by Dave Barry
We were flying from Chicago to Boston, and while everybody else was reading or sleeping, “Roger” and “Steve,” who are both fully grown men, were staring at their GPS devices and periodically informing each other how far we were from the Boston airport. “Roger” would say, “I'm showing 238 miles,” and “Steve” would say, “I'm showing 241 miles.” Then “Roger” would say, “Now I'm showing 236 miles,” and “Steve” would come back with another figure, and so on. My wife, who was confident that the airplane pilot did not need help locating Boston, thought this was the silliest thing she had ever seen. Whereas I thought: I NEED one of those.
So I got a GPS for Christmas, and I spent the entire day sitting on a couch, putting it to good use. Like, I figured out exactly where our house is. My wife told me this was exciting news. I think she was being sarcastic, but I couldn't be sure, because I had to keep watching the GPS screen, in case our house moved. I also used my GPS to figure out exactly how far my couch is from LaGuardia Airport (1,103 miles). There is NO END to the usefulness of this device! If you're a guy, you need to get one NOW, so you can locate yourself on the planet. While we still have one.
Road to Romantic Ruin Paved with Chain Saws
The other day my son and I were talking, and the subject of women came up, and I realized that it was time he and I had a Serious Talk. It's a talk every father should have with his son; and yet, far too often, we fathers avoid the subject, because it's so awkward.
The subject I am referring to is: buying gifts for women.
This is an area where many men do not have a clue. Exhibit A was my father, who was a very thoughtful man, but who once gave my mother, on their anniversary, the following token of his love, his commitment, and—yes—his passion for her: an electric blanket. He honestly could not understand why, when she opened the box, she gave him that look (you veteran men know the look I mean). After all, this was the deluxe model electric blanket! With an automatic thermostat! What more could any woman WANT?
Another example: I once worked with a guy named George who, for Christmas, gave his wife, for her big gift—and I am not making this gift up—a chain saw. (As he later explained: “Hey, we NEEDED a chain saw.”) Fortunately, the saw was not operational when his wife unwrapped it.
The mistake that George and my dad made, and that many guys make, was thinking that when you choose a gift for a woman, it should do something useful. Wrong! The first rule of buying gifts for women is: THE GIFT SHOULD NOT DO ANYTHING, OR, IF IT DOES, IT SHOULD DO IT BADLY.
For example, let's consider two possible gifts, both of which, theoretically, perform the same function:
GIFT ONE: A state-of-the-art gasoline-powered lantern, with electronic ignition and dual mantles capable of generating 1,200 lumens of light for ten hours on a single tank of fuel.
GIFT TWO: A scented beeswax candle, containing visible particles of bee poop and providing roughly the same illumination as a lukewarm corn dog.
Now to a guy, Gift One is clearly superior, because you could use it to see in the dark. Whereas to a woman, Gift Two is MUCH better, because women love to sit around in the gloom with reeking, sputtering candles, and don't ask ME why. I also don't know why a woman would be ticked off if you gave her a 56-piece socket-wrench set with a 72-tooth reversible ratchet, but thrilled if you give her a tiny, very expensive vial of liquid with a name like “L'Essence de Nooquie Eau de Parfum de Cologne de Toilette de Bidet,” which, to the naked male nostril, does not smell any better than a stick of Juicy Fruit. All I'm saying is that this is the kind of thing women want. (That's why the ultimate gift is jewelry; it's totally useless.)
The second rule of buying gifts for women is: YOU ARE NEVER FINISHED. This is the scary part, the part that my son and his friends are just discovering. If you have a girlfriend, she will give you, at MINIMUM, a birthday gift, an anniversary gift, a Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa gift and a Valentine's Day gift, and every one of these gifts will be nicely wrapped AND accompanied by a thoughtful card. When she gives you this gift, YOU HAVE TO GIVE HER ONE BACK. You can't just open your wallet and say, “Here's, let's see . . . seventeen dollars!”
And, as I told my son, it only gets worse. Looming ahead are bridal showers, weddings, baby showers, Mother's Day, and other Mandatory Gift Occasions that would not even EXIST if men, as is alleged, really ran the world. Women observe ALL of these occasions, and MORE. My wife will buy gifts for NO REASON. She'll go into one of those gift stores at the mall that men never enter, and she'll find something, maybe a tiny cute box that could not hold anything larger than a molecule, and is therefore useless, and she'll buy it, PLUS a thoughtful card, and SHE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHO THE RECIPIENT IS YET. Millions of other women are out doing the same thing, getting farther and farther ahead, while we guys are home watching instant replays. We have no chance of winning this war.
That's what I told my son. It wasn't pleasant, but it was time he knew the truth. Some day, when he is older and stronger, we'll tackle an even more difficult issue, namely, what to do when a woman asks: “Do these pants make me look fat?” (Answer: Flee the country.)
Nice Words About the IRS on the Way to Leavenworth
Every year at tax time, I write a lighthearted “fun” column about the Internal Revenue Service, in which I make a lot of jokes that are not serious, because I am just kidding around in a humorous vein. The truth is that I have the deepest respect for the IRS, and for the thousands of fine men and women and Doberman pinschers who work there.
Ha ha! That's an example of the kind of good-natured “jab” I usually take at the IRS, stemming from affection, rather than hostility. Because in all seriousness, I believe that the IRS is wonderful. If I'm at a party, and some loud braggart tries to put the IRS down, I brandish my hors d'oeuvre at that person with barely controlled fury and say: “Listen, my friend, if you think you can insult a fine federal agency, which under the bold leadership of Commissioner Charles O. Rossotti has made big strides toward modernization and improved customer service, then be prepared to take a celery stalk to the eyeball.”
Call me a loyal taxpayer if you want but, gosh darn it, that is how I feel about the IRS.
Anyway, as I say, over the years I have written quite a few columns affectionately “joshing” the IRS. I had planned to do such a column this year, featuring some good-natured “zingers.” For example, I was going to suggest that all taxpayers should take a special “tax pardon,” under which you would deduct the first $48 million you owed the government, on the grounds that, hey, if Marc Rich doesn't have to pay it, why the heck should YOU? Ha ha! I bet the IRS would get a “kick” out of that!
I was also going to suggest that all you taxpayers check out the fun IRS Internet site that is supposed to teach young people why we pay taxes ( www.irs.gov/individuals/page/0,,id=15567,00.htm). This site features cartoon characters such as “Sherri Shine” and “PJ Fly,” who speak in “hep” youthful slang lingo, as when Sherri Shine says, “So, like, who invented this tax thing?”
On the IRS site, you travel through history with Sherri and PJ in PJ's “time taxi” and learn everything about the American tax system, except (1) why it's riddled with loopholes for special interests; and (2) why it's incomprehensible to most Americans. At the end of this journey, you realize, along with Sherri and PJ, that we have a really swell and fair tax system, and that we need to pay taxes so our government can provide us with benefits such as . . . well, such as an elaborate Internet site that brainwashes young people.
Ha ha! There I go again! What a kidder I am!
So these were some of the humorous “digs” I had planned to take at the IRS this year in my annual tax column. But then, on the VERY MORNING that I was going to write this column, an amazing coincidence occurred: I got a letter from the IRS, informing me that I have been chosen for an audit. I swear I am not making this up. This letter does not have the same fun tone as the IRS Internet site. As I understand it, as a layperson, it basically states that the IRS wants me to produc
e every document that has ever existed, including the original Magna Carta.
I admit that, for just a moment, I wondered if maybe I was being audited because I have written so many columns “poking fun” at the IRS. But then I thought: No way! Because the fine folks of the IRS have a GREAT sense of humor. I'm sure they know that, deep down inside, I am their biggest fan.
That's why this year, instead of my usual “sarcastic” tax column, I want to take this opportunity to sincerely express how much I love the IRS. I am CRAZY for the IRS. I want to kiss the IRS on the lips. I want to take the IRS to a drive-in movie and make a serious move in the direction of third base. That is the passion I feel for the IRS and its director, Mr. Rossotti, who is a god among men. Mr. Rossotti, if you are reading this, let me say in all sincerity that it would be my personal honor to clean your insoles with my tongue. Thank you for even considering this offer.
And to you taxpayers out there, let me say this: Make sure you file your tax return on time! And remember that, even though income taxes can be a “pain in the neck,” the folks at the IRS are regular people just like you, except that they can destroy your life. Also, please send me food in prison.
Daddy's Little Girl a Republican Barbie
What I do, first thing every morning, is play with dolls. The dolls belong to my fifteen-month-old daughter, Sophie, who likes to start the day by giving her dolls a toy bottle. She has a strong nurturing instinct, although it is not matched by her hand-eye coordination, so often she sticks the bottle into a doll's eye. The dolls don't mind. They're always happy. They talk in perky, squeaky doll voices.
“Hi, Sophie!” say the dolls. “Cough cough cough!”
The dolls cough a lot, because I provide their voices, and it is not easy to sound perky and squeaky when you're a fifty-three-year-old man and it is 7 A.M. and you have not had your coffee. You have to struggle to get yourself into a doll-voice mood, and you find yourself wondering what all the other fifty-three-year-old men are doing at that hour. You suspect they're doing manly, grown-up things, like baling hay, or preparing a sales presentation, or burping. They're probably not lying on the family-room floor, speaking for a Barbie doll.
Yes, my daughter has a Barbie doll. And not just any Barbie doll: It's a Republican Convention Delegate Barbie. Really. She's wearing a business suit and has a little delegate credential around her neck. In other respects she's a regular Barbie, by which I mean she has an anatomically impossible figure and enough hair to be a fire hazard.
Republican Convention Delegate Barbie was given to my daughter by a woman I know who is connected with the Mattel company, which made a limited number of Republican and Democratic Barbies that were given to the delegates last year at both political conventions. The woman told me that Convention Delegate Barbie is a valuable collectible item, and we should keep her in the box. But of course as soon as Sophie saw Barbie, she had to get her out of the box and give her a nice, nurturing bottle to the eyeball.
For some reason, Sophie also likes to undress this Barbie, the result being that she (Barbie) can often be found lying among the other toys on the family-room floor, largely naked, her big hairdo going in all directions, as though she has just been engaging in wild party activities with Elmo and Winnie the Pooh, who lie nearby, looking happy but tired. I suspect that, when I am not looking, they smoke little toy cigarettes.
In case you were wondering (and you know you were): Republican Convention Delegate Barbie does not wear a brassiere. I will not go into details here, except to say that if real Republican convention delegates looked like this Barbie, Bill Clinton would definitely have changed parties.
Anyway, I don't mind playing dolls with Sophie, but it has been an adjustment for me. When my son, Rob, was that age, he played exclusively with trucks, so when I played with him in the morning, all I had to do was make a truck sound, BRRRMMM, which was virtually identical to snoring. And before you accuse me of giving my children gender-stereotyped toys, let me stress that I got Sophie a truck, a big studly one. She uses it as a baby carriage. Sometimes she gives it a bottle.
When we're done playing dolls, it's time for Sophie's other favorite activity: watching the same videotape 850 times. As you parents know, babies LOVE repetition. If babies went to comedy clubs, a successful comedian's routine would go like this:
COMEDIAN: I just flew in from the coast, and boy are my arms tired!
AUDIENCE: (Wild laughter.)
COMEDIAN: I just flew in from the coast, and boy are my arms tired!
AUDIENCE: (Wild laughter.)
COMEDIAN: I just flew in from the coast, and . . .
And so on. Lately, the video we watch 850 times a day is “Baby Bach,” in which video images of toys are accompanied by classical music. The theory behind this video, as I understand it, is that looking at these images, and listening to Bach, makes the baby more intelligent. That may be, but it also slowly drives the parents insane. One day, you're going to read a news story about a person who went berserk with a machine gun in a shopping mall when the public-address system started playing classical music. When police search that person's house, I guarantee you they will find “Baby Bach.”
But so WHAT if I'm going crazy? The important thing is, Sophie is learning! She's getting smarter by the minute!
She just stuck a bottle in my eye.
Onward, Upward Go the Sherpa and Schlepper
You can imagine my reaction when I found out that Jamling Tenzing Norgay was coming to Miami.
My reaction was: “Who?”
Then I found out that he is the son of Tenzing Norgay, the legendary Sherpa guide who was with Edmund Hillary in 1953 when they became the first people to reach the top of Mount Everest. In 1996, Jamling followed in his father's footsteps as the climbing leader of the team that went to the summit and filmed the IMAX movie Everest. He was coming to Miami to talk about his excellent book on that expedition, Touching My Father's Soul.
In other words, a world-class mountain climber—a man who survived one of the deadliest climbs on earth—was coming to my city. Not to brag, but I am something of a climber myself. On several occasions, at risk of personal discomfort, I have bypassed a hotel elevator and ascended to the mezzanine level via the stairs.
So I wanted to climb something with Jamling Tenzing Norgay. Specifically, I wanted to climb the highest mountain in Miami-Dade County. I knew this would not be easy, because there ARE no mountains in Miami-Dade County. All of South Florida is basically at sea level, which is why every time there's a hurricane, we wind up with ocean-dwelling fish in our family rooms, flopping around and moving their mouths as if to say: “What are YOU doing here, Lung Breath? This is SEA LEVEL!”
So I decided that, in lieu of a mountain, Jamling and I would attempt to climb the closest approximation we have: The South Dade Solid Waste Disposal Facility. This is a South Florida landmark, known locally as “Mount Trashmore.” It's basically a large mound of garbage covered with dirt.
I proposed this climb to Jamling through his publisher. He agreed to do it, partly because he is a brave man who relishes a challenge, but mainly because he was on a book tour. When you've been on a book tour for a while, you give up and do whatever anybody asks you to do. When I'm on book tour, I allow TV makeup people to apply so much mascara to me that I become a dead ringer for Elizabeth Taylor.
And so on a Saturday morning, I met up with Jamling, a quiet and dignified man, and together we attempted to summit Mount Trashmore. I will not ruin the suspense by telling you up front whether we died. Instead, I will give you a dramatic, minute-by-minute account:
9 A.M.—We set out. Almost immediately I consider turning back, because it is terrifying. I'm referring here to the South Florida traffic, where the motto is: “GET OUT OF MY WAY! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M ON MY CELLPHONE?!?”
9:30 A.M.—We arrive at Mount Trashmore, where we meet our guides for the ascent: communications director Gayle Love, and Bill Thorne, whose title is “chief of landfills.” We discuss the ascent
, and agree that if spoken communication becomes difficult on the summit, we will use hand signals. For example, waving your hand would indicate “Hi!”
9:38 A.M.—Nothing dramatic happens during this particular minute.
9:40 A.M.—We start our ascent. It is frankly easier than I expected. This is because we are riding up in a Jeep. I wonder why this technique has not been used to ascend Everest, but do not mention it to Jamling, lest he smack his forehead and say, “NOW you tell me!”
9:43 A.M.—We're almost to the top, a place where few humans have ever been, unless you count the several hundred people who drive dump trucks up there daily. We leave the Jeep and walk to the summit, ascending a slope that is pitched at about the same angle as a shuffleboard court. That is the kind of mountaineering studs we are.
9:45 A.M.—The summit! We stand 149 feet above sea level, just 28,879 feet lower than Mount Everest itself. It does not smell nearly as bad as we expected. I ask Jamling to compare this experience with being atop Everest.
“It's very different,” he says.
10 A.M.—We begin our descent. On the way down, Chief of Landfills Thorne informs us that Mount Trashmore contains—I am not making this up—human body parts AND dead whales. I can tell Jamling is impressed.
10:03 A.M.—We reach sea level, tired but proud. On the way back to the hotel, we are killed in a car crash.
No, really, we got back fine. It was a successful expedition, and Jamling was a great sport. So buy his book, okay? Because it's there.
Considerate Guests Use the Gas Station Bathroom
