The Law as it Pertains to 16-Year-Olds

Nothing productive ever transpires between two 27-year-old males suffering from pangs of arrested development. For the sake of this blog, I'm somewhat forced to throw myself to the wolves and admit that I was part of the following conversation. However, I am still equipped with the option to protect my friend Jason's anonymity. In the interest of not feeding him to the wolves, I will refer to Jason as "Justin" throughout the remainder of this blog.

The following conversation is drastically paraphrased, but the gist is totally intact.

Trust me.

Justin: I was talking to a few people from work the other day. I kinda painted myself in a corner. I was trying to say that the average girl is at the peak of her physical beauty at the age of 16 or so.

Adam: You think? Not like, 21 or 25?

Justin: Some of them, sure. The older you get the more you know what makeup works for you, what clothes are most complimentary, some girls mature better than others...

Adam: (giggling) ...They're not so damn giggly.

Justin: Right. But physically speaking, the average girl is at her physical peak in high school.

Adam: Which made being a high school boy pretty damn difficult.

Justin: And for a lot of girls, we think of them as teenagers for the rest of our lives. I haven't seen Jenna Keith since 1998. I'm sure she's changed a bit in the last nine years--

Adam: --A few haircuts. Her clothes are probably different.

Justin: (pauses long enough to consider the stupidy of Adam's interruption) Right. A lot about her has probbaly changed. she looks more like a 27-year-old than an 18-year-old. But when I think of Jenna Keith, I think of Jenna Keith as an 18-year-old. So if somebody came up to me and showed me her high school picture, I would probably look at it and think, "yeah, she was pretty hot." But then, I'd be a 27-year-old guy looking at a photograph of a 17-year-old and everyone would think that I'm some sort of pervert.

Adam: Yeah, but it's an old picture. That girl's not 17 anymore.

Justin: Does that matter? If some guy gets caught tomorrow downloading child pornography that was created in the 70's, is that legal? No one would think it wierd for me to have a crush on some girl when we were both in high school, but I haven't seen her in almost 10 years, so when I think about her, I'm thinking about an 17-year-old girl.

Adam: Yeah that's weird. I wonder what would happen if you took a nudie picture of your high school crush?

Justin: Did she pose for it? Or is this a photo taken while hanging from the treetops with a telephoto lense?

Adam: (laughing, but also creeped out) No. You guys are dating or whatever. It's a consentual picture. Like "Titanic."

Justin: That was a drawing in "Titanic."

Adam: I know. I'm not speaking directly about the medium, so much as the emotional resonance throughout its creation. She's 17. She's nude and you keep the picture. Twenty years later the cops suspect you have kiddie porn, they bust down your door and find only that one picture. Can you have that picture in your possession? Is that allowed?

Justin: I dunno. Does it matter what your relationship to the person is? If you know them, can you take whatever picture you want?

Adam: I doubt it. If you could, there would be no more "dirty uncle" stereotype. But also, there's got to be some line, right? I'm pretty sure my mother has pictures of me peeing into a fountain when I was five.

Justin: Are you tastefully peeing into the fountain?

Adam: Is it possible to tastefully pee into anything? Is that what defines underage porn? How tasteful it is?

(Both pause uncomfortably while thinking about the direction the conversation is going.)

Justin: Besides two sets of parents not being happy about the nude stuff, there's nothing legally wrong with two 16-year-olds taking nude pictures of one another, right?

Adam: Until you turn 18.

Justin: Then it becomes porn? What if that girl turned out to be your wife? What if you took a nudie picture of her when she was 16, you stayed together, married, saved all your photographs and that was one of them. Is that child pornography?

Adam: Does it matter if you knew the person or still know the person.

Justin: Yeah. Like if you and I both got married--

Adam: To each other?

Justin: No. You and I get married to two seperate girls. What if on our wedding day we were both given a nude picture of our wife as a 16-year-old. But let's say I had known my wife since we were 10, but you hadn't met your wife until you were 25. Is there any difference in the photographs then?

Adam: I'm pretty sure that two 17-year-olds who are having sex have to stop once one of them turns 18, which would be the worst birthday present ever.

Justin: They have to stop until they both turn 18?

Adam: Yeah. It's like the adult swim break at public pools. Everyone's having a fun time, then the lifeguard blows the whistle and the kids have to pause the fun for fifteen minutes. Except with the law, it's much more than 15 minutes.

Justin: That's retarded.

Adam: Well okay, it's not the best analogy, but it's close.

Justin: The law is retarded, not your analogy.

Adam: You don't have nude pictures of any 16-year-olds do you? I'm asking in case the cops question me.

Justin: Not that I know of.

Book List 2007

Since last year's book list went over so well (i.e. not a single one of you mentioned that you even read it), I've decided to further fan the flames of literacy.

Instead of a year-end recap, I'll just update this list each time I complete a book. This will surely fuel the bulk of you to engage me and your peers toward somewhat frequent book discussions - or at the very least, shame you into reading more books.

C'mon. It's what Hillary Clinton would want for the entire village.

FICTION
____________________________________________________________

Joe College
by Tom Perrotta
pub. 2000

This book reads like a literary version of The River by Bruce Springsteen. And while most of you assume I'd give something like that an A, it just didn't have enough moxy or drive to break through. B



Lucky Wander Boy
by D.B. Weiss
pub. 2003

This is High Fidelity for the videogame audience. And while it has its clever moments of fanatical energy, it also suffers from a sludgy insistence upon discussing early 80s gaming technology - which is the equivalent of Nick Hornby discussing the evolution of the phonograph. C

Catch 22
by Joseph Heller
pub. 1966

I've heard so much about this book, I expected more. Like reading several O. Henry stories one after another, Heller's literary tricks get old and the humor only arrives in energetic spurts. This classic certainly isn't bad, but the author's intent is occasionally so heavy-handed and repetitive, I often had to fight the urge to flip ahead 25 pages. B-

If nothing else, Heller did construct a wonderful passage toward the book's finale that I've since used to introduce my blog entitled The Poor Die Young. The Rich Live Forever.

1929
by Frederick Turner
pub. 2003

Borrowing the grandiose brushstrokes Fitzgerald used to bring Gatsby to life, Frederick Turner weaves through a disappointingly familiar pastiche of metropolitan Americana during the Art Deco age. Following the life of fictional coronet player, "1929" suspiciously sponges off of films like "Singin' in the Rain," "Some like It Hot" and "The Untouchables." While Turner wonderfully establishes the era, it comes only at the expense of passion and drama. C+

A Thousand Splendid Suns
by Khaled Hosseini
pub. 2007

"The Kite Runner" was one of the best books I've read in years and I was both apprehensive and excited for Hosseini's follow-up novel following three generations of Afghani women, as they seek shelter from the tyrannical storm of war and inequality. Explaining the specific plot points of "A Thousand Splendid Suns" would be a great injustice to the manner in which those plot points are revealed and illustrated. Hosseini summons strength and heartbreak in a mere whisper. While this book is less surprising than "The Kite Runner," it is certainly an admirable follow-up. A

The Tender Bar
by J.R. Moehringer
pub. 2005

No, I've never befriended a group of burlesque men in a dusty tavern and my bookstore experience was less tender than the author's, and of course, I've never attended Yale, but for all the dissimilarities there are between the letter of Moehringer's memoirs and my own life, there are a striking amount of similarities found in the spirits of both. Rarely do I feel the kinship with an author that I felt reading this book. Not only did it entertain me, it reflected parts of my personality that I've never truly studied before. I will not recommend a book any higher this year than "The Tender Bar." A+


NONFICTION
___________________________________________________________


Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner
pub. 2005

At some point, "thinking outside the box" is going to become commonplace. But because it hasn't yet, books like these always have a welcomed spot on my shelf. My only complaint is that the book feels unfinished. Mostly because, as Levitt admits, it is largely unfinished. He could write 30 volumes of this book and there would remain more to say. how stagnant we've stayed in the 10 years since this book was written. A-


We the Media: A Citizen's Guide to Fighting for a Media Democracy
edited by Don Hazen and Julie Winokur
pub. 1997

This propagandistic patchwork of articles taken from countless (vastly leftist) publications, does a fair job of introducing, informing and identifying the world of media control, bias and ownership. While the political cartoons make for an embarrassing read on the train, it's more embarrassing how stagnant we've stayed in the 10 years since this book was written. B-


News & Numbers: A Guide to Reporting Statistical Claims and Controversy in Health and Other Fields by Victor Cohn and Lewis Cope
pub. 2001

Do you like statistics? Do you enjoy applying statistics to uncover greater truths kept hidden by a nation of spin doctors, PR members and biased lobbyists? Yeah, well it doesn't matter, 'cause this book is an underwritten, overlong, exercise in exploring common sense journalistic techniques and mathematical writing guidelines. F

Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business
by Neil Postman
pub. 1985

A clever, albeit overly-written, manifesto on the growing spell television caste on the nation midway through the Reagan era. Part philosophical waxation on the nation's influence on televised programming, the book's truly intriguing portions come when Postman ruminates on television's influence on the nation. Believe it or not, 22 years after its publication, much of this book remains pertinent. B

Media/Society : Industries, Images, and Audiences (3rd Ed.)
David Croteau & William Hoynes
pub. 19??

Aside from the creepy baby on the cover haunting me throughout the semester, there are few other detracable aspects of this text. It is probably the most comprehensive and complete (albeit somewhat outdated) work to focus on the media's stranglehold on our society, while illustrating a reciprocative understanding of the specifics that allowed and continue to allow such a stranglehold to take place. A-


Uncivil Wars: The Controversy Over Reparations For Slavery
David Horowitz
pub. 2002

I didn't even intend to read this book, I intended to order a different "Uncivil Wars" on Amazon.com, but got this. And since I'll be damned if I waste my money, I gave this book a go-round. Reparations hasn't been a hot-button topic for half-a-decade, and Horowitz strikes me as the type of man who gets into shouting matches about his favorite food, song or color, but the book certainly makes its case and warrants some consideration, even if it's a few years too late. B

Reporting on Risk: Getting it Right in an Age of Risk
by Victor Cohn
pub. 1990

When I look back on this literary year I will almost assuredly view it as the year I continuously read oddly out-of-date non-fiction. Nevertheless, this oddly out-of-date non-fiction was helpful during my tenure at the hospital as well as distinguishing what, in the media, is important versus what is claimed to be. B-


The Glass Castle
by Jeannette Walls
pub. 2005

Although most people think their family is crazy, the growing trend in bestselling memoirs is to out-crazy the last author. Just as Augusten Burroughs finished fighting off rumors that his cracked-mirror of a childhood was greatly exaggerated, MSNBC gossiper, Jeannette Walls thrusts her dirty laundry into the limelight for all to see. The difference between this memoir and several over-the-top familial recounts is that Jeanette turned out fairly balanced and wrote this story, not from a place of embittered revenge, but of surprising awe, shame and and occasional revelry. A

The Truth About the Drug Companies: How They Deceive Us and What To Do About It
by Marcia Angell, M.D.
pub. 2004

After having seen Michael Moore's documentary, "Sicko," I was hungry to investigate the health care industry further. I read this book based on a recommendation from my dad. Turns out that most of the drug companies are crooked as question marks and this award-winning book explains how they've remained this way. Drug companies produce very few innovative drugs, opting instead to repackage already available pills. They've purchased the FDA, the agency created to monitor the drug companies; they influence clinical research on their own products and exploit patent and marketing loopholes. While this book will not enamor, it will enlighten. A-

Peeling the Onion

There are things you just can't do in life. You can't beat the phone company, you can't make a waiter see you until he's ready to see you, and you can't go home again.
Bill Bryson, American Author

We shape our dwellings, and afterwards our dwellings shape us.
Winston Churchill, British Statesman, Prime Minister

I don’t really recall ever being knee-deep in anything. It seems like when buried deep in something, whatever the substance in which one is buried, harmlessly abates at the ankle or wells up past the shoulders. My recollection of past burials seems only to recall events in an all-or-nothin' manner. When trouncing out into oceans and lakes, I suppose there must have been a point shortly after the water level was shin-deep that I became knee-deep in the water. It is also entirely possible that before the water reached my knees, I dove under and began swimming.

Standing in the basement of the house of which my parents relocated seven years ago, I finally find myself steeped deeper than my ankles. Lately, I've been knee-deep in my past.

My folks are selling the house and moving into smaller environs. My sister leaves for college in fewer days than fingers on which to count them off and I’m a 27-year-old man living in the equivalent of his college dorm room.

In many ways, it’s time for us all to go.

My parents sold the house for nearly their asking price, an unheard of accomplishment considering the market. What they were able to maintain however in their original asking price, they were forced to compromise in time and comfort throughout the moving process.

From the date we sold the house, we were all given less than a month to pack up and leave. Currently, we have 18 days to scoop up and out. A clean 'n' jerk of our home.

Having planned to leave the familial nest (again) for the past 11 months, it would be inaccurate to claim that moving out is shocking my system. The theory of leaving is far different from the practice however, and wallowing both figuratively and literally in the remnants of my past is more difficult than I would have guessed.

At some point in every man’s life, he is expected to prioritize that which he has accumulated over time. The alternative to this would be to save everything, no matter how inconsequential, and become a hermit, living amongst baseball cards, broken toys and uncountable artifacts from past vacations.

I’ve kept these things (and more) because I felt without them I would have no way to account for my past. My blunt memory will only become duller with time. If I have proof of the way my world used to be, perhaps I would find meaning in it all. Each dusty copy of “Entertainment Weekly”, ripped comic book and videotaped Letterman interview is something that I imagined I would drag out and show someone someday. Why they would care about “Mad Magazine” or my sketchbook from 1994 was never a detail of which to concern myself. I was sure I would need to account for my past and so throwing it away was unthinkable.

But I’m knee deep in crap that hasn’t affected my life in years, perhaps decades and it’s time to say goodbye.

I’ve been told that home is where the heart is. I can’t recall who told me this, but it wasn’t Pliny the Elder, the Roman neophatonist credited with originating the adage, so I'll just assume I heard it on an episode of "The Dukes of Hazzard". Lately, I’ve thought a lot about this quote. My family is leaving the place I would classify as housing my heart. Perhaps Pliny meant for his message to signify overarching geographical locations. Instead of my house, perhaps the Elder would prefer for me to consider Illinois my home. I’d rather live in Chicago than Ontario, but I’d rather live in Ontario than DeKalb, so relegating the quotation to large pieces of earth doesn’t make sense.

So if we’re packing up and leaving the place in which my heart rests, should I assume that for a little while, I will be homeless?

With each box I haul out to the trash, I feel as if one less layer remains wrapped around my onion. The outside layers are faded, brittle and easily removed. With each layer sloughed off, a slightly more stinging, golden vegetable awaits underneath, until the onion appears wholly different from its original form.

And I guess that’s what remains scariest of all: favoring the acrid winds of change over the mild heft of familial comfort. I always assumed I’d move out of this house. I assumed I’d pack up my things into boxes and store them in a different basement or hang it all on different walls. But I also never quite imagined that there would be no place to run once I became disenchanted by those walls or that basement. I’m desperate to hang onto the sloughed off layers, uninterested for now, in the onion’s core.

If layers can be stripped and houses sold; memories faded and tossed into anonymous heaps, what remains? And where does it go?

If home is where the heart is, and I can’t go home again (as Bryson says in the opening of this blog) where am I?

What’s left after the rest of me is scattered into numerous anonymous heaps?

Please Adam Don't Hurt 'Em

By the summer of 1989, both MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice were among the two biggest names in music. And while it embarrasses me to admit it, I was one of their biggest fans. I saw a lot of myself in these guys. Hammer was self conscious about his skinny legs and compensated for them by wearing parachute pants and so did I. Vanilla Ice was a white guy with rhythm and I was a white guy with rhythm. Really, it was a fandom arranged by destiny.

Also during this time, I had a friend named Tom. No one called him Tom, they called him Spike. Even our teachers called him Spike. As far as I know, this nickname was created from thin air; created because it was cool.

Tom and I had a pleasant relationship, but we were never the friends we could have been because his nickname would always come between us. Tom’s awesome nickname was the stick in the bicycle spokes of our companionship. I wanted to be cool, but every time my 94-year-old 5th grade teacher called Tom Spike, it reminded me that I was not cool. It hurt. It hurt like a dagger to my heart… a spike, if you will. I wanted to be Spike, but clearly, Spike was already taken. Being only nine-years-old at the time, I wasn’t very creative and for several months, it never occurred to me that other nicknames besides Spike might be cool too.

I remember the morning it dawned on me to marry my desire for a nickname with the admiration I had for Hammer and Ice.* Like Spike, I wanted a nickname that was rugged and dangerous. I wanted to be called something mean and scary. I settled on “Chainsaw” and set out to convince my mom that this was to be my new identity.

The exact reaction my mother gave me is unclear to me all these years later, but I think it involved a fair amount of laughing on her part and more than a few more alternate nicknames that she felt were more suitable; names like SillyBilly, Baby-Boy and Bonzo.

I remember thinking that I hadn’t made my desire for coolness clear to my mother because the nicknames she was suggesting were all wrong. People feared spikes. Spikes hurt; you could fall on one, or get speared by one in the shadows of the night or something. No one was going to fear a Baby-Boy or whatever a Bonzo was. I decided that to make my intent clearer, I would announce my intention to shave the word Chainsaw (capital “C”) into the back of my hair.

When MC Hammer’s penultimate album “Please Hammer, Don’t Hurt ‘Em” was released, my mother would specifically request that we listen to that cassette. I was always obliging, because I too enjoyed hammer-dancing down my hallway. It always seemed odd however, that Mom would set aside her Joni Mitchell and Janis Joplin. Surely, I thought, my Mom had felt the thunder that was “U Can’t Touch This” and therefore, my assumptions lead me to believe by articulating that a nickname was something that needed to be accomplished if I were going to be happy. Vanilla Ice shaved his name into the rear of his casaba and look how happy he was?

He was to the extreme and rocked the mic like a vandal. Something grabbed ahold of him tightly and it flowed like a harpoon both daily and nightly.

How could my mother argue with that? I wasn’t asking for a tattoo of my nickname, just an awesome, awesome haircut that would separate me from the children. Heck, I wasn’t even asking for parachute pants.**

I pictured the first day of school with my new haircut. While most of my classmates would have a new bookbag or a nice shirt; I’d walk in with a swagger and sway and an announcement to the world that Adam was still playing in the summer sandbox of his youth. The man standing before you was Chainsaw! My thoughts after this point remain fuzzy. I think I broke into a spot-on Hammer dance. I’m sure the 9-year-old me would have found this a perfect time to break into a Hammer dance.

I never got a chance to break into my Hammer dance because neither my nickname nor my haircut ever came to fruition. *** I remained the mopped-toppy Adam; boring old Adam. People bowed to Spike; gave him their Hostess Twinkies at lunch; let him swing on the good swing at recess. But me? I was just the friend of awesome Spike.

I often wonder how my life would appear now, had my mom allowed me to buzz the word chainsaw into the back of my cranium. I spent a long time assuming my mom had made the right decision. After all, Hammer is bankrupt and Vanilla was almost thrown out of a hotel window by Shug Knight. I had made my peace with the entire ordeal until I found out Spike had become a real estate salesman in Malibu and could probably buy and sell me thrice over. His two tow-headed sons have already been drafted by the Los Angeles Dodgers, despite only being six-years-old and he married the lovely Jenna von Oy (from television’s “Blossom”) or some other girl I had a crush on when I was that age.

I would risk getting thrown out of a hotel window for Blossom’s spunky chum, Six. I shoulda continued pushing for Chainsaw.

======================================

* You know what? Hammer and Ice would have made a pair of pretty good nicknames too or maybe just Icehammer.

** Several months later, I asked for parachute pants.

*** I didn’t want anything as passionately as my Chainsaw haircut until the spring of 1991 when I begged my parents for a pair of overalls. When I got them, I wore them with only one strap attached, while the other strap swung stupidly behind me. I believe I wore that style throughout the summer and into the fall wherein, I traded my overalls in for an Ace of Base CD and a couple slap bracelets.

A Sudden Belief in Karma

This story is true.

Eleven nights ago, I was in a sleepy little ice cream shop on the other side of town. I was unprepared to eat ice cream. I'm unclear whether one needs to prepare to eat ice cream, but if one does, then it should be understood that I had not.

I went to the Brown Cow with two friends and we arrived devilishly close to closing time.

Worried about being the archetypal customer-delaying-the-high-school-kids-from-going-home-on-time, I rushed my order. I bought an ice cream dish for $3.75.

It should be noted for the sake of this story that I went to the ATM earlier in the evening to get a wad full of fresh bills.

I handed the 16-year-old girl one of my new $20 bills and got change for a $10. Pausing for a quick re-calculation in my head, I told the girl she gave me the incorrect change.

Light panic hemorrhaged in the teen's eyes as she looked dumbfoundedly down into her open register.

"You gave me a ten, though," she said somewhat trying to convince herself.

Everyone knows ATMs spit only twenties. They were all I had in my wallet, so I politely stood my ground.

"No. All I've got are twenties. I couldn't have given you a ten."

"But... I put it right in here," the teen said resting her index finger on the open section where the $10 bills were buckled.

I could see the blood retreat from the teenager's face, manifesting into tension that tightened around her neck like a noose. She stood in front of her gaping register, appraising the situation. Her scruffy coworker wanted nothing to do with the mix-up. He burrowed his chin into his chest and concentratedly scooped my icecream like a neurosurgeon. He only looked up once while I was there and I believe it was only to see if the girl had yet begun crying. The meek young thing was visually rattled. While I could not see either of my friends, I sensed their anxiety and perhaps embarrassment. I also sensed that they, like the ice cream scooper, were pretending the situation was not happening.

She handed me another ten spot and the rest of my change and I tipped her a dollar - 27 percent - because I didn't intend to make her feel bad. My two friends also tipped generously; their tax for associating with a bully.

We left assuming I had done what was just.

After all, ATMs only spit twenties.

Hours later, as late night bled into early morning, a wave of guilt crashed over me as I realized the new ATMs allow $10 withdrawals as well. Recalling everything clearly now, like an amnesiac on the mend, I remembered how enamored I was with the new option of having tens along with twenties. So enamored was I that I chose $50 instead of $60.

For those of you keeping track at home, that's two twenties and a ten...

...I had ripped off the ice cream teen.

I was a sonuvabitch

=====================

Seven days ago, I sheepishly returned to the Brown Cow, hoping that the teen I swindled was on shift.

I pictured the girl's drawer coming up exactly $10 short several days before.

I pictured her having to pay for my miscalculation out of her pocket, or worse - getting fired - which would have cost her much more in the long run.

I was an accidental turd.

The store was crowded, despite the chilly weather. The teenage girl was there, standing near the tubs of ice cream chatting with a co-worker. I cautiously sidled up to the counter, made eye contact and asked the girl her name.

I was given the same glazed look of terror that I received several nights ago. I wondered if her features naturally rested in this panicked orientation.

"Me? My name's Maggie," said the teen.

"Do you remember me?" I asked. "I was in here around 10 o'clock Tuesday night ordering $4 worth of ice cream. I told you that you gave me the wrong change? I gave you a ten--"

Maggie smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was a smile of confusion. Perhaps she thought I was back to rob her again. Suddenly, her ice cream sidekick chimed in.

"That was you? We were just talking about that," said Maggie's co-worker.

I felt a tender spot in my heart for Maggie. It was connected most acutely to her name, as I had always liked the name Maggie. But more than just this girl's name, I had needlessly wronged this girl and I had now just been slapped with an extra dose of guilt from her co-worker (whose name I probably would not like, had I ever learned it). Thoughts wafted into my head of Maggie retelling this story through a veil of tears to everyone she knew.

I shrugged it off. I held out my hand and offered Maggie a $10 bill.

I told her I was wrong. Told her that I thought I was correct at the time, but I had made a mistake and felt horrible about it. Told her I was a jerk.

She smiled, but still looked like she'd recently taken a boot to the noggin.

I smiled back, shrugged and said, "I just wanted to make things right. I hope I didn't mess things up too much."

I walked away and all I could hear were the sounds of teenage girls giggling.

A teenage girl giggling is like a cow farting: it really has no meaning.

I didn't think my actions had much meaning either...

=====================

Three mornings ago, I was slipping my belt through the loops in my slacks. Northwestern Memorial dutifully requires everyone on its payroll to wear an ID badge. I usually clasp mine onto my belt loop. While I'd never had any problem before, it occurred to me at this moment that one day - someday - my ID badge would slip off my belt loop and I'd be screwed.

No doors would unlock for me, no security guards would grant me access to anything and they'd never allow me in the operating room again!

I sat at my desk wondering when I'd have a chance to regain my security clearance (I was forced to borrow a temporary badge from the security guard) when my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Ah yes. I am looking for Adam Shafer," said a voice with an obvious - though not thick - African accent.

"You got the right desk. This is Adam."

The security guard who granted me a temporary pass also had an African accent and I assumed it was him telling me that he made a mistake; that I was not allowed in the building unless I had my own badge.

"Ah yes. Adam, my name is George Stapleton. Did you lose your hospital ID badge recently?" I never caught the security guard's name – he was new. There seems to be high turnover amongst hospital security, which would've explained why he was calling. For a brief moment, I assumed "George" had called to tell me I had to leave the hospital. George the security guard was new and he was as unclear of the rules as I was. I was sure that they were going to send me home until I had a proper ID badge.

Something like this happened on an episode of "24" and they didn't allow the guy to enter into his building without his badge. I think a nuclear bomb blew up during that episode. It may or may not have been caused by the guy's lost badge. Sitting at my desk on the phone, I couldn't exactly recall how the events played out.

"Uh, yeah," I stammered. "I lost my badge about an hour ago."

George went on to tell me that he normally takes the train into work, the same train I take. He found it lying in the middle of the street no more than 100 yards from my car. He assured me that it was fine, and he'd be happy to return it to me. He said it was important for him to return it because he imagined something like an ID badge is important to me.

Turns out, George was not the security guard downstairs, but part of the YMCA's main office somewhere else downtown.

"I like to put myself in the other guy's shoes, so it's no problem," George continued. "I figured I'd call now so you wouldn't spend your day worrying."

We exchanged phone numbers and he offered to return it to me.

I imagine that I've seen him on the train before.

It was soon made clear that he had seen me before.

"Adam? Were you in an ice cream shop on Friday evening having an altercation with one of the employees?" George asked.

I immediately felt cornered; as if my ID badge was a booby trap and this was my last chance to walk away from it before I got clamped. The connection didn't make sense to me though. I couldn't lie. He was clearly confident that I was in an ice cream shop on Friday night.

Occasionally, when playing poker, I come across an opponent I'm pretty sure has a solid hand, solid enough to take all my money. Everything inside me screams fold; cut my losses and hope for better hands in the future. Most of the time I do fold. But every once in a while, I've just got to see the cards. Even if it costs me twice as much, I've got to know for sure what cards the guy is holding.

"Uh, yeah. I was in the Brown Cow on Friday. I wasn't really having an altercation though. It was just a mix-up."

I went into a bit more detail because George's use of the word "altercation" made me think that this was why he was calling.

Had Maggie set me up? Was this revenge? How did she get my contact information?.

"Right, right," George said. "I thought this was you. I was sitting in the Brown Cow when you walked in."

Chills.

"Yes," continued George. "I don't know that I've ever seen someone admit a mistake like that before."

I can't be sure, but sitting there on the phone with George, I bet I had the same glazed look of panic that Maggie had when I handed her back her $10.

George continued with a little laugh, " It looks like you're experiencing some good karma, huh?"

I didn't believe in karma - not really - until right then.

"Well good," said George. "Now I really want you to get your ID back."

Yesterday morning at 7:30, George handed it to me. I told him I owed him an ice cream.

Maybe he'll call in that ice cream one day.

These Are the Girls of Our Lives

Since the summer of 1998, my (guy) friends and I have ranked just about anything we can think might fall in some sort of debatable chronology. It was only a matter of time before we leaped from favorite movies and television shows to hottest celebrities.

Captured in this blog was my friends' most recent correspondence in revealing the newest versions of the list.

For what it''s worth, there have been numerous changes on my list from last year. Cameron Diaz, a five-time number one favorite from 1999-2004, has officially been retired and will no doubt be a first-ballot Hall of Famer. Also retired this year and expected to land in the HoF is Maura Tierney, who never reached higher than 4, but was a list mainstay since the list's inception in 1998.

Others dropped off the list were Anna Kournikova (19), Katie Holmes (18), Renee Zellweger (17), Michelle Monaghan (6) and Michelle Wie (3) This year brings many suprises including 7 rookies making their way onto the big board, a fallen number one and a new list champion that was not in the Top 10 last year.

God, I hope I'm not still doing this when I'm 50 years old.

Top 20 Girls My Girlfriend Had Better Watch Out For 2007
Parenthesis indicate last year's rank.

20. Rihanna (12)
19. Tea Leoni (15)
18. Ellen Pompeo (13)
17. Fergie (14)
16. Katharine McPhee ( - )
15. Kate Bosworth (8)
14. Jennifer Connelly ( - )
13. Michelle Rodriguez (20)
12. Kate Hudson (10)
11. Vanessa Minnillo ( - )


(from left to right) 10.Lauren Graham (7) 09.Emilie de Ravin (4) 08.Mary Elizabeth Winstead (-)

(from left to right) 07.Christina Aguilera (-) 06.Jessica Rose (-) 05.Alexis Bledel (9)

(from left to right) 04.Catherine Zeta-Jones (1) 03.Evangeline Lilly (11) 2.Mandy Moore (2)

01.Maggie Gyllenhaal (16)

A Cycle of Bad Behavior, part 2

...continued from last week

"Sex and the City" is a dangerous show for women and an infuriating show for men and it's going to live on in infamy.

I'm sure of it.

Before I delved into entire seasons of the show, I assumed "Sex and the City" was the female equivalent of "Entourage."

Wealthy men buy pool tables, shiny cars and bigass televisions.
Wealthy women buy shoes, shiny jewelry and bigass purses.

There is a jubliance and laughability in "Entourage" that seems absent from "Sex and the City", despite both shows being half-hour HBO comedies. There is an edge of fear and anger in "Sex and the City" that isn't in "Entourage" or most any comedies, for that matter.

Episode after episode, the quartet of New York socialites "Forrest Gump" their way from man to man to man, finding neurotically 'Seinfeld'-ian reasons to drop them all, buy another pair of shoes, a gallon or ice cream and talk about how bad the guy was in bed.

The characters in "Sex and the City" strike me not as confident and strong, but confused, defensive and uncertain of what they want. And this seems to be the fork-in-the-road at which men and women split. The iconography of this feminine grouping suggest a role model relationship with many of the shows fans. Indeed, few would argue against the hook of the show being female independence, self-satisfaction, self-sufficiency, all-around success and fabulous shoes.

Their jobs are elite. They don't need a man to pay for things.
They're strong-willed enough that men are appropriated for sport rather than intimacy.
There are no more important relationships than the ones forged by these four friends.
Happiness comes in the form of shopping, food, parties or sex.

Me thinks thy fairest gender doth protest too much. These four running themes of the show may be what the characters are selling, but I ain't buying it.

Looking back on six seasons of romantic debauchery, these women were rarely happy, certainly never operating on much more than fleeting contentments. These professional women only sparingly focused on their jobs (as far as the context of the show goes), leaving the viewer to define them, not by their work or their professional interests, but by their primarily vapid, cold and childish social existences. Like children stomping their feet and whining that they are old enough to do whatever they want, these women harp so shrilly on the idea that they don't need men, children or professional identity in order to secure happiness, femininity or self-respect, that there protestations fall on deafened ears.

I'm not claiming this idea is generally fruitless, but I am claiming this idea is a lie when the ladies from "Sex and the City" tell it. With each passing episode, these four characters talked and talked and talked about one philosophy while acting upon another.

Why are men considered the gender that lies?.

Several years ago, I was fascinated with a claim I've heard many women make regarding their "getting ready" habits. For a while, I was under the impression that when women chose their makeup and outfit in preparation for a night on the town, they did so to attract men. A large percentage of women scoffed at this assumption by claiming they were, in fact, dressing to impress their fellow females.

What follows is an amalgam of every conversation on this topic I've ever had with every girl I've befriended, dated or wanted to date.

Me: You mean, you're not trying to attact guys? Are you trying to attract
women?
Them: No. It's a confidence thing.
Me: You want to be confident around women? Men don't play a part?
Them: They play a small part, but we're not competing with men. We're competing with
women –
Me: -For the attention of men.
Them: Men, sure. Sometimes, I guess. But not completely. Men don't judge us like
women. Women are much stricter judges. They know what they're looking
for; what's cheap, what's cute, what's stylish, what's tacky...
Me: Okay. Let's say some girl thinks you look tacky. So what? You're uninterested in
being her friend and you're not interested in dating her, who cares what she
thinks?
Them: Again, it's a confidence thing. Most men don't care what you wear. They care
about how tall you are, how skinny you are, maybe just how drunk you are.
Clothes are important to women because clothes are under our control. If we're
short, have big tummys, stringy hair or bags under our eyes, sometimes
there's not a whole lot we can do about it.
Me: So if you can impress your competition with something you control, like clothes,
it somehow validates you? Because unlike cankles, you had a choice of with
which shoes to ornament your feet?
Them: Yeah kinda, but not really.*
Me: So, it has nothing to do with men?
Them: We don't want you to think we're ugly, but you don't judge us by the same
standards we judge ourselves.
Me: …And women have higher standards?
Them: Do you like it when girls wear ponytails, rock t-shirts and jogging shorts?
Me: Heck yeah.
Them: Then yes, women have higher standards.

1) Based on the above conversation, the popularity of 'The Bachelor' is baffling to me. 2) Women have a biblically deep-seeded hatred for one another. It's nasty and sharpened to a diamond-cutting edge. 3) Men are not important to women. Identity is important to women. Somewhere along the line, men became a part of helping to define a woman's identity.

For men, this sucks, because women will have many more identities throughout their lives than pairs of shoes.

The trouble with "Sex and the City" (if you are in the mindset that there is trouble with "Sex and the City") is that the show holds a mirror up to its viewers, and reflects back at them, a caricatured likeness; just accurate enough for many viewers not to note the inumerous inaccuracies. For better or for worse, New York is a crazy town full of insanity and heartbreak. For better or for worse, women fill gaping emotional voids with clothing accessories.** And for better or for worse, men are women's easiest scapegoats for describing that which makes them dissatisfied.

Men on that show are more innocent bystanders of this neurotic quartet than they are honest bogeymen. On the rare occasion one of them admits that it isn't necessarily a man drumming the rhythm to her dissatisfaction, the surrounding characters react as if the society of women has somehow been compromised.

To understand the nature of this society, we must first understand the members.

The four sides of the average woman? (from left to right) "the princess," "the brat," "the temptress," "the bitch."

Carrie is an inhibited socialite pining for the life of a metropolitan princess with a selfish man who, season after season, allows Carrie to be his punching bag (Mr. Big, duh), while genuinely mistreating (twice) a good man (Aiden). All in the magical search of her elusive 5th Avenue fairytale ending.

Charlotte is an intensely self-involved naïve rationalizing her way to momentary happiness like a child wanton of a cookie. Anything deviating from her idea of perfection is immediately flawed.

Samantha is simultaneously the least realistic character on the show and the character with the least aggressive outlook on the world. I hate her of course because she's hedonistically narcissistic and vapid. Samantha is written as if she were a scared woman deciding to act like an empty male stereotype in hopes of never being hurt. In season 3, when faced with a sudden illness, Samantha desperately wishes she had gotten married and returns to these feelings when she is diagnosed with breast cancer several seasons later. In season 4 she shares a healthy and monogamous relationship that made her happier than she normally found herself to be - of course, that relatiosnhip ended because the man couldn't handle monogamy, because y'know... every single man on earth cheats, right?

Miranda hates men. I don't know why. Men don't know why. Miranda doesn't know why. She's professionally successful and leverages that against her personal ideals as a means of justifying her frustration with why she happier. Frankly, Miranda seems as condeming of herself as she is the men surrounding her. Ironically, Miranda's unexplained absense of self-satisfaction is a more accurate portrayal of many men than Samantha's hedonism. Miranda expells much of her energy berating her friends for focusing so vehemently on the male gender, while simultaneously steaming about whatever failed male encounter she last had. In short, Miranda is a successfully intelligent person whose militant self-denial causes others (including her closest friends) to disregard her.

These are the protagonists of "Sex and the City;" the four faces of everywomanhood. We are asked to empathize with their love lives while excusing their neurosis. And in the process of doing this, we tacitly accept that it is normal for women to be disparaging of men, sheltered and wanton of reality.

But hey, that's New York, right?

The overwhelming popularity of the show suggests that not only do women accept these generally negative characterizations, but they applaud them.

Some would suggest that because it is women behaving like men, I am thus threatened.

Perhaps.

But I'd also be threatened by men behaving this way. What was the last show that unabashedly allowed four male characters to talk, think and act on every neurotic sexual and social impulse they had? "Entourage"? "Seinfeld"? "Bosom Buddies?"

Any recent show with men behaving badly portrays them as buffoons who eventually got what is coming to them. Not "Sex and the City". They create the majority of their own unhappiness and we are asked to shrug it off as a typical bohemian female existence.

Admittedly, the show is not only a collection of pathological referendums against men. "Sex and the City" could never have grabbed millions of interested fans without being smartly written, provocative at least somewhat accurate. Do not mistake my frustration with the show's content as a statement of it's worthlessness. No show that I can recall (although I never saw "Ally McBeal") has been able to capture the ideal of co-female companionship more warmly than the HBO serial, nor has any program offered a similar take on the postfeminine conception of hope, regret and empowerment.

But if each episode is sharpened to a cutting point, it is only the viewer that gets drawn and quartered by the mixed messages the characters carry throughout each season. The protagonists of this show, so ensconced in the idea of identity, never truly pause to figure out what their identity is.

I can hear it now, "Dude. Adam, relax. It's just a television show. It's 28 minutes of harmless entertainment about which you are in the process of writing 3,000 words. The show went off the air almost four years ago. Let it go."

I know, I know. I'm like a 14-year-old just discovering Led Zeppelin and asking his father if he's ever heard of them.

The problem is, I don't know of many more potent television shows than "Sex and the City". Many have been equally, if not more popular, but few have threatened to serve as a behavioral template. It would be harmless if women didn't emulate this behavior. It would be harmless if women didn't see some fun and excitement in treating men the same as shoes: cute obsessions that rarely make it past the new seasonal line.

It would be difficult to pinpoint specific examples of the show's stranglehold on American female society, but it is nevertheless as palpable as the smoke in a room set ablaze.

"Sex and the City" was a popular book because it touched upon something pre-existing in women, but the show became an instant hit because it acted as an iconic pied piper to millions of women unaware of how to be "fabulous". Twenty years ago, the word diva carried wholly negative connotations. How many young women, tongue only slightly planted in cheek, strive to become fierce 'n' fabulous divas? To be looked at as uncompromising and unapologetic?

"Sex and the City" plays the "man game", a game that women have been fighting to abolish for centuries. And by doing its part to level the playing field, it is helping to create a side of women that is no less despicable than the same powerful, uncompromising, unapologetic side men have stereotypically displayed for milleniums.

But it's a side I've never had. It's a side I've always felt should be destroyed, not counterbalanced in women; and certainly not celebrated in a serial of misandristic yuppies.

======================================================================

* This is a clever trick, girls have concocted. Even when you're desperately listening and clinging to their every word and formulating an analysis based on what they say – and often what they say begs to be filtered through analysis – you will never completely understand. Women will always, always, always tweak what you say. Sometimes you'll even catch them tweaking what you say by repeating a phrase you just used. When this happens (and it will), be sure to savor it. Don't let the conversation drift away from this; roll around in this moment like a pig in slop. Marinate in the glorious juice of seeing the women realize her mistake, regret it and immediately look around for an open door or window to which she might flee.

** Before you formulate a Women Against Adam Assembly (appropriately abbreviated to WAAA) because of this last comment, remember that Charlotte (Kristen Davis) expressed this very sentiment in the 12th episode of season 2.


For further exploration of this topic, I suggest checking this site: http://www.genders.org/g39/g39_negra.html. This article is more scholarly and passes less judgement than mine, but it's nowhere near as funny.

A Cycle of Bad Behavior, part 1

"First, I take a man; then I strip away all reason and accountability."
   -Melvin Udall (Jack Nicholson) in "As Good As It Gets" responding to an adoring female fan wondering how he writes such accurate female protagonists in his books.

If you've read my blog over the past 16 months with any regularity, then you're fairly familiar with my insatiable curiosity about women. Specifically, the driving force that shapes female personalities. I realize that intending to make sense of women is as fruitless as an apple orchard in February, but searching for discoveries where none are thought to be found didn't stop Magellan and it's not going to stop me.

In conversing with girls, gals, chicks, broads, dames, cuties and women, the general consensus seems to be that men are easy to handle.

We're rather simple creatures.

While I wouldn't equate simplicity to stupidity, I am under the impression that men also feel this way about themselves; especially when compared to women..

There isn't a single aspect about women that should be misconstrued as simple. When I use the word "simple," I am not speaking of intelligence. This gender analysis is focused on emotions, not intellect.

And emotionally speaking, what tic-tac-toe is to Rubik's Cube, men are to women.

I've been feeling a bit male-bashed lately and the great bulk of it can be attributed to Candace Bushnell...

...That bitch.

For those of you unfamiliar with Ms. Bushnell, she's the author of four popular books, all comprised of roughly the same content, aimed at roughly the same demographic and none more popular than her first novel entitled, "Sex in the City." Nine years ago, HBO thought the book would make a wonderful television series and hired the tyke from "Square Pegs"; the woman from "Big Trouble In Little China" (who later played Britney Spears' mom in "Crossroads"); the actress guilty of brushing her teeth with a toothbrush dropped in Jerry Seinfeld's toilet during his show's heyday; and Gozer the Gozarian from "Ghostbusters" (see fig. 1.1).

      

Fig.1.1: Typical New York monster (left) and typical New York Gozarian (right)

"Sex in the City" eventually proved phenominally popular. I never had HBO while the show aired, but look around the apartment of any late-20s/ early-30s bohemian female and you'll find at least one season of the show living on in infamy somewhere on the premesis. It's like "Dirty Dancing", "Pretty In Pink" and "Erin Brockovich" rolled into one. What is it about certain movies that draw women in like lemmings off a cliff?

Four years after the show called it quits, I wanted to learn what the hubbub was all about; I wanted to find enlightenment. I wanted to know how a half-hour situation comedy managed to grab the hearts and minds of every women between 18 and 40. Watching women in real life wasn't cultivating enough answers for me. Women are far too aware of themselves, far to worried who is watching and who is judging. I could only hope that the reflective qualities of "Sex in the City" would allow me to catch American women with their guard down.

In short, I hoped that "Sex in the City's" national acceptance would illuminate the neo-feminist pathology without pulling any punches; without censoring for the benefit of the fragile male ego. And while I'd venture to guess that fans of the show believe "Sex in the City" does exactly that, I'm of the belief that the show voids itself by creating caricatures out of the hundreds of male guest stars that traipse in and out of the series.

People - both men and women - want to see a reflection of themselves in pop culture characters. When enough people identify with these characters, they become icons. Certainly enough women (and homosexual males) seemed to have found their reflection in Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte that it didn't take long for the show to encapsulate an air of iconography. But if we want to watch versions of ourselves represented on screen and in magazines in order to feel validated, isn't there a danger of letting the cart run the horse? What if people, in an effort to be accepted and understood, look toward shows like this for guidance on how to be better versions of themselves?

Friends, family and professionals sometimes withhold this guidance, or insure that it be released with a price. Television never judges. It allows us all to take what we want, if we want - while asking nothing in return.

So what does "Sex In the City" give and more importantly, what do women take?

Well, slip off your $800 Christian Louboutin patent mary janes and toss your Marc Jacobs pocket hobo aside and lemme tell you what I've gathered…

...to be continued on Friday. June 22, 2007
==============================================

The Misconceptions of Cleanly Eating

I can no longer eat my food properly.

I'm such a messy eater that I have recently become unwilling to eat while driving a car. While many might never imagine attempting to eat food while operating a car, I, not too long ago, used to nurture this instinct. I wouldn't just eat in a car, I'd feast in the damn thing. I'd balance my McNuggets on the dashboard, stick my Slurpee in the cup holder, rest my Cheesy Gordita Crunch in the door flap where maps were stored and stuffed all my candy where I was supposed to be stuffing all my change.

Turning a corner sharply or stomping the brakes would have caused a mess of Seussical proportions.

These days, I won't even open my Taco Bell drive-thru bag until I get home. I've got a deplorable streak of six or seven trips wherein I's unwrap my taco, spill meat on my pants and complain about it the rest of the way home.

I'm just not going to subject myself to such agitation anymore.

But my problems don't stop with vehicle interiors. It's getting to the point where I can't eat inside restaurants either.
I was recently sitting at the window seat of a Chipotle in the heart of Downtown Chicago. It isn't smart for me to sit in a window seat anywhere while eating anything. First of all, I eat alone. That's not a cue to pity me, I prefer to eat alone. I get a lot of reading done.

Sitting at an open window on a beautiful summer afternoon however, my reading gets distracted by the myriad of interesting people walking by.

But along with my reading, so does my eating become something almost unbearably difficult for me.

Part of it, I think, is that I've never fully memorized where my mouth is in proportion to the rest of my face. Sometimes, when drinking out of a cup with a straw, I open my big gaping mouth in preparation of accepting the straw. I move my mouth over the area where the straw is and I close, ready to feel the smooth weak plastic in between my lips.

You'd be surprised how many times I miss my mark and allow the straw to jab my cheek or poke my eye.

Or maybe you wouldn't be surprised. I guess that just depends on your opinion of me.

Missing your mouth is embarrassing though; there's really no coming back from it. Poking your own eye with a straw hurts and everyone laughs.

You wouldn't think that something so prominently displayed at the front of one's face would be so difficult to locate. I mean, I've been eating for quite a while and I should have mastered my mouth by now.

But I haven't and with each passerby with a sharp new short-sleeved button-up shirt or fresh pedicure, my eyes grows raw with straw jabs and my lap grows heavy with taco fixin's.

Tacos are messy to begin with.

Tacos in a hard tortilla shell have never been eaten cleanly in the history of food. Don't write in and tell me that you once ate a taco without spilling or that your best friend makes perfectly tidy tacos each Tuesday.

You're lying.

Tacos are impossible to eat without spilling.

This is universal.

This is undeniable.

This goes for everyone.

On any given day lately, you'll find me with lettuce hanging off my lower lip reminiscent of my tortoise, Tillie. I'll also have cheese sprinkled all over my slacks and chunks of fallen steak plummet through the cracks in the hard shell tortilla like cars disappearing through splitting asphalt during an earthquake.

It's gotten to the point where I wear my dark ties on days I plan to eat at Chipotle.

It's that inevitable.

But that's tacos for you.

Everyone knows how messy tacos are, right?

So why then, when I've got corn salsa dabbled on my chin like a supermodel mole and lettuce draping the spot on my lap where I should have put my napkin, do passersby on the street still look at me as if they can clean 'n' clear my taco better than me?

They can't. Tacos are messy. They cannot be eaten cleanly. Don't act like I'm alone in my inability to keep taco
ingredients in their original casing.

Pretending your tacos are clean is uppity.

Don't be uppity.

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