Dylan Bolin

I would like to congratulate everyone who is reading this, because if you are reading this right now, that means that you are alive.  If you are not reading this right now, that doesn’t necessarily mean that you are dead.  You could be reading something else or nothing at all.  Either way you’re dead to me.  But you may be thinking:  “Dylan, what are you talking about?  Of course we’re alive!  What’s all this about?”  Well my friends, it’s that kind of humble bravery that makes you so special.  You don’t have to hide it anymore.  Ladies and gentlemen, you are survivors!  You survived the last day of November, 2008.  You survived Milwaukee’s 2008 Blizzard-ish Winter Weather Snow Event!  We all did!  And however you survived, it’s that kind of plucky, human ingenuity that has kept us at the top of the food chain and showing Nature who’s boss for a million years…or 5700 years…or 2000 years…depending on the calendar you follow.

And the weather wasn’t always out to get us.  Back when we were kids, the weather just was.  Sometimes it made us wet, sometimes it made us warm, sometimes it made us cold and sometimes it gave us a day off of school.  It wasn’t until science gave us the technology to forecast the weather that we learned what a bastard the weather truly is.  And today, thankfully, we can forecast the weather accurately and beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

But we just need to look at history to know how mean weather can be.  Remember Noah?  Well, he didn’t build that ark for fun.  Sure he liked to build arks in bottles, but that’s probably why God chose him.  God appeared to Noah and said:  “Noah, I’m going to destroy everything with a flood and I want you to build an ark.” 

“You want me to build someone who rats out his friends?” Noah replied. 

“What?” 

“You want me to build a NARC?” 

“No!  For My sake, an ark.  It’s a boat.” 

“Are you going to kill me then?” 

“What?” 

“If you’re going to destroy Mankind, I’m a man.  Are you planning to destroy me?” 

“No, Noah, I’ll need you to repopulate the Earth.  You and your lovely wife…what’s her name?” 

“I’m not sure, Genesis doesn’t mention it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, Genesis 7-7 says that I have one, but that’s where it stops.” 

“Huh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“How about your sons?” 

“Oh they have names:  Shem, Ham and Jafeth.” 

“Really.  Noah, you realize that you’re Jewish right?” 

“Oy.” 

“You’re Jewish and you named one of your sons Ham?” 

“Yeah…?” 

“Never mind.  So I need you to build an ark.” 

“I assume you’ll want the underbody rust-proofing.” 

“What?” 

“With a flood and all, you’re gonna want that rust-proofing.” 

“Okay…well I don’t want to spend a lot of money.” 

“It’s only an additional $1000.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Tell you what, let me go talk to my manager.  Help yourself to some coffee.  I’ll be right back.” 

That’s exactly how it went, by the way.

And that was the first time that the weather attempted to destroy us, but as we saw on November 30th, 2008, it was not the last.  Gone are the days when God would appear and warn us of our impending doom.  Today, God has been replaced by our local news.  It is They who keeps us “safe from the storm,” using colorful maps and radars with names like Viper.  When the Viper Radar isn’t tempting Eve with the fruit of knowledge, it’s issuing severe weather warnings for our Gardens.  Every ten minutes a Local Celebrity appears on our televsion and calmly tracks the Apocolypse.  How can they be so glib and light?  I’ll tell you how; because in the basement of every local news studio, there’s a bunker filled with tooth whitener, hair gel and M-1 Light Bronze make-up foundation which is all a newscaster needs to survive until spring. 

Which gave me an idea.  I’m a husband now, and my first priority is to protect my family.  So with what was possibly my last two hours on Earth, I was determined to fight.  I would not go gentle into that good night. What do you do when Hell is raining down from Heaven?  You dig.  I decided to build a safe room shelter in my basement.  I ventured out into the wilderness where, surrounded by panicked citizens, I attempted to keep my wits. 

The sky hung heavy over South-Eastern Wisconsin like the swollen udder of a Devil Cow.  I collected the necessary materials and began building my personal ark.  Afterwards, I stocked it with food.  Soon the walls were lined with frozen pizzas, taco dip and tortilla chips and carton after carton of malted milk balls.  When the time was right, my wife gathered the kids and we entered the safe room.  I know what you’re thinking:  “But you don’t have kids.”  While this is technically true, I’ve found that a weather drama is always more compelling when kids are involved.  So, we collected the fictional kids and entered the safe room shelter. 

Minutes turned into hours and hours turned into days, because that’s how we measure time.  At about the seventh hour of our ordeal, the food ran out, and, while I’m not proud of this, my wife and I were forced to do the unthinkable.  Like the Donner Party and the soccer team from the movie Alive!, we had no choice but to resort to cannibalism.  Sure, the storm hadn’t started yet, but in the heat of the moment, sometimes there’s no such thing as the wrong choice or the right choice.  Sometimes there is only The Selfish Choice.  They were fictional kids anyway.  And my friends, God forbid you should ever be placed in that horrific situation, but if you are, learn from our suffering; make sure that you’ve stocked your safe room shelter with spicy mustard.  It brings out the flavor so much better than the plain yellow.

But just like the Biblical flood, eventually the skies parted and the dove returned with an olive branch.  Still full from our previous meal, we decided to let him live.  And here I am, writing to you today.  Like the Greatest Generation, we now are members of a very exclusive fraternity.  We survived Milwaukee’s 2008 Blizzard-ish Winter Weather Snow Event.  And let us never take this sweet life for granted.

-Dylan

Hello again, friends.  It would appear that I have fallen victim to the “Creeping Crud” that’s been plaguing many of you.  That’s right; I’m sick.  I am, however, determined not to let it affect these Blogs because, you see, writing unsolicited essays for your consumption is not only presumptuous and arrogant on my part, but it’s also incredibly brave.  Despite the fact that my body is focusing nearly every spare resource on producing mucus, I must soldier on with these correspondences that you didn’t ask for.  No need to not thank me; that’s not why I don’t do it.  I think I might have accidentally taken the NyQuil instead of the DayQuil, so forgive me if I lakhsglhasodioasdgohonvos

Sorry about that.  It appears that I passed out on the keyboard and it’s now early evening.  Either that or, based on the time that I’ve lost and can’t seem to recall, I was abducted by aliens. 

I hope you all had a pleasant Thanksgiving.  In honor of this most American of holidays, I’ve assembled some trivia that you may not have known.  For instance, did you know that turkey was not likely on the menu during the first Thanksgiving back in 1621?  It’s true.  A Native American named Squanto taught the Plymouth Colony Pilgrims how to grow corn…and catch EEL.  Eel for crying out loud!  No white meat, no dark meat, just eel meat!  And no wishbone to break in order to wish for something other than eel.

And apparently, all that eel meat made the Pilgrims crazy because just 70 years later, they thought it would be a great idea to cook something aside from eel, namely their women.  Not all their women of course, just the ones that didn’t act normal.  The folks that brought us Thanksgiving were the same folks that later gave us The Salem Witch Trials.  Thankfully, today we don’t burn outspoken women at the stake; instead we put them on The View.  But back then, it was a very different story. 

Very few records of that time have survived to modern day but, today, I present to you a transcript of an actual copyrighted conversation between two Pilgrims.

______________________________________

David:  Brother Ethan, these two women have been found guilty of the crime of witchcraft and are hereby sentenced to be burned at the stake.  Witch One will be burned at the stake tonight, and Witch Two will be burned at the stake tomorrow.  Is this understood?

Ethan:  Yes, Brother David.  I have but one question:  Which One will be burned tonight?

David:  That is correct.  Now what is your question?

Ethan:  That was my question.

David:  Witch One will be burned tonight?

Ethan:  Yes.

David:  Yes.

Ethan:  Which?

David:  Which what?

Ethan:  Which Witch?

David:  Witch One.

Ethan:  Which one is Witch One?

David:  Of course she is.

Ethan:  Which?

David:  Yes. 

Ethan:  Brother David:  I am to burn a witch tonight.

David:  Yes.

Ethan:  And the witch I tie to the stake atop the tinder will be which one?

David:  Exactly.

Ethan:  Okay, let’s try this:  Brother David, which one is Witch Two?

David:  No.

Ethan:  What do you mean “no?”

David:  No, Brother Ethan, Witch One is Witch One.

Ethan:  THAT’S WHAT I’M ASKING YOU!

(Muted Trombone)  Wah-Wah-Wah-Waaaaaaaah.

_________________________________________

-Dylan

Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in my life, this morning, I, Dylan Bolin, can call myself a “winner.”  I’ll explain.  As you know, I’m a huge fan of our new alcoholic beverage masters, MillerCoors.  I’ve said this many times on the air at WKLH and, so far, they have yet to send me a case of their delicious hoppy Happy Juice, but I’ve come to learn that the longer they wait, the more I want them.  So delicious, so sexy.  As you know, sexy isn’t what you give away, but what you don’t give away. 

Now if you don’t already know, recently they ran a promotion on their Lite Beer bottles where you can peel off the label and possibly win a Harley Davidson motorcycle, leather jacket or t-shirt.  So, during a trip to a local watering hole, I ordered one and, quivering with anticipation (or the D.T.’s), peeled off the label.  Underneath, it said:  “Not a winner.” 

I was crushed. 

My feelings of inadequacy are what led me to the bottle in the first place, and here was the bottle telling me that I wasn’t a winner.  At first I thought:  “Same to you, Jerk.  You’re just a beer bottle; you don’t know me.”  I was ready to break the bottle, jam one end into my thigh, lacerating my femoral artery and wait for the sweet release of death, but then I read further and it said:  “Try again,” and suddenly it all made sense.  The beer bottle was breaking me down so it could build me back up.  The measure of a man is not how often he falls, but how often he gets back up, dusts himself off and orders another beer.  So delicious, so sexy and so wise. 

So I ordered another, and another, and another.  Just as I was about to give up/throw up, I ordered one more beer.  I peeled back the label and sure enough there were the words I’d been waiting to see:  “Congratulations, you’re a winner.”  Finally, Grasshopper was ready to stumble out of the temple.  It’s important to add that I then WALKED home.  If there’s one word that describes a winner, it’s “responsible.”  This morning, I mailed the label off.  Soon I will receive a t-shirt worth $11.99 and all it cost me was $15, a hang over and a restraining order.  So every day between now and receiving my t-shirt is like opening another door on the MillerCoors advent calendar.  And thank goodness for it, because it helped me process the news about the economy. Did you guys hear about this about this? 

I thought everything was going along just fine when I was watching television a couple months ago, looking forward to switching between America’s Got Talent and David Blaine’s Dive of Death and getting confused as to which was which, when who should appear but the President of the United States.  I knew it couldn’t be good because he preempted a show called “Dive of Death” to talk about the economy.  He filled the entire screen and told us he needed 700 billion dollars or we would die.  (Later, as we all know, Congress, not to be outdone, raised the tax bill to 850 billion.  Thanks, “People’s House”). 

Anyway, I thought this was a much better approach than when Orel Roberts did it back in the 80’s.  He wanted a lot of money or he was going to die.  It’s true.  He told everyone that God spoke to him and told him that if he didn’t convince his followers to give him something like a million dollars, that God was going to kill him. 

Long story short, he didn’t get the money and he didn’t die.  Which sucked because we all did our part to make sure he didn’t get the money, and we didn’t even get to see how God was going to off him.  Sure I’m bitter, but the important thing is that thankfully, God hasn’t taken a hostage like that in a while.  But the point is that our President told us that we were going to die, and we tend to panic more when we hear that.  Okay, so the President didn’t actually say the words:  “And if we don’t get the money, you will die.”  But he was a bit like the ghost of Christmas Future; he showed us enough that we pretty much knew who was in the coffin at the end. 

So we’re on the brink of an economic meltdown.  This came as a complete shock to me because I had just read that, in 2007, the CEO’s of Bear Stearns, Goldman Sachs, Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch and Morgan Stanley paid themselves a record, combined 39 billion dollars in bonuses.  You don’t get a bonus unless you’re doing a really great job, right?  So clearly, this problem took them completely by surprise. 

But if my beer bottle lesson taught me anything, it’s that we can’t give up.  There are billionaires out there who need your help and you tax payers have got to step up.  I say you taxpayers because I don’t pay taxes.  I took a cue from these Wall Street firms a long time ago and got a P.O. Box in Bermuda, but everybody else has got to answer the call, even if it means a second, third or even a fourth job.  (To the I.R.S.:  That was a joke.  Ha, ha.)

In the meantime, I implore my good friends at MillerCoors, in their delicious, sexy wisdom, to borrow a page from Campbell’s Soup and their Labels for Education program.  Instead of labels that offer t-shirts to folks like me, why not labels that earn points for Wall Street.  If nothing else, perhaps we can provide these Wall Street investment firms with the calculators that they so desperately need.

-Dylan

I want my Dark Future. 

All my life I’ve been watching movies and television shows heralding a dark, polluted, dystopian future where apartment buildings reach into a scorched sky, and can only be accessed by flying cars.  I don’t know what the hold-up is.  The Evangelicals have been rooting for the Rapture ever since Constantine and the Council of Nicaea, and every year since they’ve been like Linus in the Pumpkin Patch, waiting eagerly for the Great Pumpkin of the Apocalypse.  And in the interim, faithful that the end is nigh, we’ve given up on a preserving anything for future generations. 

The Native Americans made all of their decisions based on their effect on the seventh generation.  While the Native Americans were many things, efficient they were not.  I blame a lack of bibles.  In the new millennium, we’ve managed to trim all of that generational pork and now we base all of our decisions on just one generation:  Ours. 

Our Evangelical optimism in the coming rapture has resulted in a pervasive pessimism in everything that isn’t aware of the coming rapture like trees, whales, ring-tailed lemurs, Hindus, etc.  Of course we don’t care about sewage in the river; God will be here soon to do much worse to the planet.  So why not exploit every remaining resource in these waning days?  If you’re not worried about the security deposit, go ahead and trash the joint.  I think it’s called “holding dominion over nature.” 

So if we’re going to go, let’s go out with a grenade.  Perhaps you’re thinking:  “But that sounds kind of inconvenient and very unpleasant.”  Not to worry; the Morphine of Consumerism will protect us.  Shop, Consume and Destroy.  Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die…maybe.  Okay, the next day then. 

You know, all this environmental devastation is really God’s fault.  He’s the one who’s not holding up His end of the bargain.  We’re sitting here, waiting with our bags packed, new tennis shoes and a Whitman’s Sampler for St. Peter, but the Golden Escalator isn’t running.

While we’re waiting, if we’re going to stick firecrackers into frogs, I say let’s get off the fence.  As long as the Universe is our personal playground, let’s experiment.  And I’m not talking about sending another digging robot to plop down on Mars, like a toddler in a sandbox, to look for ice.  Seriously?  Ice?  We don’t have enough ice underneath all those polar bears? 

Instead of searching for potential life beyond ours and the ethical questions that accompany it, let’s be proactive; let’s get the artificial intelligence guys in here.  Let’s build two robots with the best artificial intelligence with which we can equip them.  Let’s also give them baby robot making parts.  Then, let’s blast them to the moon and watch what happens.  That’s an experiment I would gladly spend 386 Million in tax dollars for.  I want to watch them multiply.  I want to watch them learn.  I want to watch the first Robot/Human summit on my Samsung Optical Cortex Microchip, and I want to see it go horribly wrong.  I want Logan’s Run!  I want Independence Day!  I want The Terminator!  I want The Matrix!  I want Blade Runner!  Let’s get visceral!  If the Four Horsemen are slacking off, having a picnic somewhere, let’s pony up and be our own Death Jockeys!  What are we waiting for?  Don’t we have Faith?

-Dylan

If you’re a regular reader of this Blog, you know that I recently published a Blog called “Daytime Drivers.”  Your collective response would imply that it resonated with more than a few of you.  Clearly, dealing with daytime drivers is not relegated to me alone and today it became clear that, for me, it’s not an isolated event.  The latest incident occurred as I was driving back from the mall after getting my wife’s watch re-sized.  (By the way, when did the employees manning the various kiosks in the mall thoroughfares become so aggressive?  It’s like Mexico.  For the record, if I require a new cell phone plan, wool-lined boots, lotion or a tee shirt airbrushed with a picture of someone else’s kids, trust me, I’ll stop.)

As I was driving home, basking in the glow of my successful errand, I admit I may have been daydreaming a little.  Whenever a man does something to make his wife happy as opposed to making her roll her eyes at his latest bonehead manuever, he likes to savor the hypothetical moment and roll it around in his cerebral cortex for a spell.  It was while I was entertaining such thoughts when a woman in a red Honda Civic roused me from my reverie by cutting me off and narrowly missing my front right bumper.  In her defense, it was at a fork in the freeway, and had she not cut me off, the freeway might have taken her all the way to Chicago where she would have no choice but to live, never to see her loved ones again. 

Nevertheless, I was obliged to inform her of my presence and displeasure by sounding an annoyed blast from the horn of my Ford Focus.  What with the ”Big Three” in financial trouble and the quality of their products in question, I also saw it as an opportunity to flex a little American Automotive Muscle.  “Hey!  You in the Honda!  Ford Motor Company comin’ through!”  With one hand I gripped the wheel as I slammed the other down on the center of the steering wheel.  I don’t know if, in print, I can do justice the sound that resulted, but I would be remiss if I didn’t try.  Instead of a majestic blast, what followed sounded exactly like:  “Phhhmmeeep-p-peeee-p.” 

If I was a male quail trying to attract a mate with my clarion call, I would be fox poop by the end of the day.  It was the same sound of protest made by a scrawny Freshman right before the football team pantsed him and stuffed him in a locker.  Needless to say, she didn’t even cast a glance into her rear-view mirror. 

If there’s one lesson that I learned from this encounter it’s this:  Before you take your Ford Focus out for a spin, make sure it’s Road Ready in case you run across a Daytime Driver (or, more specifically, a Daytime Driver runs across you).  Check the car’s fluid levels and tire pressure and for God’s sake, if you have to use the horn, make sure you have its inhaler.

-Dylan

How does the brain work?

For all of the experiments that have been conducted, we’ve established that the brain is essentially a computer whose purpose is to process the input from our senses and catalog stimuli.  Using an almost infinite combination of neural nets and associations, it then attempts to predict what will happen in the future.  Ideally, this access to the future keeps the human being one step ahead of potential danger, ensuring happy and healthy survival.  The process of association begins very early in life with the basics of learning to seek pleasure and avoid pain.  This is the skeletal frame of our individual philosophies and the events that form this frame are as unique as we are.  Like paper Mache, the nuances of our experience are layered upon this frame to create the world view upon which we lead our lives.

Why do we continually make the same decisions?

While the potential combinations of neural networks are almost infinite, for convenience sake, patterns do appear.  The properties of frequent experience are noted to streamline the brains cataloging process.  For instance, if X=Happiness, then the brain spends nearly all of its spare resources (those resources that aren’t allocated for autonomic survival functions) solving for X.  As with any efficient computer, solving for a desired result also involves identifying that which isn’t the desired result.  For instance, a child intrinsically knows that pleasure is the result of a lack of pain and visa versa.  If that same child learns that speaking his mind results in pain, he will naturally learn to derive pleasure from not speaking his mind.  While this may be a variable in the mind of another, for this individual it is a constant.  Whether it is an empirical truth or merely perception makes no difference as far as the brain is concerned; it is, nevertheless, a foundation of his brain’s operating system.  These “constants” can appear at every stage of the brain’s development from a bend in the frame to a wrinkle in a final layer of paper Mache, and when they do, they assure that nearly every beginning of a series of choices shares a common starting point.  In most cases, the same starting point results in a similar finish.  This could account for the fact that we constantly seek the same relationships, occupations and diversions and if they happen to be dysfunctional or unfulfilling in the end, well, so be it.  That’s just reality…as we know it.

What is improvisation?

In recent years, improvisational theater or “Improv” has become a cottage industry.  Today, it is commonly recognized as a medium of performance in and of itself, but it wasn’t always so.  At its rudimentary level, Improv is the art of being.  Improv is how the brain experiments.  Using all of our five senses (and perhaps some unnumbered, intuitive senses) the brain reaches out to sample its surroundings.  Then, it attempts to affect its surroundings with action, speech or touch.  It then marks the reaction and begins the experiment anew.  This experimental dance is that of action and reaction and, in its purest form, exists without supposition or prejudice.  In the infinitesimal blink of time that we call “now,” we improvise…all of us…always.  Without knowing it, children display an uncanny affinity for improvisation as their lives are almost purely experimentation.

Where did this skill go?

As the brain catalogs, the questions about our world are replaced with that which we perceive as answers, and that which we yearn to know is supplanted by that which we already do.  Files of curiosity get filled to capacity, and the files we access often are placed at the top of the pile.  Our lives no longer allow for experimentation because our culture demands results.  The time comes in all of our lives for our brain’s world view to be put to task; ready or not, for better or worse.  The echoes of pain line our path and keep us focused, and we rely on what we know as we race towards the finish, spurred on by our sense of impending mortality.  These echoes of pain are a Governor that keeps us on the straight and narrow.  This Governor is neither good nor bad, but, by virtue of its definition, it is designed to limit us. 

Is Improv really necessary?

No.  Whether or not you choose to acknowledge Improv, bidden or unbidden, the finish will come.

What are the benefits of Improv?

Later in life, Improv can serve as a valuable reassessment of our world view.  Often we wish that we could access our past with “what we know now.”  In a fashion, Improv can provide that.  In the stillness of sincerity and the purity of the unspoiled “now,” we can enjoy an insight that is but a blur at our life’s present pace.  Where exactly are we “now?”  Is our brain’s world view serving us like it should, or is the operating system outdated?  Were our fears justified?  What was the source of our desires?  Have we grown beyond the limits of the Governor that once protected us from embarrassment and harm?  While the answers to these questions are unique to the individual, Improv can serve as a valuable tool to anyone who chooses to wield it.

-Dylan

There was a Mylar balloon in my yard this morning.  I only mention it because finding a Mylar balloon in my yard is part of a very long list of things that I’ve never experienced, but today that list is one experience shorter.  I discovered it when I took my Pit Bull, Bailey, out for her morning walk.  Normally, she waits at the front door until I release her, and then she races onto the front yard and attempts to rub the Gentle Leader from her muzzle.  But this time she stopped, jumped back like a startled horse and growled her low, sub-sonic growl.  When I looked in the direction that her rigid frame was pointing, I, too, was startled.  It’s just not something that you’re ever prepared to see. 

The balloon read:  “Happy Birthday” and its string (ribbon, really) was entangled in some rose bushes that I have yet to remove from their containers and plant.  Every other attempt at transplanting has ended crispy, brown and poorly, so I’ve opted to let living plants be.  But that’s a different story.  There was still a little helium left and the balloon swayed back and forth like a tranquilized cobra.  Appropriately, Bailey proceeded to slink around, low to the ground like a mongoose, all the while growling at the festive intruder.

While Bailey was still apoplectic, I couldn’t help but smile at this random fugitive of joy that had escaped and found its way here.  When I was a young boy, I loved the idea of untethered balloons, riding on a thermal, continually climbing until the helium inside and the thinning atmosphere reached equilibrium.  Slowly, the helium would escape and the balloon would gradually descend.  I thought how magical the place at which it came to rest must be.  Surely it was God Himself who put it there because that’s who was in charge of such monumental decisions.  To choose one place out of infinite places is a choice just too big for humans. 

At my grandfather’s funeral, we released eighty-five red, white and blue balloons, but before we did, we wrote something special on a small card that was knotted to the string.  For the life of me, I can’t remember what I wrote, but I hope it wasn’t trite.  Maybe someone saw it, maybe they didn’t.  Maybe a bird used it to build a nest.  Or maybe it got tangled in someone’s rose bushes.

There was no such message on the Mylar, Happy Birthday balloon littering my yard.

That’s the funny thing about litter.  If it were the foil from a cigarette pack sticking to the thorns, I might have been momentarily indignant, but because this particular bit of litter was used for joy, I saw in it the wry smile of Fate.

I don’t know from where it came; there were no stamps like those on a cartoon steamer trunk.  Nor do I know for whom it was intended; it wasn’t personalized.  To you I say:  If it was or is your birthday, Happy Birthday indeed.  And to God, who sent me your balloon, I say:  Message received.  Thanks for thinking of me.

-Dylan

I recently read an article stating that smoking kills 443,000 prematurely each year.  The statistic comes from the CDC, the Center for Disease Control.  I take exception to this statement.  I have no problem with the “smoking kills” part or even the number.  What I take exception to is the “prematurely” part.  Clearly, this implies that humans have a maturity date (like a Certificate of Deposit) and, upon reaching it, then and only then are they allowed to die.  Anything less would be “premature.”

If this date is known to somebody, and you happen to be reading this Blog, do us all a favor and tell us what it is!  In the bible, it’s “three score and ten” so 70 years.  In the movie “Logan’s Run,” it’s 30.  According to the CDC, it’s unspecified but if you die a smoking related death, whether it’s at 30 or 70, it’s shy of what it should be or, in other words, “premature.”

I have a question for the CDC:  If a person reaches their maturity date, can they expect your blessing to begin smoking?  And will you actively hunt down those who exceed their maturity date and force them to engage in risky behavior?  And what if smoking temporarily saves a person’s life?  Let’s say he bows his head to light a cigarette and a sniper’s bullet misses him by exactly that much.  What if a mad man (by which I mean a crazy guy; not a hunky ad exec from the 60’s on AMC) threatens pull the pin on a grenade unless he gets a cigarette?  In this case, a smoker with a square to lend may save a dozen lives.  Of course this begs the question:  Is a death due to a bullet or grenade considered premature?  Or are those deaths filed under “Right On Time?”  If a smoker dies due to something other than smoking, is his/her death considered “post-mature?”  I imagine that the CDC, as their name would imply, centers around disease control, and I don’t think that bullets and grenades are considered diseases despite the staggering lack of ease that they inflict.  Therefore, bullets and grenades would fall outside the CDC’s jurisdiction.

And just who is in charge of keeping the books on our maturity dates?  I would think it would be God.  If so, is the CDC doing God’s work by enforcing our maturity dates?  Perhaps they should change their name to the Church for Disease Control.  They can even keep their current abbreviation.  Oh, and CDC, since you have a working relationship with the Almighty, could you ask Him why bad things happen to good people?  And then could you ask Him if He could create a burrito so hot that even He couldn’t eat it.  I’ve always been curious about that.

-Dylan

If you ever drive around Milwaukee’s freeway system during the day, you’ll notice that there is a kind of driver on the road that can only be described as “really, really bad.”  The nine-to-fivers have paid upwards of twenty-five dollars to store their cars for the day, but the people who still have access to their automobiles and the wherewithal to drive them are free to turn the highway into a Drivers Training film for the rest of us.  It’s as if they think that the road is lined with soft bumpers that will gently nudge them back on track if their car strays from the lane while they study those strange sticks protruding from the steering column that make the arrows light up on the dashboard.

Thankfully, most of these drivers are off the road when the chutes open and the nine-to-fivers’ cars are released.  In stark contrast to the meandering free-for-all that occurs on the road while they are behind their desks, the nine-to-fivers take to the streets with a finely-focused aggression.  They sit in gridlock like rodeo bulls behind their gates poised to lunge at the slightest opening.  There will be an accident, oh yes, just like one impala will be taken by the crocodile waiting in the watering hole.  It is Darwin’s Rules of the Road, but that’s the agreement.  This is the driving world to which I am accustomed.

This is why I cannot process being rear-ended at three miles per hour by a mini van while waiting at a stoplight.  Surely I was seen or else the mini van would not have been traveling at three miles per hour, right?  My presence could not have surprised her, and yet she drove right into me.  Is this a technique used by daytime drivers?  Approach the stoplight slowly until you feel impact?  Does it reduce wear on the brake pads and shoes by transferring the momentum to another object like me?  Is a complete stop due to another’s car somehow considered an impingement of personal freedom?

Daytime driving is truly like walking among Zombies.  Daytime drivers are slow, aimless and random yet strangely outcome-oriented.  The word “obstacle” is absent from their vocabulary.  According to Dictionary.com, an obstacle is “something that obstructs or hinders progress,” but if you refuse to have your progress hindered, ipso facto there can be no obstacle.  It’s actually quite brilliant in a Zen-like and completely egocentric way.

When I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw that, among the many expressions not displayed on her face, culpability was at the top of the list.  As if Newton’s Third Law of Motion had suddenly been reversed, and my equal and opposite reaction was somehow the cause of her action.  Like the Insurance Companies’ mind-blowing rule that you’re 10% at fault during any accident because you were there.  As long as Insurance Companies are evoking the Butterfly Effect, by that rationale, isn’t it really my parents’ fault for conceiving me in the first place?  And if that’s true, then we have to hold Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer accountable for removing their inhibitions.

I didn’t get out of the car.  I knew there was no damage to speak of because with today’s plastic bumpers you know immediately.  Instead, I swallowed my indignation like a good boy where it will either dissolve or link up with more of its ilk to form a tumor.

A word of advice for you nine-to-fivers:  Stick to rush hour; it’s safer.

-Dylan

Dear Maxim Magazine:

When I went out to my mailbox today, it smelled particularly sexy, and sure enough there you were.  I suspect today’s fragrance was emanating from page 45, the thick page featuring Josh Hartnett and Emporio Armani Diamonds for Men.  Believe me, in a pinch, I will peel open the page and wipe your sticky sample on my pulse points.  However, I must confess, I don’t know who Josh Hartnett is.  Is he an actor?  Musician?  A Pirate?  I base that last guess on his wardrobe and the location and concentration of his facial hair.

For the last year, I’ve passively received your magazine.  I say “passively” because, for the life of me, I don’t remember subscribing.  Oh, I’ll leaf through, mainly out of respect.  I mean, you took the trouble to send it to me and it would be rude not to at least scan it.  I find your information regarding pop culture to be very shiny and bright.  And there’s no doubt that your attempts to accommodate youthful consumerism are perfectly honed, especially the ad for a trust potion called “Liquid Trust.”  Finally, the Sensitive Man’s alternative to Roofies!

But here’s the rub:  I’m almost 40 years old.  That makes me old enough to be the father of many of your airbrushed cover girls.  Despite their “come hither” looks behind smoky eye shadow and their heaving bosoms exposed by falling shoulder straps, the fact that I could be footing the bill for their college tuition makes any lustful thoughts that you’ve intended very creepy and disconcerting; especially when it’s accompanied by an article entitled:  “How to Vote Off Her Panties!”  Then again, whatever gets the kids interested in their civic duty and the democratic process is aces in my book.

I will admit, many years ago, I was a subscriber to Maxim Magazine.  That was back when I lived in a studio apartment, worked at a home improvement store and was eager for any advice as to getting “Her” panties off, voting or otherwise.  As I mentioned, I’m now pushing 40, married and am very knowledgeable when it comes to panties as I regularly launder those of my wife in our large capacity, Sears washing machine.

I suspect the woman who delivers my mail is roughly my age, too.  I often wonder what she thinks when she tucks my property tax bill into the Maxim Magazine so it falls out like one of your subscription cards when I open it.  Does she think:  “Now here’s a man who proudly embraces his Peter Pan complex.  Maybe it’s just the Liquid Trust talking, but I find that refreshing.”  Or is she going to report me?

Maxim Magazine, it is with a heavy heart, due in no small part to the arterial sclerosis common to men of my advancing years that I would like to terminate my non-subscription to your publication.  And believe me when I say:  It’s not you, it’s me.  I think it’s great that you’re introducing kids to the fashions that have survived in my closet lo these twenty years only to reappear, irony-free, in your style section, and if you need an authentic Members Only jacket, mesh tie and Topsiders, don’t hesitate to ask.  My closet is like the Smithsonian. 

So long, and thanks for all the breasts,

Dylan