Dave Barry Is from Mars and Venus

by Dave Barry

  Nevertheless as concerned adults we all need to become wrought up about this menace. People should form organizations and write angry letters. Congress should hold hearings. The Clinton administration should announce a definite policy and then change it. Maybe the Warren Commission should get back together. Also the Defense Department should probably go on Red Alert, because any day now Portugal is going to start shooting back.

  THE EVIL

  EYE

  Call me a wild and crazy guy if you want, but recently, on a whim, I decided to—why not?—turn forty-eight.

  It’s not so bad. Physically, the only serious problem I’ve noticed is that I can no longer read anything printed in letters smaller than Shaquille O’Neal. Also, to read a document, I have to hold it far from my face; more and more, I find myself holding documents—this is awkward on airplanes—with my feet. I can no longer read restaurant menus, so I fake it when the waiter comes around.

  Me (pointing randomly): I’ll have this.

  Waiter: You’ll have your napkin?

  Me: I want that medium rare.

  It’s gotten so bad that I can’t even read the words I’m typing into my computer right now. If my fingers were in a prankish mood, they could type an embarrassing message right in the middle of this sentence HE’S ALWAYS PUTTING US IN HIS NOSE and there is no way I’d be able to tell.

  I suppose I should go see an eye doctor, but if you’re forty-eight, whenever you go to see any kind of doctor, he or she invariably decides to insert a lengthy medical item into your body until the far end of it reaches a different area code. Also, I am frankly fearful that the eye doctor will want me to wear reading glasses. I have a psychological hang-up about this, caused by the fact that, growing up, I wore eyeglasses for 70,000 years. And these were not just any eyeglasses: These were the El Dork-O model, the ones that come from the factory pre-broken with the white tape already wrapped around the nose part. As an adolescent, I was convinced that my glasses were one of the key reasons why the opposite sex did not find me attractive, the other key reason being that I did not reach puberty until approximately age thirty-five.

  Anyway, other than being functionally blind at close range, I remain in superb physical condition for a man of my age who can no longer fit into any of his pants. I have definitely been gaining some weight in the midriff region, despite a rigorous diet regimen of drinking absolutely no beer whatsoever after I pass out. The only lower-body garments I own that still fit me comfortably are towels, which I find myself wearing in more and more social settings. I’m thinking of getting a black one for funerals.

  Because of my midriff situation I was very pleased to read recently about the new Miracle Breakthrough Weight Loss Plan for Mice. In case you missed this, what happened was, scientists extracted a certain chemical ingredient found in thin mice, then injected it into fat mice; the fat mice lost 90 percent more weight than a control group of fat mice who were exposed only to Richard Simmons. The good news is that this same ingredient could produce dramatic weight loss in human beings; the bad news is that before it becomes available, it must be approved by the Food and Drug Administration (motto: “We Haven’t Even Approved Our Motto Yet”). So it’s going to take a while. If you’re overweight and desperate to try this miracle ingredient right away, my advice to you, as a medical professional, is to get hold of a thin mouse and eat it. It can’t be any worse than tofu.

  But getting back to aging: Aside from the vision thing, and the weight thing, and the need to take an afternoon nap almost immediately after I wake up, and the fact that random hairs—I’m talking about long hairs, the kind normally associated with Cher—occasionally erupt from deep inside my ears—aside from these minor problems, I am a superb physical specimen easily mistaken for Brad Pitt.

  Not only that, but I have the mind of a steel trap. Of course very few things in the world—and I include the Home Shopping Network in this statement—are as stupid as a steel trap. What I’m saying is, I have definitely detected a decline in some of my mental facilities. For example, the other day I was in my office, trying to perform a fundamental journalistic function, namely, fill out an expense report, and I needed to divide 3 into a number that, if I recall correctly (which I don’t; that’s the problem), was $125.85, and I couldn’t remember how to do long division. I knew I was supposed to put the 3 into the 12, then bring something down, but what? And how far down? And would I need the “cosine”?

  I was starting to panic, when all of a sudden—this is why you youngsters should pay attention in math class—my old training came back to me, and I knew exactly what to do: Ask Doris. Doris works in my office, and she has a calculator. I guess I should start carrying one around, along with some kind of device that remembers (a) people’s names, (b) where I put the remote control, and (c) what I had planned to do once I got into the kitchen other than stand around wearing a vacant expression normally associated with fish.

  But so what if my memory isn’t what it used to be? My other mental skills are as sharp as ever, and I’m confident that I can continue to do the kind of astute analysis and in-depth research that have characterized this column over the years, which is why today I want to assure you, the readers, that my advancing age will in no way change the fact that MAINLY HE SCRATCHES HIMSELF.

  CONFLICT

  MANAGEMENT

  Today’s Topic for Married People Is:

  Coping with Anger

  Even so-called perfect couples experience conflict. Take Canada geese. They mate for life, so people just assume they get along well; when people see a goose couple flying overhead, honking, they say, “Oh, that’s SO romantic.” What these people don’t realize is that honking is how geese argue. (“Are you SURE we’re heading north?” “YES, dammit.” “Well I think we should ask somebody”) The only reason they mate for life is that they can’t afford lawyers.

  It’s the same with humans. Even if you love somebody very much, you eventually discover that this person has irritating habits, such as leaving toenail clippings around the house as though they were little art displays; or not disposing of the potato-chip bag after eating everything in it except three salt molecules at the bottom; or secretly being also married to somebody else; or humming the song “A Horse with No Name;” or responding to every single statement you make—including obviously factual ones, such as that Montpelier is the capital of Vermont—by saying “Well, that’s your opinion.”

  No matter how much you love your spouse, eventually the smooth unblemished surface of your relationship will be marred by a small pimple of anger, which, if ignored, can grow into a major festering zit of rage that will explode and spew forth a really disgusting metaphor that I do not wish to pursue any further here. This is why you married couples need to learn to cope with your anger, unless you are Roseanne and Tom Arnold, in which case you need to move to separate continents and shut up.

  For an excellent example of a married couple coping with anger, we turn now to an incident that occurred several years ago involving my brother, Sam, and his wife, Pat, when they were on a long car trip. After many hours on the road, they reached Charleston, South Carolina, where they were going to visit an old family friend. Pat was driving, and Sam was giving directions, and they got into an argument about the way he was giving them. (If you don’t understand how such a petty issue could cause an argument, then you have never had a spouse.)

  So Pat decided, okay, if Sam was so good at directions, then HE could drive the stupid car. She got out, slammed the front door, and opened the back door to get in the back with their two-year-old son, Daniel. And then she decided, hey, why should she ride in the back, like a child? So she slammed the back door. But before she could open the front door, Sam, assuming she was in the car, drove off. Pat was left standing, all alone, at night, with no money, wearing a T-shirt, and a miniskirt, in what turned out to be a very bad neighborhood.

  “Hey, pretty lady!” called a male voice.

  Meanwhile, in the car, Sam was driving
with great intensity and focus, reading street signs, making left turns and right turns, showing Pat (he thought) just how excellent his directions were. It was not until he had gone a considerable distance that he realized Pat was being very quiet.

  “Pat?” he said.

  Silence.

  “Daniel,” said Sam, trying to sound as calm as possible, “is Mommy back there?” “No,” said Daniel.

  “Okay, Daniel,” said Sam, performing a high-speed turn. “Just be calm.” He immediately became lost.

  Meanwhile, back in the bad neighborhood, Pat, walking briskly away from various admiring males, found a bus station with a pay phone, called 911, and explained where she was.

  “Do NOT go outside,” said the 911 person.

  Meanwhile Sam, driving frantically while reminding Daniel to stay calm, had located the general area where he’d left Pat. He saw a police officer, rushed up, and quickly told him what had happened.

  The officer said: “You left your wife HERE?” Without another word, the officer leaped into his patrol car and, tires squealing, roared off. Sam never saw him again.

  Meanwhile, at the bus station, another officer, sent by the 911 person, had found Pat, who was explaining the situation.

  “My husband and I were having a disagreement,” she said, “and …”

  “Oh,” said the officer. “A domestic.”

  “No,” said Pat. “It’s not a domestic. My husband just…”

  Another officer arrived.

  “Hey,” said the first officer. “I got a domestic here.” “It’s NOT a domestic,” said Pat.

  Pat was taken to the police station, where the officer called the old family friend—this being the only person Pat knew in Charleston—and explained the situation.

  “I got a Pat Barry here on a domestic,” he said.

  “IT’S NOT A DOMESTIC,” said Pat, in the background.

  Fortunately, Sam also called the old family friend, and he and Pat were reunited at the police station, where Pat graciously elected not to seek the death penalty. So everything worked out fine except that to this day Daniel becomes mildly concerned when Mommy gets out of the car.

  Anyway, I hope Pat and Sam’s experience serves as a lesson to you spouses about the importance of not letting your anger fester, and of using proven psychological techniques for dealing with conflict in your marriage. For example, on long car trips, one of you should ride in the trunk.

  MR. DAVE’S

  BEAUTY TIPS

  Today’s Topic Is: Your Hairstyle

  Is your hairstyle important? To answer that question, let’s consider the starkly different career paths of two individuals: Albert Einstein and Tori Spelling.

  Tori Spelling is a top celebrity and highly successful television star, despite having the natural acting prowess of a Salad Shooter. Why? Because she always has a neat, modern hairstyle. Also her father produces every show on television except the test pattern. But her hair is surely a factor.

  In contrast, Albert Einstein—despite being a brilliant genius who not only discovered the Theory of Relativity (“E=H20”) but also prepared his own tax returns—never so much as appeared on Hollywood Squares. He auditioned repeatedly, but the talent coordinators always turned him down.

  “What was that on his head?” they’d ask each other after he left the studio. “A yak?”

  So we see that hairstyle is very important. This is true even in the animal kingdom. Baboons, for example, spend countless hours grooming each other, applying conditioners, combing fur over the bald spots on their butts, and using all the other little styling tricks that make them the confident, successful, and cosmopolitan creatures that they are, equally at home on a rotting zebra carcass as on a rotting giraffe carcass.

  It is no different with humans. If you have a lunch meeting with an important potential business client, you are definitely going to make a strong impression if you reach over and pick a live insect out of his or her hair. But it also helps if you have a nice hairstyle. Unfortunately, a lot of people—and here I am thinking of women—hate their own hair. In my experience, when a woman looks at herself in a mirror, even if her hairstyle is really nice, she sees Chewbacca.

  Men, on the other hand, tend to feel positive about their hair. Even if a man has a grand total of only four hairs left, he will grow them to the length of extension cords and carefully arrange them so they are running exactly parallel, two inches apart, across his otherwise stark naked skull, and he will look at himself and think, “Whoa, these four hairs are looking GOOD.”

  But whether you’re a woman or a man, you should know the basics of hairstyle management, as presented here in the popular Q and A formal:

  Q. How can I have really nice hair?

  A. If you look at the models in commercials for hair-care products, you’ll notice that their hair is thick, glossy, lustrous, and manageable. What’s their secret? It’s simple: They were born with nice hair. That’s why they are professional hair models, whereas you and the late Albert Einstein are not.

  Q. Should balding white men shave their heads, the way many African-American men, such as Michael Jordan, do?

  A. No. It’s not fair, but the simple truth is that balding African-American men look cool when they shave their heads, whereas balding white men look like giant thumbs.

  Q. Why is it that some older women, when their hair starts to turn gray, instead of dyeing it back to whatever natural-looking shade it originally was, decide to dye it roofing-tar black or traffic-cone orange, which are colors normally associated with Halloween?

  A. Apparently it is some kind of sorority initiation.

  Q. What is the best way to style my hair?

  A. You are asking the wrong person. I’ve been trying for over forty years, with absolutely no success, to get my hair to form a simple part. All I want is a basic straight line, such as can be found on Al Gore, the vice president, and Ken, the doll. So every morning, right after my shower, I attempt to style my hair with a brush and a hair dryer. I cannot begin to tell you how hilarious my hair thinks this is. You’ve heard of “free-range” chicken, right? Well, I have “free-range” hair. It laughs gaily and dances in the blow-dryer breeze, humming “Born Free.” When I’m done, it looks exactly the same as when I started. It is no closer to forming a part than Dom DeLuise is to winning the Olympic pole vault.

  Q. When you were in New York on a book tour several years ago, did you briefly find yourself in the same television-studio makeup room as Barbara Walters?

  A. Yes.

  Q. What is her styling secret?

  A. Enough hair spray to immobilize a buffalo.

  Q. Speaking of famous celebrities, did Madonna discuss any hair-related issues in her diary as published in the November issue of Vanity Fair?

  A. Yes. On page 224, Madonna had this to say about acting in the movies: “People sit around all day scrutinizing you, turning you from left to right, whispering behind the camera, cutting your nose hairs …”

  Q. Madonna has NOSE HAIRS?

  A. You wouldn’t believe. Sometimes she requires a machete.

  Q. What about Princess Diana?

  A. She is known, around the beauty salon, as “Weasel Nostrils.”

  Q. That would be a good name for a rock band.

  A. Yes.

  Q. In conclusion, what is the one word that describes the key to a successful hairstyle?

  A. “Hat.”

  STEALING

  THE SHOW

  Today I would like to explain how I became a career criminal. Basically, it was Oprah’s fault.

  It started when I was on a book tour, which is when you fly all over the place promoting your book, living out of a carry-on suitcase, wearing the same clothes week after week, until you reach the point where they refuse to let you on any more airplanes because your B.O. vapors keep setting off the smoke alarms.

  So on day six, or possibly seventy-four, of the tour, the publisher called to tell me that the Oprah show had called to as
k if I wanted to be on. Of course I said yes. Oprah is, by far, the most powerful force in the book industry; when she endorses a book, millions of loyal viewers rush right out and buy it. If Oprah were to mention that she’s reading the factory repair manual for the 1957 model Hotpoint toaster, it would immediately become the No. 1 bestseller in the world.

  So virtually all authors—and I include Herman Melville in this statement—will do virtually anything to get on Oprah. We are total sluts about this. If the Oprah people decided to do a show on the topic “Authors with Fruit in Their Ears,” you’d tune in to Oprah and see top literary figures such as Norman Mailer and Joyce Carol Oates sitting there with bananas jutting out of both sides of their heads, going “WHAT? WHAT?”

  So I was more than willing to go on the show. The problem was that the topic of my book, which is computers, had nothing to do with the topic of the show I was going to be on, which was “Things We Do in Secret.” As the producer explained to me, the idea for the show was that people would confess to bad things that they had done, such as borrowing something and never returning it. The producer wanted to know if I was willing to confess to something; the clear implication was that if I wasn’t, I might not be on the show.

  So I said heck yes, sure, you bet, I would be THRILLED to confess to something. I would have claimed full responsibility for the Kennedy assassination, if necessary.

  The crime I finally came up with, however, was hotel theft. The specific incident occurred some years ago when I was staying in a luxury Hyatt hotel. There was a little plastic sign in the bathroom that said: “Our towels are 100 percent cotton. Should you wish to purchase a set, they are available in the gift store. Should you prefer the set in your bathroom, a $75 charge will automatically be added to your bill.”