pain to tell you "hey, asshole, that was a dumb thing to do, don't do that again!"  You hit your thumb with a hammer, you learn "don't him your thumb with a hammer."  You stick your dick in a vacuum cleaner, you learn "don't stick your dick in the vacuum cleaner."  Eventually.

But working out is supposed to improve your health.  So, in theory, my body is telling me "don't improve your health."  Which is an unhealthy thing to say.  Which makes no sense in a truly evolutionary theory-defined universe.

Neither does the fact that ice cream tastes millions of times better than broccoli, which we know since birth. 

And SPEAKING OF BIRTH...it would seem that making birth painful would have led to our utter extinction.  Or, at least, to a limit to one child per mother.

But, we go on.  We work out.  We eat broccoli.  We give birth (well, some of us do).  And Darwin sits on his cloud going "hmm...still some bugs in the system."

Rule #11: Fashion is Punishment for Sins We've Committed in Past Lives

We're not talking about the David Bowie song here, although it is not "one of his best."

My Next Rule: There is No Good Song With the Lyrics "BEEP BEEP"

I'm talking about an industry whose sole purpose is to get people to buy new clothes before their old ones wear out.

This is not to say you shouldn't dress in a flattering way.  But fashion has rarely, if ever, been about flattering the wearer.  For Chrissakes, THESE were considered fashionable:

These are about as flattering as Don Rickles seeing an overweight Korean woman in the front row of his show sitting next to a Mexican dwarf wearing an ascot.

I could, maybe, think of fashion as not being pure evil if it was moving in a steady direction towards more comfort, a "better" look, or a more environmentally responsible process.  But, really, it's just about making women look like they don't know what to do with their money.

So, somewhere, somehow, we have all sinned in our previous existences so badly that we are cursed with things like Fashion Week (I'm sorry, it's now MERCEDES-BENZ FASHION WEEK), Mr. Blackwell, Golden Globes gowns, and Sex and The City 2.

Maybe it's karmic payback for every example of slavery in human history, or our tendency to kill each other for the stupidest fucking reasons, or Sex and the City 2, but something really pissed off the gods to give us this.

But, there is a lighter side:

Rule #10: Don't Say "Hitler"

No one will ever mistake Hank Williams, Jr. for:

1. a genius
2. a policy wonk
3. Hank Williams, Sr.

Junior wrote two good songs: the Bad to the Bone/Hoochie Coochie Man mash-up My Name is Bocephus

And the "I can drink more than my daddy, and it KILLED him" anthem All My Rowdy Friends are Coming Over Tonight.

 

Showing an artistic integrity that would have Daddy Hank doing laps around his coffin, Hank the Younger decided to let Monday Night Football use the song for its opening theme.  And, in an even more integrity-laden move, he actually rewrote the song as the now-classic Are You Ready for Some Football.

 

Which, inexplicably, led someone at NBC to grab the sheet music to I Hate Myself for Loving You, scribble in new lyrics about the NFL, and stick it under Faith Hill's nose.

But I digress.

Earlier this week Hank Jr., when asked a question about who he likes in the 2012 GOP presidential candidate field, immediately and drunkenly veered into comparing President Obama to Hitler.  It was so bad even Gretchen Carlson noticed (after 3 more questions went by, mind you).

Here's the deal.  If you're in public DON'T TALK ABOUT HITLER!!!!

There are only three groups of people who are allowed to talk about Hitler on TV:  Holocaust survivors, historians, and the cast of The Producers.  

That's it.  That's the list.

If, by chance, you find yourself being interviewed, and some part of your brain says "you know, a Hitler reference would fit in really well right now," here's what you do.

Ask a passing cop if you can borrow his gun and blow your brains out.

It won't hurt you as much in the long run.

Or, if there is no cop around who will loan you his weapon, or pepper spray you into submission, just substitute another historical dictator.  Like, say, Caligula.  Or Catherine the Great.  Or Darth Maul. 

"The President wants to have more trade with China.  You know who also opened trade to China?  Genghis Khan!"  

If you weren't worried about historical accuracy with Herr Adolf, why bother with it now?  And, frankly, most TV hosts won't know enough about whomever you use to challenge you.

Just don't bring up Hitler.

Rule #9: Your Time is Not as Valuable as You Think It is

This one comes from a specific complaint about this blog.  I was going to create a FWQ  (Frequently Whined Questions) section to handle it, but instead I'll just expand on it to prove that all of society is shit and we deserve a painful, fiery end to life on this planet.

Evidently, I have ruined people's lives by keeping the content warning on this site.

Yes, I am a monster who is worse than Hitler.  Save your comments.

On the assumption that all of you have:

1. high-speed internet
2. a computer built after the turn of the century,
3. the motor skills of a squirrel with Parkinson's or better, 

this process should take you about 3.46 seconds.

Deal with it.

For those of you who are upset about it, I have one question:  "What were you going to do with that time that I have prevented?  Work on that Cancer cure?  Find a new planet?  Come up with a better, more effective cock ring?"  (Meanwhile, comments like the last one are why I keep the warning up.  Maybe someday they'll be naked breasts here.  Haven't decided yet.  I need a rule that involves naked breasts first.  I'm working on it - give me a second!)

It's not just here.  Everywhere I see people who are INCENSED at being delayed by about 3 to 5 seconds.  And, I'm assuming not all of them REALLY REALLY REALLY have to go to the bathroom right then.

The cab that races through an intersection filled with pedestrians just to slam on the brakes 5 feet later at the next red light.  The guy who is pissed that the elevator he got on doesn't go to the 5th floor (even though it says Floors 9-18 right there above the door) who looks at everyone else in the car like it's their fault.  The woman who empties the dryer filled with your clothes without waiting at least two minutes to see if you are coming to get them.*

*I had a weird variation of this earlier this year.  I came down to get my laundry, and found that my whites still had about 34 minutes to go (they should have been finished).  When I opened the dryer to see if it was indeed mine, I saw my clothes, along with some underwear and towels belonging to someone else.  Apparently someone opened my dryer, shoved her (judging by the underwear) stuff in there, and then added time to the dryer.  So, I did what seemed right.  I opened the dryer, took out my clothes, and left hers.  You know, I think I forgot to close it again and restart it.  Oops.

I had the joy Saturday night of seeing two bridge and tunnel girls at Penn Station, perched on 5" heels with a micron thick points, decide that the taxi line was for "little people" and snare a cab right in front of the line.  Again, I'm assuming they were not late for an appearance at the UN Conference on Nuclear Disarmament.  More likely, they were being whisked to the meatpacking district so they can try and cut the line at The Blitzkrieger. 

OMG, this is like worse than Herpes!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyone who's met me will tell you I am not Mr. Laissez-Faire.  Especially when the Yankees/Jets/Devils/Nets (until they move)/Hoosiers/Seton Hall Pirates are playing.  But this is insane.  Nothing, NOTHING, you are doing cannot wait the seconds it takes to let someone in front of you at the Lincoln Tunnel, to actually pedal the block to the avenue that's heading the way you want to go, or frankly to get the next train back to your suburb.

I'm sorry, you're just not THAT important.  If it makes you feel any better, neither am I.

Of course, much of what I'm saying here was said much better by Louis CK...

Rule #8: Everyone Needs a Therapist

I will start by saying that I don't think everyone is nuts.  Or not nuts enough to need intense, daily therapy.

However.

I fully believe everyone should have at least an annual check-up with a mental health professional.  And, if follow-up work is needed, you schedule more appointments.  However, if when you see your therapist he or she tells you to get undressed, put on this hospital gown, sit on the couch and s/he'll be with you in a minute, it's time to find someone else.

No matter how you were raised, your childhood messed you up at least a little.  Even if you had the PERFECT childhood, with incredibly doting parents who gave you enough room to be yourself but were there to pick you up when you failed, you're going to spend your adulthood going "how do I live up to that?!?"

So, let's say everyone gets that yearly check-up from the neck-up.  Maybe the therapist is able to say to people "don't buy that gun," "hey, here's a prescription that will make those voices go away," "no, Mr. Berkowitz, the dog is NOT talking to you," or "for god's sake do NOT run for Congress."

This can be prevented, people!!!!

At the very least more people would understand 2/3rds of New Yorker cartoons.

Rule #7: All Holidays Should Run Sundown to Sundown

As our chosen friends start the Rosh Hashanah holiday today, nicknamed "Rush-a Home-a" by my friend Kara (at least she was the first one to say it to me), those of us who are not members of the tribe get to sit at our desks with envy in our hearts as friends head to the subway at 3:30 or so.  So I am rushing to get this out so folks can read it before they lose the light.

L'Shana Tova everyone!

From an outsider's perspective, sundown to sundown holidays are COOL!  You get to leave home or school early, you do the family stuff for a day or two, then you have the next night FREE!  It makes every holiday a holiday-and-a-half.  And, really, isn't that what holidays are all about?  They're not about family, celebrating good times, commemorating bad times, coming home from college trying to finally sleep with that one special person who ignored you all through high school, or food.  They're about not being at work or school.  So we should maximize this!

The holidays that have "eve's" with them kinda of do this.  However, wouldn't it be better if Christmas Eve started at sundown December 23?  Especially as sundown would be around 4:30 in the afternoon (where I live, at least).  You'd get all day the 24th at home (or, shopping, let's face it), at 4:30p on the 24th IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!!  Having Santa show up in the mid-afternoon would be incentive to get kids to nap.  Presents are opened when you are fully awake!  No screaming children at 5:30a going "GET UP GET UP GET UP!!!"  They play for a bit, everyone goes to sleep, and when they get up the next morning (the 25th) they don't have to bother you - they've got a ton of new toys to play with.

Perhaps even better than all this?  After dark on the 25th YOU'RE DONE!!!  You are free to catch up with friends, catch a ballgame, see if you can find that one special person who ignored you all through high school, or drink yourself into a small brown liquid.  And still be able to make it to work the next day.

The most important holiday for this is, of course, the Super Bowl.  We time the beginning of the ACTUAL pregame (not the 7 hours before that) with sundown, play the game, and then get most of the next day to recover.  What could make more sense?

Rule #6: Men's Departments Are Designed by Morons

We all have times when we feel insecure about various parts of our existence.  "I sound like a fucking moron today."  "My hair looks like shit (a problem I've not had to deal with for a while now)."  "I feel my place in the universe could be better manned by a semi-trained chimpanzee with a social disorder."

But whenever my insecurity manifests itself as "I don't feel that smart" I remedy it by going to the men's section of a department store.  Two minutes there and I feel like a genius.

I'm not going to complain about the questionable fashions, the staff who make the Tea Party look like Rhodes Scholars, or the decor.  The specific complaint here is how the clothes are laid out.

If you are looking for shirts or pants, the Mensa members who organized the department have decided to put the clothes on the shelves in ascending order by size.  So, they have put the smaller sizes on the top, and the bigger sizes on the bottom.

This means that the men with 32" inseams or sleeves, whom we can assume are between 5'0" and 5'8", have to stand on their tiptoes to look at the merchandise.  Meanwhile, those of us with 36" inseams and 37" sleeves (if you want the rest of my measurements send me a message - Christmas is coming!), who range from 6'0" to Shaquille O'Neal, have to squat down on the filthy, thin carpet desperately hoping to find a pair of Dockers that fit.

The worst part of this?  EVERY department store does it!!!  Not ONE has figured out to put the tall people's clothes at the top, and the smaller people (is "short" a derogatory term?) on the bottom.

I dunno - maybe they just like making all of us look like a mediocre circus act with no rigging, net, or tights.  It makes more sense than thinking that no one's figured this out.  Right?

The only thing I've seen that makes less sense than this was at a hotel in the Poconos in the mid-90s.  I was doing a stand-up show out there, and to kill time before we went on I loitered in the hotel gift shop.  They had movies for rent there.  And they arranged them so that the kiddie vids were on the top shelf, and the porn was on the bottom - right where the kids could see it.  Which I can assume led to scenes like this:

Rule #5: Online Dating Profiles Must Be Completed While Drunk

I have filled out one online dating service profile in my life.  And I was half-drunk when I did.  OK, maybe more than half.  Frankly, I'm not sure I remember how drunk I was.  I neither vomited nor texted an ex, so that's something.  I did, however, watch the same SportsCenter at least three times before realizing it was the same (man, how many goals did the Devils give up tonight?!?).

It wasn't this bad.

Anyway, I found the experience as humiliating, degrading, and boring as I find all of dating.  But being a bit lubricated did free me to answer as honestly as I ever will.  Especially when it's a series of multiple choice questions (Do you like kittens?  Yes/No//Only as an appetizer, not a full meal). And I think this should be done by the entire planet.

Isn't the most important thing to know about a potential partner how she or he reacts with her/his guard down?  Our friend Mr. Booze makes it happen!  How better to expose yourself emotionally than with the same chemical people drink before exposing themselves physically?  Maybe you'll even post the pictures taken of you under the influence of said chemical on the site!  This can only lead to "more dates, more engagements, and more marriages."

BTW, when eHarmony makes that claim, is it safe to say that they've also led to more bitter break-ups, divorces, and sexual assaults than another other site?  Just want to see the math on this.

Rule #4: You Cannot Wear a Frat Party T-shirt After Graduation

For the past 16 years or so I've lived in Kips Bay, generally considered the most boring neighborhood in all of Manhattan, if not the entire city of New York.

How boring is it?  When the Borders closed in the Spring the neighborhood lost it's only bookstore, CD store, video store, AND the only coffee shop that is NOT a Starbucks (future rule will involve where Starbucks can stick its dark roast).  The New York Press' "Best of Manhattan" issue two years back highlighted a local bar (since closed) for having "The Best Drink Special in a Neighborhood You'd Never Visit."  When they had the Manhattan maps in cabs, Kips Bay was an unlabelled gray area between Murray Hill and Gramercy Park (which is fairly accurate now that I think about it).

The 'hood used to be Armenian, but the only remaining evidence is two churches who I hear hate each other more than they hate people who deny they had their own holocaust. For the past 7 or so years, however, the neighborhood has been zoned for one type of person only.

Douchebags.

 (Note - do NOT Google Image "frat boys" with Safe Search off at work.

Unless you work at Splash on 17th Street.)

Gaggles of unthinking white people graze 3rd Avenue every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, trying to figure out which of 10 identical bars has more people who look, think, and sound exactly like they do.  

• Average age 24.3
• Average salary $46,000
• Average dress size 2.3
• Average IQ 74.6

And, they have invaded my apartment building (GET OFF MY LAWN!!!!!).  I think I am one of the few people left who's apartment is not being paid for by "daddy."  It got so bad that my building posted a note saying extra security was being added weekend nights, and that residents should stop leaving BudLite cans in the front hall (someone did scribble on one note "or we'll tell the RA on you!").

Thanks to this demographic I have been privileged to read about Spring Flings, Toga Parties, Beer Pong Tournaments, and other highlights of the SEC social calendar from the mid-2000s on the chests and backs of my neighbors.  I have neither the energy, nor the ability to defend myself against someone half my age, to explain to these folks that wearing a frat party t-shirt is the equivalent of saying "I was present at a date rape."

And to wear it after you've entered the "real world" (or as "real" as Kips Bay gets) says that nothing you have done in your life since graduation has meant a thing.  To anyone.  On planet Earth.

Which, I must admit, makes you fit in well in Kips Bay.

There is, of course, one exception.  If you are wearing this shirt while everything else you own is in a canvas bag and you are heading to the laundry room, fine.  Hell, I wear Nets playoff t-shirts from the days when the Nets not only made the playoffs, but actually won games in them, on laundry day.  And occasionally under my softball uniform shirt.

"But what about the gym?" I hear you ask.  Nah.  That's saying "hey, I am so far beyond my college days that I can sweat in this shirt and not care...but I still want you to know that I was a party ANIMAL not too long ago.  Wanna' go see Coldplay?"

Rule #3: Wedding Receptions Must START With the Throwing of the Bouquet

I defy any straight man to say this hasn't happened to him.

You're at a wedding.  Attractive woman, no date, is sitting at your table, or a table of a friend, or all the way across the room and you pretend you have to go to the bathroom just to walk by her table so many times that everyone at your table tells you to call a urologist.  You talk with her.  For about two hours.  Maybe some dancing.  Things seem great.

Then, the DJ/band leader asks for all the single women to head to the dance floor, it's time to throw the bridal bouquet.  And the woman you've been speaking to just stands there.

"Aren't you going up?"

"What?  Oh, no, I'm not...my husband couldn't make it today.  He's a) closing a multi-million dollar deal; b) parachuting into a hostage situation; c) starting for the Packers tomorrow and is on a flight to Tampa Bay - you should watch the game!"

This is, of course, immediately followed by your seeing the really beautiful woman from your table, who you were sure was there with her husband, elbowing her way to the front of the group on the floor, injuring several bridesmaids and a flower girl.  10 minutes after this you're waving good-bye to the bride and groom, and your chances of finding a moving and lovely experience with one of God's greatest creatures, or just a quick handjob by the coat check.

The solution is simple.  Have the bouquet toss at the beginning of the reception.  Let us all know who the single women are BEFORE we get to the salad course.  And, for fairness, have the garter toss then too, if you're doing that - and if not just have all the single guys line up and the DJ can say "here they are - sorry ladies, that's it.  But maybe you can take home one of the waiters."

I know someone reading this is going to be upset.  He or she is going to say "you make it sound like the only reason you would talk to a woman at a wedding is to sleep with her."

Two replies.  One, no - but I should know early on whether that's on the table.  Two, it's a WEDDING!!!  That's what they're for!!!  Weddings do not exist for two people to announce to their friends and relatives that they plan to stick together for at least the foreseeable future, and thank you for the blender.  They are for their friends to get laid.  Wedding Crashers was a documentary!

Rule #2: No More Musicals Based on Shitty-to-Mediocre Movies

Let's face it, no one who saw "Legally Blonde" thought "you know, this would be even better if it had showtunes!"  Of course, you can argue that no one who saw "Legally Blonde" thought, period.  But that's another story.

The original formula was play > movie of play > Broadway musical > movie of musical.  Now it's movie > musical of movie > movie of musical of movie > fat tourists running around with programs of musical of movie clogging the sidewalks in Times Square.  But, unfortunately, all of Broadway is geared to fat tourists who clog sidewalks like they do their own arteries.

In my sketch comedy troupe, The Mistake, we did 10-20 minute musicals out of the following movies:  The Blair Witch Project, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, and The Invisible Man.  And I thought we were pushing the boundaries of satire.  And, like most satirists, we had to conclude that in fact we hadn't gone far enough.

Of course, Broadway could just give up on producing anything new and completely embrace this trend.  Turn the whole strip into a multiplex..  Maybe even have theme seasons.  "For 2013 - ALL COSTNER DISASTERS!!!!  Waterworld, the Musical.  The Postman, the Musical.  Robin Hood, the Musical (wait, they did that, didn't they?).  Field of Dreams, the Musical (sorry, this is one of the worst baseball movies ever made, don't get me started - or I'll get started in another post)  Wyatt Earp, the Musical!"

Why do I feel I'm going to look back on that last paragraph a few years from now and sob?

Today's Gemini Horoscope

A few well-placed words will do more good than a spate of elaborate oratory.

OK.

Horoscopes are bullshit.

That well-placed enough for you?

Rule #1: Baseball Must Drop the Wild Card or Lightning Will Strike Bud Selig in the Testicular Region

The Wild Card in baseball is, without competition, the worst decision any major league has made about the structure and substance of its own sport.  Ever.  I suppose someone out there will want me to say more about this, so I will, but it should be self-evident.

To counter the evolving popularity of the NBA, NFL, and (believe it or not) the NHL in the early 90s, baseball took three decisive steps. 

1. They turned a blind eye to steroids
2. They cancelled the 1994 World Series, and 
3. They started allowing 2nd place teams in the "postseason."  

All three turned out to be really, really bad decisions.  But allowing the "best loser" to keep playing is the worst.

While Jon Miller made a great argument about how this weakens the pennant races, which is the best thing about baseball, perhaps the best argument at the time came from Bob Costas.  In a Sporting News article he speculated about how Bobby Thompson's "Shot Heard Round the World" would have been called if it happened in 1995:

"THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT!!!  THE GIANTS WIN THE PENNANT!!!  THE DODGERS ARE THE WILD CARD!!!  THE DODGERS ARE THE WILD CARD!!!"

Add to this the fact that Bucky "Fucking" Dent's HR against the Red Sox in the one-game 1978 playoff also would not have happened, and you are removing the circumstances under which two of the most-loved moments in baseball history happened.  Gone.  Goodbye.  Hope you liked your Boone Logan Beanie Baby give-away.

Right now the Yankees are 2.5 games up on Boston.  No one cares, except the most passionate of Yanks and Sox fans (and I consider myself one of the former).  On Mike & Mike in the Morning today Mike Greenberg said there's basically only one pennant race left, and that's between the Texas Rangers and the Angels (no location to be given here, you need five words to say where you're from, you ain't from nowhere).  And that's a battle to see who is the 4th and 5th best team in the AL.  Old system, REAL system, either the Yanks OR the Sox make it.  Nation is riveted, every night is "must see," and there's genuine excitement.

Bud Selig, the man who calls himself the commissioner, keeps saying "people were against the Wild Card, but everyone's in favor of it now."  Bull-fucking-shit.  While I may be a member of the minority here, we exist.  But, what do you expect from a used car salesman - the truth?!?

I have not watched a single Yankees playoff game in which they were the Wild Card.  Never will.  Fortunately, in every one of the 27 years in which they won the World Series, they also won their league or division.  As it should be.

Why I'm Doing This

I have come to the conclusion that the world needs to hear my voice.  That there is a void out there that only I can fill.  That the universe needs to know what I think.  Before the internet I would have been yelling on a street corner that the world was going to end.  Now, I can do that here, and save my street corner yelling for cars and bicyclists who ignore the WALK sign that I clearly have, don't make me stick my umbrella in your front tire spokes and send you flying pretentious asshole over handlebars.

I got the nickname Shaggy at the University of Chicago (which is why I've gone with the Maroon background for this).  At the time I decided I needed hair past my collar, and a full beard.  Unfortunately, I was only able to grow a beard in spots, and looked like the aforementioned Casey Kasem-voiced co-star of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?  And, now that I have conceded to the fate of male pattern baldness, and gone to shaving my head, the nickname is tinged with irony.  Tinged out the ass with irony.  Man, that's tinged.

OK, the real reason I started this is my sister started a blog called Merry Go Round, about being a single-mom (hey, read it before you roll your goddamned eyes).  And her second post is about how I corrupted her two kids (here to be known as the World's Cutest Nephew and World's Cutest Niece, or WCNs for short) by playing Led Zeppelin IV (OK, I know that's not the title but blogger doesn't seem to have a ZOSO icon).  And I wanted to comment on it, and when I tried they wanted my profile info, and kinda made me start a blog, and I kinda wanted to anyway, so now we're all stuck with this and here we are.

We'll get to my actual rules of the universe later.