For many years I’ve harbored a deep suspicion that the one thing that stands between me and super success in life is my lack of title. It seems like everywhere I go the high rollers are always flaunting their titles – Doctor this, General that, etc. And what have I got? Nothing. I’ve got “Mister” which totally blows.

“Mister” is the worst title because every adult male gets it for doing nothing more than hitting puberty. At least boys get “Master” which sounds a lot more impressive than “Mister.” You know what? “Mister” is a downgrade from “Master.” I’m actually worse off now then I was 30 years ago.

I’ve been wrestling with this dilemma for many years now and to be honest I’ve kind of lost hope of scoring a cool title. I guess I’ve also kind of lost hope of ever being super successful.

Education seems like the easiest way to get a title. All you need to do is pay a few hundred grand, go to school until you’re 30, crank out some boring-ass dissertation and you’re an instant “Doctor.” If I was a non-medical doctor I would never get tired of wearing scrubs around town, calling myself “Doctor” and letting people think that I was a medical doctor. But I don’t really think that I can go back to school right now. I’m too old to be a sexy coed and too young to be an inspirational octogenarian.

The Military is another great option for getting a sweet title. My problem with the military is that I could never quite pick a branch to commit to. I look terrible with a high and tight haircut so the Marines are out. Kerchiefs chafe my neck so the Navy is out. I’m a terrible driver so the Air Force is definitely out. And those Army uniforms are just too drab and dreary for words. Nope, I’m definitely not cut out for the military life, my inability to do push-ups notwithstanding.

Another option, admittedly more difficult, is to get some foreign noble to award me a title for outstanding service to the crown. I’m just not sure which noble I should befriend or what service I could perform. I could go for England. They speak almost the same language as us and Harry seems like an easy mark. Then again, if I tell those goth Spanish princesses that I can reunite Johnny Marr and Morrissey I’d bet they’d make me King of Portugal muy pronto!

Nope, I’m afraid that it’s just not going to happen. I’ve started to accept the fact that I will have to be content to live and die merely as boring Mister Blum – not dreamy Doctor Blum, stern General Blum or brave Sir Blum.

Just when I had given up hope the most surprising and wonderful thing happened! I read a letter in the local paper that was signed by a “Commodore.” And I was all like “Commodore? Commodore of what?” And it turns out that this jackass Commodore is the Commodore of the “yacht club” in the seaside shanty where I live.

That’s the ticket! Commodore is a rock star title. I put that on my business card and I’m set for life. Commodore Blum has a nice ring to it, too.

So, problem solved. My new goal in life is to infiltrate the yacht club and stage a bloodless coup. And then I will have a title – Commodore, no less – at long last.

Now all I need is a boat.

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Thanks as always for reading. You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other humor essays are here. Music essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your friends and/or enemies to stop by.

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It was an exciting first week of National Blog Posting Month, so let’s go meta and make day 7’s post a review of the first week of posts. I like to think of this recap as being ‘meta’ because it sounds much more fancy than what it really is: “a lazy excuse to get out a post before we drive to New York”.

The week commenced with a journalistic investigation into the loose standards for cooking awards, called: Hey James Beard, what’s with all of the Awards?

From there, we got all pop-culturey and talked about our lasting love for the great mystery shows of the 1980s in Magnum, P.I.’s Short Shorts and the Golden Age of Television

From Magnum’s Hawaii to James A. Michener’s Hawaii, day 3 featured our serious (really!) political argument: Can We Just Give Hawaii and Alaska Back Already?

Sensing a New York Yankees victory in the air, I wanted to preempt any celebrations with The Red Sox Fan’s Guide to Delivering Snappy Responses to Yankees Fans if (when) the Yankees win the World Series, and sure enough, the hated Stankees did win the World Series the very next day. I guess my reverse jinx didn’t work.

While humor is my preferred form, I also love writing about music, and on day 5 I finally unveiled my long-held theory about Ambrosia being the only band in the world that managed to produce 3x one-hit wonder songs in: The Curious Case of a Band Called Ambrosia, the World’s Only Three-Hit Wonder

Finally, the first week came to an end with a discussion about the end…times in: Will the World Finally Come to an End Already?

Thank you for reading these essays. You’ll be happy to know that there’ll be more original (and let’s be honest, probably some recycled) content coming tomorrow.

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On a side note, when hosting a pizza party, please plan on one large pie per 3 adults and split the order 50/50 between cheese and pepperoni.  This ensures that you have enough pizza and you cover the vegetarians.  Any weird-ass goat cheese-carmelized onion monstrosities should be ordered in addition to the base cheese-pepperoni pies.

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You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other humor essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your friends and/or enemies to stop by.

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You know what? Being a predictor of doom is probably one of the worst jobs in the world.

Think about it. You really can’t win if you go around predicting when the world is going to end. If you’re right, nobody will know. And if you’re wrong, everybody will just make fun of you.

It’s a sucker’s game, alright. I’m definitely not going to let my kids pursue an Oracle Arts major.

The first time I heard that the world was going to end was back around 1980. I was in middle school and word spread around the lunchroom that Nostradamus has predicted the end of the world for the next day. Now, I’m not sure how some old, dead French dude knew the exact day and date in 20th century New Jersey when the world would end, but since he was right about the Kennedys and Hitler we gave him the benefit of the doubt. In fact, I was so sure that he was right that I didn’t bother finishing a book report that was due on doomsday. Tragically, the world didn’t end as planned and I got busted for not doing my homework. Even more tragically, it wasn’t the first time that I hadn’t completed my homework and my Nostradamus excuse didn’t fly.

The second time I heard that the world was supposed to end was back around 1984. This time the end was supposed to come courtesy of the business end of a Soviet nuclear weapon. This was a more general threat, as we were never promised a specific date for the end of the world. In a weird way this was even more frightening than Nostradamus’s prediction, as we spent months talking about bomb shelters and planning for nuclear winter. But the death paranoia came to an abrupt end on November 1, 1985 thanks to the heroics of one brave Englishman. As soon as Gordon “Sting” Sumner explained to us that the Russians loved their children, too, we all just stopped worrying about nuclear war. As far as I’m concerned Sting can hold back as many orgasms and play as much lute as he wants for the rest of eternity – he’s earned it. That man literally saved us all from worrying about the end of the world.

After 1985 we hit a long, dry spell without any real threats to the world’s survival. Sure, we had acid rain and Milli Vanilli to deal with but things were pretty calm until the Y2K frenzy started.

I was never too worried about Y2K because it seemed like a stupid theory from the get-go. First off, computer technology in the mid-90s was limited to writing term papers and very s-l-o-w-l-y surfing for porn. Secondly, everybody knows that computers don’t kill people – people with computers kill people. And finally, so what if all of the computers thought that it was 1900? What were they going to do – send the Ottoman Empire after us or make us work 18 hour days in unsafe factories?

Nowadays we worry about 2012 and the Mayan prediction about the end of the world. The Mayans were definitely a cool civilization and all but I’m not scared about 2012 at all. Here’s why: the Mayans worshipped the Corn God. What’s the secret ingredient of everything that we eat? CORN. Why would K. Taube (the tonsured corn god) destroy a civilization that worships high fructose corn syrup? The answer is that he wouldn’t. In fact, I think that he’ll be quite happy with us.

I’m going to go out on a limb and predict that the world WILL NOT end in 2012. I’m so confident that I’m right that I’m willing to put some money where my big mouth is. Any takers out there?

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Thank you for reading yet another fascinating NaBloPoMo installment. You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other mildly amusing essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your friends and/or enemies to stop by.

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Most every music fan has their guilty pleasures and mine is the super-cheesy soft rock of the late ‘70s and early ‘80s. Among the guiltiest of these guilty pleasures is the band Ambrosia. Now, don’t fret if you don’t remember Ambrosia. They were big enough to garner a few Grammy nominations back in 1980 but not big enough to win.

So, here’s the weird thing about Ambrosia. Many years ago I came to the realization that Ambrosia was responsible for not one, not two, but three of the greatest tunes in soft rock history. The three tunes are:

“Biggest Part of Me”
“You’re the Only Woman”
“How Much I Feel”

If you gave those songs a quick listen, I’m sure that you’d agree that all of them are nothing short of incredible. Each one could easily be considered a legitimate one-hit wonder song and yet Ambrosia somehow produced three absolutely perfect tunes.

Post-epiphany, I rushed out and bought their Anthology collection. Look, if you’re a band that can deliver three 24 karat gold songs you definitely deserve my $15 for the rest of your best stuff. But then the weirdest thing happened when I listened to the full album.

It was unlistenable.

Now, I don’t mean that it was average quality music. I’m not saying that it was uneven or erratic. I’m telling you that every other song – aside from the big 3 mentioned above – was horrible. I’m talking “the Yoko songs on Double Fantasy” level horrible.

Quite honestly this blew my mind. And the more that I thought about it, the more that I realized that Ambrosia may be the only band in the history of music to accomplish such a rare feat: they produced three amazing songs and literally nothing else of quality.

Think about it. Most successful bands that are talented enough to sign a record deal, tour and maintain a career tend to deliver at a fairly consist level throughout their recording careers – barring significant line-up changes or finding god. And while many bands may be culturally significant for just a handful of popular songs, their popular songs will usually fit logically within the context of their entire catalog.

For example, my favorite band, The Black Crowes, are famous for probably 4 early ‘90s hits (‘She Talks to Angels”, “Hard to Handle”, “Jealous Again” and “Remedy”). In the case of the Crowes those songs perfectly represent the band and even though they aren’t mainstream popular anymore, they have consistently produced work of roughly the same quality for 20 years.

One-hit wonders, on the other hand, typically produce a singular song that strongly represents a moment in time where the cultural moment eclipses the actual quality of the song.

Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” is the perfect example of a one-hit wonder where the song became inexplicably popular in the summer of 1988 in a way that represents the summer of 1988 much more strongly than it represents Bobby McFerrin. Most of us know Bobby McFerrin from that terrible song, but in reality he’s an accomplished musician whose work and reputation far exceeds that one song. sadly, Bobby McFerrin will always be remembered for a song that doesn’t represent him particularly well. In a way, that sucks for him as an artist. In another way, those royalty checks probably keep his mansion well-stocked in cocaine and hookers.

But most one-hit wonders don’t have the musical chops of a Bobby McFerrin. Their one-hit does accurately represent the entirety of their musical identity. In most cases those one-hit wonders weren’t able to sustain a career precisely because that one-hit gave us exactly what we needed from them. There are countless songs that fit into this category, but a great example is Toni Basil and her hit “Mickey.” “Mickey” fairly represented both the early MTV era of 1982 as well as Toni Basil’s musical vision, so we don’t need anything more from her.

The next level up from the one-hit wonder is the one-and-a-half-hit wonder. In this scenario, a band, take Extreme for example, hits it big with one huge song (“More Than Words”). Since people enjoyed that one song so thoroughly that they were more than willing to try another song (“Hole Hearted”) that showed a different side of the band. And while “Hole Hearted” became a moderate hit it couldn’t quite reach the heights of “More Than Words,” which caused people to question whether they like the band Extreme or just the song “More Than Words”. As a result, their inability to nail that second hit sealed Extreme’s fate of better than one-hit wonders but not good enough to sustain a consistent career.

In conclusion, my theory is that every band in the history of music can easily be slotted into one of those 4 categories: consistent band, good one-hitters, bad one-hitters or one-and-a-half hitters.

Except for one band: Ambrosia.

The world’s only three hit wonder.

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Thank you for reading yet another fascinating NaBloPoMo installment. You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here. Other insightful music essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here. And please tell your friends and/or enemies to stop by.

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If you’re like me, you grew up in the 1970s idolizing Pete Rose and rooting for the Reds, then moved to Boston when you were 15 and adopted the Red Sox as your team. In the subsequent 20-something years your love for the Sox has only deepened but your problem is the obnoxious Yankee fan relatives that you left back in the tri-state area.

Assuming that you’re in exactly the same boat that I am, I figured that I’d develop a list of snappy comebacks to the inevitable ribbing that will most likely commence this weekend. I call it:

The Red Sox Fan’s Guide to Delivering Snappy Responses to Yankees Fans if (when) the Yankees win the World Series

“Sure, you’re happy now, but just wait till Kate Hudson starts filming “Fever Pitch 2” at Yankee Stadium.”

“I guess Billy Beane was wrong after all – an extra $85mm in payroll really CAN buy a championship.”

“Call me the next time the Yankees win a championship without former Red Sox Johnny Damon leading the way.”

“Hey, I heard that Joe Girardi is already updating his binder for next season. Good luck repeating!”

“Eh, baseball was a lot more fun when everybody was on steroids anyway.”

“I’m glad you won this year. A rivalry isn’t really a rivalry when the other team hasn’t won in almost 10 years.”

“Does this mean that the grounds crew will finally stop performing Y.M.C.A. now? Look, if you want to unseat Massachusetts as the gayest state in America you’re going to need to approve gay marriage, not just insult the Village People’s legacy.”

“Has Suzyn Waldman stopped crying yet?”

“Oh well. I guess Phil Rizzuto’s Curse of the Money Store wasn’t true after all.”

“The joke’s on you. We actually buried Ortiz’ positive drug test results under the new stadium. Good luck finding them!”

“Whatever. Your team is still owned by the Steinbrenners.”

(Please feel free to add your own snappy comebacks in the comment section.)

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Come on, Pedey…we need you to pull out one more for the Sawx.

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Thank you for reading yet another hilarious NaBloPoMo installment.  You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here.  Other side-splitting humor essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here.  And please tell your friends to stop by.

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Recently, I was talking about the Unites States with a youngster and I made a “joke” to the effect that Hawaii and Alaska don’t really count as states. After a responsible adult – in an attempt to stave off an elementary school test failure – informed the child that yes, Hawaii and Alaska are indeed real states I decided to take my idea to a more open-minded audience, namely, you, the internet.

In my view, Alaska and Hawaii aren’t real states because they don’t touch the rest of the country. Sure, I might be a stickler for contiguousness, but I always thought that the “united” in United States meant that the states were geographically united, in addition to being united under the boot-heels of a bunch of fat old white men (and one skinny black man) in D.C.

I once read the back-story of Hawaii (but not the James A. Michener book ‘Hawaii’) which informed me that Hawaii was once a peaceful kingdom ruled by a benevolent queen until evil American corporations convinced our corrupt government to invade the place so we could steal their sugar cane, coffee and gourmet pizza. And then we promptly crapped up the place, per our usual MO.

I haven’t heard the back-story of Alaska (nor have I read the James A. Michener book ‘Alaska’) but I’m guessing that it’s the same deal as Hawaii, but substitute “whale blubber”, “oil” and “crystal meth” for “sugar cane”, “coffee” and “gourmet pizza.” I’m not sure that there was much in Alaska for us to crap up, but then again, polar bears can’t (or won’t) talk. Plus, this would be a really easy way to get rid of Sarah Palin for once and for all (but Levi can definitely stay – he’s super awesome.)

It seems like the least we can do, in the new spirit of “America isn’t so bad after all,” to give these two territories back to their rightful owners. Plus, I hear that Hawaii is really expensive and I’m thinking that our broke-ass country can’t really afford any expensive vacation timeshares these days.

Now, the other thing that our broke-ass country probably can’t afford is to reprint our letterhead and flags and stuff with just 48 stars. But I have a simple solution: when we ditch Hawaii and Alaska we automatically give DC statehood and split California into North and South California. That way, we’ll stay flat at 50 states and keep everybody happy.

So that’s the plan and I’m confident that all of you – with the possible exception of my son’s teacher – will embrace it warmly.

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Thank you for reading yet another hilarious NaBloPoMo installment.  You can find all of my NaBloPoMo essays here.  Other side-splitting humor essays are here. You can subscribe to this blog’s feed here and you can follow me on twitter here.  And please tell your friends to stop by.

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Recently, we were watching an episode of Magnum, P.I. and several thoughts occurred to me:

1) Magnum’s shorts were really, really short. I’m talking ass cheeky-Daisy Duke short;
2) Higgins’ shorts were pulled up incredibly high, as in all-the-way-to-the-sternum high. Even so, that man certainly knew how to rock a pair of khakis;
3) Magnum’s jeans appeared to be made of a denim-like substance that probably wasn’t denim. They looked like the faux-jeans that you can buy in the back of Parade magazine;
4) They easily contrived a way for Mangum to strip off his shirt, giving the ladies a little extra something for their viewing effort.

But what occurred to me most of all was that the ‘80s truly were the golden age of television dramas. Now, I know that it’s popular to say that today is the golden age of television – with your Mad Mens and your Deadwoods and your Sopranos - but, sorry, I don’t buy it.

Think about Magnum, P.I. Here’s a show that had it all: action, adventure, comedy, bromance, Hawaiian scenery and a fussy Brit and was still able to deliver some deft post-Vietnam social commentary while dazzling us with exciting mysteries. And a helicopter!

Just imagine being a writer on Magnum, P.I. and having to figure out a way to work a giant brown and orange colored helicopter into each and every plot. How often do helicopters come into play in our daily lives (outside of useless traffic reports)? And yet they pulled it off brilliantly every time. Now that’s a TV show.

The problem with today’s TV dramas is that they’re too realistic. They’re too gritty. Who wants grit? Not me. I like shows that ask me to suspend my critical thinking faculties. For example:

I like shows where guys live on a houseboat and solve mysteries (Riptide). I like shows where a fat D.A. friend can help you solve mysteries (Jake & the Fatman). I like shows where people can run from the government in a van, act crazy, make tanks out of the very same van and solve mysteries (The A-Team). I like shows where even old people can solve mysteries (Murder: She Wrote, Matlock). I like show where Glenn Frey can play a villain who solves mysteries (Miami Vice).

And I’ll always love Kojak best of all.

I could go on and on and on. Do you know why? Because Donald P. Bellasario went on and on. None of this “I’m an auteur who can only make 10 episodes every two years” crap. Donald P. Bellasario or Stephen J. Cannell could shit out more episodes of a TV show before lunch than Matthew Weiner could make all year. And their shows had staying power – often running for 5 or 6 seasons before William Conrad died or Joe Penny violated his parole.

I’m pretty sure that Hill Street Blues was the turning point. Sure, it was a great show, but it was too realistic. Well, except for the kooky cop that called everyone “dogbreath.” But aside from that, I think the success of Hill Street marked the end of the golden age of 80s dramas.

Ah, Theodore “T.C.” Calvin, we hardly knew ye.

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Thank you for reading day 2 of NaBloMoPo. You can read all of the NaBloPoMo entries here. Other humor essays are here. During the month of November, you can subscribe to the feed for free by clicking here.

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If there’s one thing that I’ve learned by watching cooking competition shows on television, it’s that only losers don’t have at least one James Beard award to their name.

I had never heard of the James Beard award before I started watching Top Chef and initially I was pretty impressed when the award came up in someone’s bio. But like most things, I got a little less impressed each time I heard somebody else brag about their James Beard award. I’m starting to suspect that James Beard might be in league with the “American Tasting Institute” for doling out meaningless, yet fancy-sounding, food-related awards.

For an award to appear prestigious it requires three things: 1) it has to be well-known by the general public; 2) it has to be difficult to win; and 3) it needs to possess a hint of mystery. James Beard fails on 2 of the 3 counts: most people haven’t heard of it, and once they do, it seems like literally anyone can win one.

Perhaps that’s why the Michelin award is so respected in the food world. It seems very exclusive, Frenchy and enigmatic. I really like the idea of chefs being awarded Michelin stars, but there’s still a few problems:

1) Maybe in France Michelin stands for something cool and tasty, but in America Michelin stands for a creepy fat tire monster. Whenever Tom Colicchio talks about Michelin stars I always picture the Michelin man in a chef hat presenting the award – which makes it seem slighty less important but somewhat cooler at the exact same time.

2) Michelin stars are earned individually, as if the chefs were playing Super Mario Galaxy and collecting stars. Earning even one star is an impressive, career-making feat. Yet where I come from, one star is a really bad grade. And Michelin only goes up to 3 stars. Are French movies rated on a 3 point scale or something?

3) There aren’t enough Michelin stars awarded in the U.S. Now, I’m not saying that every Cheesecake Factory should get a star, but if people don’t have the opportunity to experience what a Michelin star tastes like, then they’re not going to really care about Michelin stars, making it a somewhat irrelevant award.

I was a cook for 7 years in high school and college and now I’m wondering if maybe I should have stuck with cooking as a career. I probably wouldn’t be a very good chef because I have the palette of a 4th grader and I hate fancy food, but I imagine that I’d have racked up at least 5 James Beards and a few Michelin stars by now. Oh well.

Then again, if I play my cards right, I might still be able to get an award from the American Tasting Institute.

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This year, for the first time in my long, illustrious blogging career, I’ll participating in NaBloPoMo. Today’s post is the first of 30 that I’ll attempt to make this month. As a result, the posts may be shorter, stupider and less grammatical than usual. If you’d like to read my normal humor essays, please click here.

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As a sports expert of sorts (and by “of sorts” I mean “not at all”) I often find myself thinking long and hard about the future of two professional sports leagues that I care little about: the National Hockey League (NHL) and National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing (NASCAR).

(For the record, my order of pro sports preference is: football, baseball, basketball, Russian women’s tennis, hockey, golf, auto racing, jai alai and last, and most definitely least, soccer.)

Just a few short years ago it seemed like both leagues were poised to conquer the world: NASCAR announced plans to build race tracks in exotic locales like Long Island and Mexico and the NHL expanded from 17 to 30-something teams. But as quickly as it started, the momentum abruptly stopped: the NHL went through a long lock-out, settled on a non-lucrative TV deal with the little-watched Versus network and ended up with a bunch of nearly-bankrupt teams. Meanwhile, NASCAR stopped talking about how their TV ratings were going to exceed NFL levels and quietly shelved plans to expand into non-traditional markets.

There’s a fancy term that we use in the business world to describe the point when things stop growing: plateau. (You also may be familiar with ‘plateau’ if you’ve ever been on a diet or climbed a mountain.) Yes, it appears like both the NHL and NASCAR have hit a plateau. But I’ve got a genius idea that’s going to take both leagues all the way to the top – together!

It’s Time for the NHL and NASCAR to Merge into One Super-League.

Cool idea, huh?  Here’s how the merger would work:

The National Auto Racing and Hockey League (NARHL) will become a dual league that is operated on a regional basis. Cities south of the ‘Grits Line’ (the geographical line where grits are served in restaurants) get auto racing. Northern cities and Canada get hockey.

This regional approach makes a lot of sense because hockey is a very difficult sport to comprehend if you’ve never before seen ice, blades or Canadians. Plus, the whole concept of the “Zamboni” will take generations to explain. Similarly, auto racing is puzzling for people who primarily ride the subway or sit in traffic jams. Also, kids up north aren’t really allowed to ride tractors or go-karts or ATVs, which seem to be the three primary training vehicles for professional drivers.

To make this merger happen, we’re going to have to dump a bunch of hockey teams, but losing these clubs (or moving them north) is no big deal: Florida Panthers, Tampa Bay Lightning, Atlanta Thrashers, Carolina Hurricanes, Nashville Predators, Phoenix Coyotes, Anaheim Ducks, and San Jose Sharks. (Personally, I’d love to boot LA, Dallas, and St. Louis, too, but at least those cities have some hockey tradition.)

The following NASCAR tracks will have to be eliminated, but it shouldn’t too be a big problem because NASCAR fans love road trippin’ in their RVs: Pocono, Michigan, New Hampshire, Chicagoland, Indianapolis, and Watkins Glen.

Now, I know that this idea is so radical and innovative that at first blush it might seem a little insane. Hockey and Auto Racing clearly have NOTHING in common.

Or do they? Let’s look at the many ways in which the NHL and NASCAR are nearly identical:

1) The Champion Wins a Cup

In hockey the champion wins Lord Stanley’s Cup. In auto racing the champion wins The (insert sponsor’s name here) Cup. Moving forward we’ll probably want to maintain the historical significance of Lord Stanley, but make it a little bit more accessible to the average NASCAR fan (“Lord” does sound a little twee,) therefore, I suggest that we rename it “Stan’s Cup”.

2) There’s a Lot of Missing Teeth on Both Sides

Sure, in hockey the players are missing teeth due to the flying pucks, while in auto racing, the fans are missing teeth due to a lack of basic dental hygiene, but the bottom line is that we’ve got two leagues that don’t expect perfect smiles – and I for one, find that refreshing. (And say ‘allo to future UK expansion plans!)

3) The Mullet is Always in Style

Hockey players choose the mullet because it works well underneath their helmets. Fans like the mullet because most of them (male or female) look like Ray Bourque anyway. NASCAR fans like the mullet because it provides a little neck shade and is easily converted into a rat-tail for formal occasions. In the end, it doesn’t matter why you wear a mullet, as long as you’re wearing one.

4) Major Rule Changes, Anytime

Both leagues have a habit of making major rule changes to the game whenever they damn well feel like it. No one, drivers included, have any idea how the cockamamie “Chase to the Cup” even works – something about top 10 or 12 finishers and bonus points and penalty points. In hockey, I think fans now vote on how a team gets points: overtime losses? Shootouts? Mini one-on-one battles? Sure!  You decide. And the rules for off-sides and two-line passes change daily. Let’s be honest: these are two leagues that are always up for some change.

5) A Shocking Lack of Diversity

On a side note, I’ve got a spin-off idea for a great new reality show, called ‘Needle in a Haystack’. Two teams compete: One has to find a Jew at Talledega. The other has to find a black guy in Ottawa. Good luck!

But seriously, neither hockey nor auto racing are the most diverse sports out there. A little cross-pollination between the NASCAR fan base and the NHL fan base might be good for the country. I mean, since when have northerners and southerners not gotten along in this country?

As you can see, this idea has some real merit. And that’s what I’m here for – providing real solutions to non-existent problems.

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Dear People Who Write Open Letters,

What’s your point?

I mean, I get that the “open letter” is a literary device of sorts, but it strikes me as being an exceptionally lazy literary device. It’s the equivalent of starting a presentation with: “Websters defines a ‘letter’ as a written form of communication typically between two individuals.”

In other words, it’s a stock device that betrays your inability to come up with a better conceit – like making up silly acronyms, or lists, or quizzes.

I suggest that we retire the “open letter” before another generation of writers embraces its modest charms.

Now, you’re probably thinking of me as a hypocrite because I once wrote an open letter to blue-eyed soul man Michael McDonald. But the truth is that I was actually deconstructing the open letter. My letter to Michael McDonald was truly intended for him and him alone. While you thought that were reading funny jokes about yacht rock I was secretly communicating in code to my dear friend Michael.

(And yes, “blue-eyed soul man” is a hackneyed cliché, but I used it ironically, once again demonstrating my ability to deconstruct the familiar.)

The dirty secret of open letters is that they’re really intended to be read by everyone except for the person they’re addressed to.

For example, instead of writing an open letter to Dick Cheney to express your opinion that he is the Satan spawn, maybe you could just write an essay openly declaring him to be the Satan Spawn? I bet that it’ll be even more powerful than your faux letter.

Then again, is that essay even really necessary? I’m pretty sure that when Dick Cheney (and his evil daughter Liz) are chugging the blood of virgins out of a goat’s skull they know better than anyone who their dark master is.  And if he hasn’t admitted it yet, well, I don’t think he’s going to just because he got an open letter.

Perhaps a better use for your typing skills might be to pen a closed letter to the editor of People magazine. I know of no greater pleasure in life than reading the idiotic letters page in People magazine. Seriously, what could possibly compell a normal person to write a letter commending Britney Spears on her superlative parenting skills based solely on a puff piece that previously ran in People magazine? Did that 1,000 word photo-essay on Britney really fill you with such a burning desire to tell the world that Britney is a really, really great Mom, regardless of what Kevin (or your lying eyes) indicate?

In closing, after re-reading this open letter I take back everything that I said. Open letters are hilarious, effective and awesome.

As always,

I remain,

Sincerely yours,

MB

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