After a long hiatus, I received a question for Ask a Dilettante, which currently lives on my other blog. The question came from a guy I went to high school with who recently found me on facebook. Most of the people I went to high school with who have checked out my blog(s) have pretty much cut off contact shortly thereafter, so it was nice to have someone participate instead.

If you get a wild hair, submit a question. I’ll answer anything.

A few weeks ago I was in the bathroom, when one of my coworkers entered, went into the stall next to mine, and took a seat. The following is what I heard.

- 10 seconds of silence
- “God damn, I hate my life!”
- 5 seconds of silence
- “Hey! Hey! Hey!”
- 1 minute of silence
- “Piece of shit.”
- 30 seconds of silence
- “Damn, I hate my life.”

Then he left.

I was not sure what to make of this encounter.

The following Friday, a group of us went out for a beer after work. One of my other coworkers who has an advanced degree in Psychology mentioned that he believes this gentleman to be borderline schizophrenic. It is important to note that he said this unprompted by me. Things began to make sense when I heard that.

Have you ever had an experience like this (not necessarily while in the bathroom)?
– Tracy, College Station

Before I get to the bathroom encounter, I want to say a little something about your coworker the psychology major. What I’m about to say is based solely on empirical data, so take it as you will. Your coworker is nuts. Every single person I’ve ever met who studied psychology in college, whether working in that field or not after graduation, is fucking crazy. I don’t know if they pick that as a field of study because they’re trying to fix themselves or if they like knowing that they’re not alone in crazy town or if they’re in complete and total denial and think that they are not only not crazy but are in fact so not crazy that they can help others be not crazy. Regardless of the reason, you can take to the bank that your coworker has bodies in the basement, is secretly in love with a parent or has to say the pledge of allegiance before bed each night while naked and hopping on one foot. Something.

On to your question. No, I have not had the sort of bathroom experience you’ve described, though I kind of wish I had. Going to the WC is a fairly mundane experience (assuming you’re healthy), so it’s nice to have a little something to jazz it up. I used to know an old lady who had joke toilet paper in her guest bathroom. The paper had jokes printed on it, it wasn’t a joke like “ha ha, this is fake TP. You have to use your hand.” Because that’s not funny. And neither were the printed jokes, but I appreciated the effort. And the expense. This was, like, two or three decades ago. Do you know how expensive that stuff must have been? As if that weren’t enough, the toilet paper was hanging on a holder that had a little radio built into it. So you could also listen to music while you were sitting there not laughing at the jokes on the toilet paper. Very, uh, thoughtful?

As for whether or not I’ve had encounters like this outside of a bathroom – I was a bartender for a decade. So, yes.

Regarding your coworker, maybe he just needs a pick-me-up to make his life a little brighter. Might I suggest a roll of Loo Laughs? Of course they’re offered by a British company. Scroll down and you’ll see other printed TP options, including Sudoku and crossword. I’m thinking that if you’re sitting there long enough to fill in a crossword, perhaps you might want to look into that.

[Ask a Dilettante invites your questions. Send all queries to crystal at cryjack dot com, and you will receive a response within a week. Ish.]

I’m really excited about wearing my Obama shirt when I go vote. I’m thinking if I’m really friendly to the other people in line and I look good – the shirt’s tight and I fill it out pretty well, if you know what I mean – maybe I’ll be able to sway a few undecided voters. Do you have any tips on ways to impact the masses?
– Kitty, San Antonio

Put that shirt away if you’re planning on voting in Texas. Or Delaware, Kansas, Minnesota, Montana, New Jersey, New York, South Carolina, Tennessee or Vermont. Each of these states prohibits voters from wearing politica insignia, which is defined as pins, buttons, t-shirts, hats, stickers, labels, etc. I’ve looked at the Texas Secretary of State Elections Division website, and I’ve yet to find the exact parameters of what’s acceptable attire at Texas polling places. So they aren’t making it easy to find this information.

Here’s what Snopes had to say on the issue.

So I guess what I’m telling you, Kitty, is that you will be taking a chance wearing your Obama tee to the polls. Worst case scenario is they tell you that you can’t wear the shirt inside to vote. This is when you really hammer your message home – take the thing off in front of your new recruits and turn it inside out. That’ll earn you at least a couple of votes for the cause.

And, yes, I do know what you mean.

[While trying to find out the answer to this question, I ran across this article. Interesting.]

Um, are the democrats sleeping right now or what? Did someone kidnap them? Or maybe give them a ruffie? I’m being serious.
- Steph, Houston

Hhmmm…good question. They (and by “they,” I’m referring to Obama and Biden) have been noticeably quiet for the past week or so. I have a few theories as to why this is.

1 – Perhaps they are letting the hubbub die down over the hypocrite-with-striped-hair, assuming the media will eventually tire of running the same pit bull/moose hunting/camel toe stories and start talking about real news. Since the Rovian tactic of not putting her in front of the media is working like a charm – they’re getting lots of free advertising without letting the world know just what a dumbfuck this hick is – I think it’s time for a reevaluation.

2 – Perhaps they think that the American public is just toying with McCain and his “ticket for the same, wait, I mean change, yeah, change,” knowing that the people who live in this great country are smart enough to see that the choice of the white trash grandmother was purely to distract from McCain’s strong (90% same voting record) support of the policies (failed) of GWB. I think it’s time for a reevaluation.

3 – Perhaps they have become disgusted by a slack-jawed public that is (if the conservative media can be trusted) responding in a positive manner to someone who’s good at toting the party line and regurgitating (performing) words but has no substance of her own. Maybe they’ve just said fuck it, if the majority of the country is really this retarded, let them have it. Let all of the jobs go to China. Let the gas crisis bankrupt most everyone (of course, not special people like the failed CEO of Freddie Mac, who just walked away with a $24 million severance [sorry, that was the guy from five years ago - the guy this year is only getting $14.1 million] while the rest of the country is bailing out the businesses they fucked up). Let them think they’re “fiscal conservatives” when the economy is at its shittiest when the Republicans are in office. Let them talk about a “hands off” government that is not only telling women what they can do with their bodies, it is also listening to our phone conversations, reading our emails and peeking in our windows at our tepid sex lives, which are boring because we’re all so tired from ingesting high fructose corn syrup and trans fats.

Maybe it’s time for America to reevaluate.

I just saw a commercial for a cereal, I think it was Total, that used a Canned Heat song as the background ditty. It really bothered me for some reason, and I’m not sure why.
– Abbie H., Chicago

Though you didn’t really ask a question, Abbie, I get your drift. The growing number of 60s rock songs in TV commercials right now is…not exactly creepy… just…wrong in some way.

On the one hand, it’s great that advertisers are reaching out to the 80 trillion graying-at-the-temples baby boomers, trying to talk to them in their language. But with the exception of a few still keeping the faith, most of that generation is zoning out to Michael Buble now. At most, bands like Canned Heat are a distant memory, summoned only when something brings to mind the opening sequence of Woodstock (the movie).

On the other hand, even though these songs are classics, it becomes hard to separate the music from the commercial if you see it more than a couple of times. Do you really want to think about a particular cellphone service provider when you hear Sly and the Family Stone? Do you want Buffalo Springfield to make you think of a fiber laxative? How about Neil Young equals hair dye for men?

Advertisers try to appeal to the “me” each of us wishes we were/pretend we are. So maybe putting Dennis Hopper in an IRA commercial talking about retirees busting loose and doing more than sitting on a beach in Boca takes the target audience back to the time when they might have had some bite. To the time when Dennis Hopper had some bite. And that somehow translates to…putting money in the bank. Whatever.

Makes me wonder what advertisements to my generation will look like when we near retirement, should the world still be turning by then. Smells Like Teen Spirit playing while a balding Johnny Knoxville talks about IRAs?

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

I’m all for transportation by bike, but what’s up with Houston bikers never observing stop signs and traffic lights? I almost run over and kill a biker every day, and it’s always their fault. Maybe we need to add “bikes too!” to the bottom of every traffic sign and signal.
– Ophelia, Houston-upon-Avon

Oh, Ophelia. You’re missing the real problem with bicyclists: bike shorts. Those things are grotesque. The nut-hugging tightness. The unflattering fit. The tight band around the thighs that leaves the red onion ring indentation. The not-anatomically-appropriate padding. The secret pockets that hold packets of nuts or an extra banana. That’s the real problem with bike riders.

Regarding your issue, you are correct that bicycle riders are supposed to observe the same traffic rules as vehicles. This includes stopping at red lights and stop signs, riding in the same direction as traffic and not riding on the sidewalk. However, when is the last time you saw automobile drivers following the same rules? Well, minus the sidewalk thing. If it’ll make you feel better, here’s a collection of common bicycle and car accidents. Perhaps you can pretend you’re driving the little blue car in the diagrams.

Houstonians are a bit behind the times when it comes to people-powered modes of transportation. Though it might be a pain in the ass to have a bike whiz by you on the street when you’re trying to make a right turn or skirt around you on the sidewalk as you walk to lunch, anyone who’s keeping their car off our already over-crowded streets deserves a break. Unless they’re wearing bike shorts, at which point you should feel free to run their spandexed ass over.

—

On a completely unrelated topic, I have to tell you about the tri-fold brochure than came in my mail this week addressed to “Current Resident.” Hey, that’s me! The brochure informed me that the “theory” that the earth revolves around the sun is bullshit (though that’s not the exact wording they used) and that, in fact, the sun revolves around the earth. This important information either came from the Geocentric Bible Foundation as stated in the pamphlet or a performance artist trying to be funny – hard to tell. Regardless, it made me laugh.

Here is just one of the amazing quotes from the brochure:

Astronomers have deliberately ignored fundamental experimental results of the 1870s and 1880s that showed the earth to be standing still.

I don’t know about you, but when someone is delivering some of that there science stuff to me, I prefer that they are wearing a leech on each earlobe and blaming things on witches. It’s better than all these fancy scientists today using the tubes of the internet to spread rumors about “facts” that just don’t add up. For instance, we all know that gravity doesn’t exist; the earth sucks.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Can you tell me how they ever sell and/or keep all of that prepared food fresh at Central Market? I have a hard time believing that those stuffed meatballs I see there on Monday are not the same ones I see on Friday.
– Ahn, A Concerned Prepared-food Shopper

Perhaps you should quit eyeballing the meatballs on Friday and instead buy some. Don’t contribute to the problem, Ahn!

While it’s hard to imagine the aproned workers at Central Market throwing out any of that delicious grub at the end of each day, it seems that’s exactly what they do with their prepared foods (if anything is left). The Central Market website claims their prepared foods are made fresh daily. Not that anyone expects a corporate website to say the company scrapes the dried crust off the top of its stale food each morning and then re-sells it to unsuspecting yuppies.

The thought of Pam’s Pimiento Cheese and those delicious little cornichons sitting in a dumpster instead of in my stomach makes me sad. Perhaps all is not wasted, though, because there are people out there who liberate this sort of still-delicious, if not slightly gnarly, food. Freegans in the UK and dumpster divers in the US scavenge food from supermarket dumpsters. Just because that clamshell of springrolls is dented and those greens are not as crisp as they could be doesn’t mean the food isn’t any good. Right? Right? Okay, maybe it’s not for everyone.

I doubt that dumpster divers have much luck with the prepared foods at Central Market, though. If you go by that place on any given weekend after about 11AM, the throngs of people crawling all over the place would suggest they don’t have much of anything left when they lock the doors at night. I can’t shop there when it’s busy like that because I start experiencing major anxiety. I’m standing at the scale with my bulk granola in my hand, waiting for the woman in front of me in the Crocs to punch in the numbers for her blanched almonds. But she’s not in a hurry. Nope, she’s actually in the middle of a fascinating conversation with her teenager, who’s ignoring her. And there are hundreds more just like her, standing in front of the meat counter, in the wine section, in front of the Amy’s frozen foods, by the cheese. They’re everywhere. Those meatballs probably sell out each and every day.

*While researching the answer to your question, I ran across an interesting use for bacon grease. Now that’s recycling.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Why do some people talk on the phone when they’re walking/jogging at Memorial Park? Can they not go 30 minutes without their cell phone? The jogging trail seems like the one place you should be able to go without hearing cell phones and people’s annoying chatter. What can I do to solve this annoyance?
– Eric W., Houston

There are a few options at your disposal, Eric. But before we get to those, let’s think about why people make calls from the jogging trail. You know, run a mile in their Nikes. People who talk on the phone while hoofing it down the trail are in desperate need of recognition of their efforts. It’s not enough to be one of the nameless and sweaty going around the track. No, they need the “good for you” of talking to one of their friends who’s NOT exercising. Preferably one who’s sitting in a bar or at Chili’s. Or, better, at the bar at Chili’s. The fastest way to get one of these goobers off the phone is for them to call someone who’s in the middle of a higher cardio burn than they are – at that very moment. Perhaps someone who’s cross-country skiing with a Volkswagen strapped to their back while lifting weights and focusing on the core muscles. Sadly you can’t arrange for that, but there are other things you can do.

– You could strap a bullhorn to your waist and blow it at the jogging jackass as you pass each other. Trouble is, you’ll become more bothersome than the cellphone talker is, and I don’t think that’s your goal.

– An almost noiseless option would be to casually put your foot out as the distracted runner goes by, tripping them up and sending the phone flying. The problem with this one, besides the obvious threat of injury to both of you, is that you’d have to be really nimble to pull it off. Jog, jog, foot out, foot back, jog, all without missing a beat. And then you’d need to run really fast to get away.

– A different approach would be to hand the offender one of these. The issue with this option is you’d have to carry a pad and pen with you, which might require a fanny pack. Fanny packs are almost as annoying as people chattering into cellphones.

I think you should handle this issue by behaving the way that I do when I see someone driving a Hummer. Point and laugh. People respond to humiliation much more than they do a roll of the eyes or a flip of the bird. If enough people point and laugh at dumbasses with cellphones on the jogging trail (and other places where phones are really ridiculous – the restroom, the movies, in bed), those cellphones will dwindle in number. They won’t go away completely, of course, because some people have to talk all the freaking time. But a couple of phone conversations during your evening jog instead of a couple hundred is what I’d consider an improvement. Break a leg. I mean, good luck.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Who should have control of what we watch on TV at home – my roommate, whose TV it is, or me since I own the house?

Assuming your roommate is paying rent and thus contributing money toward your mortgage payments, he/she retains control of the TV. You’re getting a long-term payoff with those rent payments while your roommate is only getting an immediate need fulfilled. Yes, shelter is important – one of the big three – but the payment of rent puts your house partner on more equal footing with you. In other words, you don’t get to lord around the house in an open robe and a Speedo taking control of your roommate’s stuff as you wish.

If your roommate isn’t paying rent, then you must be talking about your spouse or your mother. Either way, the remote stays in their hands and out of yours.

How many unpaid parking tickets can one rack up before getting a boot on one’s car or having said vehicle towed?

According to the City of Houston’s website, your ride can get the boot after three or more citations are past due (over 104 days). Getting your booted car freed can cost nearly $500 (including a $50 “notification fee” in case you’re too much of a dumbass to realize what the big yellow thing attached to your wheel is), so it would be worth it to pay your tickets on time.

Is there any other mechanism, besides years of shitty government, to get folks to realize that voting is actually important?

Most Americans are non-plussed by the typical pool of elected officials we have to choose from and are therefore not that interested in voting. With so many candidates who are variations on the same theme, we often talk about having to choose the lesser of two (or more) evils. It pisses us off, and it makes us not that excited about voting.

At least there are some interesting options for the upcoming Presidential election. We have more to choose from than the typical old white guys. Maybe that will make a difference. Maybe that will be the start of a new trend, where candidates start looking like the people who live in the place they claim to represent. Or maybe people will just concern themselves with American Idol and consider that their civic duty.

If only we could get Kelly Clarkson to run for office…

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Ok, why does Mr. Whipple ask me not to squeeze the Charmin, yet he does it himself? Whipplecrites! They really irk me!
– Connelly Wirth, Houston

First of all, for anyone born after 1980 or so, here’s a link. You will note that once upon a time there was a pencil-thin mustachioed man whose sole purpose at work (we shudder to think about what he was like at home) was to keep women from squeezing the toilet paper. The catch was – the four-pack of rolls was so irresistible, poor Mr. Whipple couldn’t help but squeeze the exact toilet paper he was trying to protect. You can see the pain on his face as he grabs hold and works his hands. He wants to stop, but he can’t. So he focuses his frustrations on the people who so blatantly flaunt their squeezing – right out there in public, next to the Spam and the Rice-a-Roni and the Cheerios.

Though no longer gracing our TV, Mr. Whipple could very well be the mascot for many of our “I resign, wait, no I don’t” members of Congress. They, too, try to regulate that which secretly calls their name. They tell people that they can’t have sex with or marry someone of the same gender, while they are sneaking off to airport bathrooms in hopes of catching someone’s, uh, eye or are sending seriously unsexy text messages to all the young dudes. Under their expensive suits and starched shirts, these poor fools are bubbling cauldrons of desire, wanting so desperately to squeeze the charmin of the guy next to them. But they can’t.

Because they rose to power on a platform of finger-pointing and eeewwww-grossing, they can’t exactly let their secret out. So they attack those who have what they want. You know, the guys in the matching pink polos who are holding hands next to the Spam and the Rice-a-Roni and the Cheerios. In public, Mr. Congressman is condemning Adam and Steve for their lifestyle. In private, Mr. Congressman is nervously following them into the bathroom.

Poor Mr. Whipple and poor Mr. Congressman. If only they’d grown up in more tolerant environments. Perhaps if they’d been allowed to pick out their own toilet paper and squeeze it in the way they most wanted to, perhaps then they would be satisfied to pay attention to their own sex lives and leave everyone else’s alone.

So, Connelly, do not be irked by the Whipplecrite. Hope that he comes on out of that closet and squeezes his charmin however he likes. As long as he doesn’t squeeze it vertically – that’s just wrong.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

I’m a 32 year-old man, and I’ve never been in a fight. A real fist fight, with bloody noses and all that. Have I missed out on something, some necessary, primal step in my adolescent development that would have turned me into a he-man? Should I go pick a fight (preferably with a teenage girl or an elderly person)? Would it do any good? Is it too late for me?
– Milquetoast, Houston

It’s not too late for you, but I do recommend that you immediately get yourself into an altercation of some sort. Since you’re in your thirties, it doesn’t have to be a bloody fist fight. A rousing verbal scuffle would be enough. Or maybe something with shoving. Whatever form it takes, the confrontation should be with someone who could potentially kick your ass.

The reason? If you’ve never been in a situation that had the possibility of ending in an ass kicking (yours), you haven’t given yourself your due. Some people in your shoes become mamma’s boys who cower at the slightest sign of struggle. Others just turn into obnoxious, fake-strong douchebags.

(Seriously, click on that link. Granted, Cat Scratch Fever was not the kind of ditty that made you think, “I’ll bet the person who wrote that song is a real thinker. The kind of sensitive type who could sit around with me on my futon while we talk about the wonders of the universe and the sweetness of kitten kisses.” No, we never expected that of the Nuge, but we also sure as hell didn’t expect him to be on stage, doing what he considers to be a “concert” performance these days, waving around not one but TWO machine guns. How small must that guy’s penis be? TWO machine guns? Does he have an innie? If so, maybe he can store a couple of bullets up there. That way, if anyone ever tries to kick him in the balls, his mangina will blow their foot off.)

You don’t want to let your life of not-fighting make you afraid to stand up when the need arises, nor do you want to give yourself a false sense of bravado since you’ve never been beat down. You’re just aiming for good old fashioned middle of the road confidence. The kind of confidence that comes only when you’ve successfully navigated yourself out of murky, potential ass whupping, waters. Remember – you don’t have to exchange fisticuffs. Words can hurt, too. Just ask the Nuge.

(PS – The “special edition” cover of Nugent’s new album would make Spinal Tap weep – it features a naked, bound woman on a serving platter full of vegetables with a grenade stuffed in her mouth. Classic.)

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

The Chinese obviously hate us: First, they tried to poison our dogs, then our teeth, and now they’re after our kids. Does this mean we should be keeping a closer eye on Yao Ming? Or ChineseElvis?
–Red Ballsworth, Houston

Now that Yao Ming has entered wedded bliss, I don’t think he has the time to plot our downfall. Plus, he’s been living in Houston long enough to have embraced our culture at least a little bit. He’s probably driving a Hummer at this point. Everyone knows when you’re in the middle of a hummer, not much else is on your mind.

Though it’s not clear where he was born, ChineseElvis considers the UK his “spiritual homeland.” If you read his bio, it tells you that he was “trained by authentic homosexuals in the art of theatre.” While there’s a lot going on in that sentence, the general message is that ChineseElvis is more focused on being fabulous than he is on taking down the US.

I’m sure plenty of countries would like to pop a cap in our collective ass. The mouth-breathing navel-starers that seem to be reproducing at an exponential rate (B. Spears, I’m looking your general direction) are dragging us down. Lack of substance and an absence of intelligence are now worn as badges of honor. Internationally, the US is a big bully. And you know what happens to bullies…they eventually become fat and bald and are humiliated by the skinny nerds they used to beat up.

So I don’t know if China has it in for us, but if it does, I can tell you how it will go down. The whole plan was documented in the Twilight Zone in the mid-80s. We fat, bitchy Americans will go to a restaurant in Chinatown. The food will be delicious, and we’ll eat ourselves silly. Well past the point of satiety, we’ll still be ravenous. The food keeps coming, but the dishes look sinister. Is that a fried baby bird? And that looks like an eel. An eel that’s still alive. Why am I still hungry? Why do I keep eating these things that disgust me? I can’t stop. I won’t stop. Until…until…

BOOM. We explode.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Don’t telemarketers and bill collectors know that the long pause when you answer the phone or the (even worse) “please hold for an important announcement” greeting is just a signal to immediately hang up? They’re already inhibited by caller id. Why do they make it even harder on themselves?
– Jeff Balke, Houston

A lot of things don’t make much sense, Jeff. Why does a business that’s been based in Houston for over a century have no interest in preserving two beautiful structures that decades of Houstonians (many of them past Weingarten’s customers) grew up with? Why does the very un-funny Carlos Mencia have his own show? And why is it that the majority of comments on the Houston Chronicle’s website seem to be made by retarded militia members?

Even if you’ve placed your number on the national do not call list, it seems these gnats, these swine, these havers of the shittiest job ever keep calling. Of course, they aren’t always trying to sell you life insurance. The majority of calls I receive (and I’m on the do not call list) are from various charitable causes I’ve supported in the past. It’s really hard to be rude to someone from an organization that feeds the hungry or supports human rights or finds homes for fuzzy baby animals. Still, I’ve been staying on the line lately to try to weed out the riff-raff. There’s some satisfaction in getting your number removed from the list. Or put on the list. Whatever.

A fun thing to do is answer the phone, wait for the pregnant pause to end and someone to come on the line and mispronounce your name. Cheerily ask them to hold on for a moment while you [fill in the blank]. Set the phone down, wait for about five minutes, then hang up. And don’t answer when they call back. Does it accomplish anything? No. Is it vaguely satisfying, on a very childish level? Yes.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

When/where is it ever appropriate/cool to wear a band’s t-shirt? Obviously not to their concert, but should you be a certain distance away from where the band is known/popular? I would think the goal would be to evangelize to people who don’t know they exist. Also, I have a Phil Collins concert T from the early 90′s. How should I destroy it? –Mason Jackson, Austin

If you’re talking about a local band’s tee shirt, whatever qualifies as “out of town” should be an appropriate enough distance. The further you go, the more the cool factor rises. However, when it comes to national acts, you can’t get far enough away. Especially since everyone knows that “official tour” merch goes for, at minimum, $30 these days. It just makes you look like a jackass with money to burn. Regarding the Phil Collins tee shirt, you could always wear it ironically. Which I guess is the second part of the equation. If distance = cool for local band shirts, perhaps time = acceptable for national acts.

The mention of Phil Collins started me thinking about the urban legend surrounding In the Air Tonight. Stories vary, but the basic version is that Phil witnessed someone’s death. This death was either caused by or could have been prevented by another man (who remains nameless in pretty much all forms of the tale). Rather than call the police, Phil invites the killer to a concert and debuts In the Air Tonight, singing directly to the murderer in the front row.

Ignoring the veracity of the story, just think about it for a moment… You’ve just killed someone. Perhaps it was self-defense, maybe it was a crime of passion, maybe you’re just a psycho killer. Whatever your reason, the murder would probably get you pretty jacked-up emotionally. You’re flying high on adrenalin. Your hands are bloody. You are mostly horrified by what you’ve done, but part of you is aroused. You think you might stop off for some drive-through fried chicken on the way home. Your mind is occupied by these thoughts and a million others as you turn away from the carnage to return to your car, shut the trunk and get the hell out of there. You aren’t looking up because you’re toweling the blood off your murderous hands when you realize that someone is standing right in front of you. Your heart jumps into your throat as you look up, sure it is the PO-lice.

It’s Phil Collins.

The randomness of Phil Collins standing there is just too much. I don’t think it would even bother you, the murderer, that much. It would just be too random.

Uh, hey Phil Collins.

Phil is standing there in an overcoat and a snap-brim hat. He’s not saying anything as he stares off into nothingness.

Perhaps he is distracted by something he hears in the air tonight.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

How much are you supposed to tip a pizza delivery driver?

Assuming you’re ordering only one or two pizzas (and pizza is ALL you’re ordering), $3 to $5 is probably a good estimate. If you ordered out because Houston is experiencing one of its “flood events” and you didn’t want to risk floating down the street in your car, you might consider hooking the guy up with a little extra.

[Note: Dilettante will continue to use “guy,” “dude” or “fella” when referring to pizza delivery drivers because I have not in my time on earth seen a female pizza delivery driver – I have no doubt they are out there, but I’ve never run across one]

I have friends (cheap bastard friends) who only tip a buck or two for pizza delivery. You’re not exactly making it worth the pizza dude’s time, especially since that barely covers the gas he has to pay for to get to you (most, if not all, pizza joints do not reimburse for gas). And while tipping inside a restaurant is often based on the entire hour or so you’re with your waiter, the pizza fella only interacts with you for a minute or two. It doesn’t matter if his hair is a bit crusty or if he smells funny. He got you your pizza, it’s hot, and you didn’t have to drag your ass off the couch to pick it up.

Of course, bad tippers are not the only prob on the job for pizza guys. “Drivers-sales workers” – the Bureau of Labor’s description of what pizza delivery drivers do for a living – is the FIFTH most dangerous occupation in America. Fifth. Because they get jacked just trying to do their jobs. There’s a website devoted to pizza delivery guy stories – they range from the no tip customer to the man-in-drag customer to the inevitable obese, sexy customer.

Isn’t that worth a few bucks? These guys are risking life, limb and libido just to bring pizza to your lazy ass. Tip accordingly.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Is that a magic wand in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

Yeah, that innuendo doesn’t really work on chicks. Dilettante will forgive you because I assume you’re caught up in Harry Potter fever. Not to be confused with Welcome Back Kotter fever, which died out years ago.

I didn’t know they were still teaching kids how to read, so this weekend’s Harry Potter phenomenon was a nice surprise. Of course, a quick glance at news reports from any major city showed much more than teens and ‘tweens in line. There were plenty of adults, too. And not just pedophiles. There are tons of parents who are buying the book “for their kids” but are reading it first, before there are grape jelly fingerprints inside.

Readers are pissed at the New York Times for reviewing the book prior to its release date because they claimed it ruined the book’s surprises. For the kiddies. I don’t think even the most precocious, precious children are sitting around Starbucks slurping down caffeine, munching on a bran muffin and reading the Times. If they are, they’re begging for an ass whupping from one of their more slovenly and slow-thinking cohorts. As for the adults who are pissed about it – DON’T READ THE REVIEW if you want it all to remain a surprise. I mean, really. Turn the freaking page. Unless someone has stretched your eyelids open and is forcing you to read the printed word. Then it’s not your fault. But I would suggest that you have more pressing matters to attend to than worrying about young Harry’s fate.

And regarding your question: Yes, I am happy to see you.

Dilettante, I’m about to take off on a road trip across America. Not so much Kerouac (Jack) as Roker (Al). I’m traveling in a Winnebago and not exactly roughing it. In order to balance out the trip, I’d love some suggestions on divey places to eat along the way.

On a road trip, the best eats are usually the places in between. The greasy spoon on the side of the highway. The shaved ice stand in an otherwise unremarkable little town. The random sushi place in the middle of nowhere. Actually, scratch that last one.

Roadfood Chowhound is the best bet for mapping out your culinary journey. Bon appétit.

I live in a two bedroom apartment, but I’ve run out of space for all my stuff. Is there a mini-storage facility you could recommend?

Unless you’re about to go overseas and have to lose the apartment, you don’t need mini-storage. What you do need is to go through your shit. If there are things you can live without long enough to put them in a climate-controlled box away from your home, I will posit that you can live without those things permanently.

Why is it that homes are bigger than ever, yet there never seems to be enough room for our stuff? The self-storage industry is booming, with 1 in 10 US households renting a unit. Is it Ikea’s fault? Has our ability to purchase particleboard furniture at rock bottom prices caused us to buy a bunch of crappy furniture we don’t really need yet can’t make ourselves throw away? If so, the money saved by going Ikea is negated by the money spent having to rent a one-room apartment for your furniture. Why should you furniture have its own place? You had to wait until you graduated from high school before you got yours. If your furniture wants to live on its own, it can go out and get a job.

Other than spreading computer viruses, does spam actually do anything? Who opens those ridiculous messages?

Dilettante’s email service is pretty good about catching spam. However, a message with the subject line “Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March” crept through this morning. I had to open it. Obviously.

The message was in two parts. The top section was a simple box with an ad for a Canadian pharmacy carrying items such as “Viagra Jelly.” Yummy on a toasted English muffin. Under the advert was what appeared to be random sentences grabbed willy-nilly from works of fiction, user manuals and math texts. It’s either experimental fiction or a way to get around spam filters. Maybe both.

Though you may not be in the market for a lotion that will enlarge parts of your body, it seems plenty of other people are. And that’s the rub. Pardon the pun. Maybe spam speaks to our greatest insecurities, offering us things that we wouldn’t actually search for on our own. Maybe you don’t realize how unsatisfied your partner is until you read a spam message alerting you to that fact. Maybe you really would like to chat up a lonely woman from another country. Maybe spam holds the key to getting your life together, if only you would open the message and accept the help being offered. For a fee, of course.

Come on, Viagra jelly?

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

I’m thinking of buying my first new car, and I’m terrified of the whole process. I just know I’m going to get screwed. Do you have any tips for me? I don’t know what undercoating is!

You need two basic items when traveling the murky waters of car buying: education and the ability to walk away. The first one is easy; the second is a little more difficult if you’re looking at a vehicle that tickles you in just the right spot.

Edmunds is a great place to start. You can look up the MSRP, dealer invoice and True Market Value (TMV = the average price other people are paying in your area) for the vehicle you’re considering. The site provides photographs and extensive reviews, and it lists any incentives that are being offered. Read this nine-part series in which a journalist goes undercover as a car salesman. It’s an eye-opening look at the pressures put on sales staff to sell sell sell and the psychology they employ to try to do the deal.

After you’ve done your research, request quotes online through Edmunds, CarsDirect, Autobytel and Cars.com. This lets dealers know that you are an educated potential customer. And you want dealers to compete against each other for your business. Most inquiries result in a phone call from a salesperson. At this point, get a ballpark price. When salespeople know you’re talking to multiple car dealers, they have to give you a fairly decent price just to get you in the door. Ask for their preliminary quote to be faxed to you so you have written proof of the conversation.

At the dealership, enjoy the test drive but don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. Even if you’ve been driving a piece of crap that belches black smoke every time you crank the engine. Even if the headliner has come loose and rests on your head while you drive. Even if the car overheats constantly and requires that the heater be run in the dead of summer. Play it cool.

After the test drive, try to keep the conversation concentrated on the cost of the car. If you are going to trade in your vehicle or apply for a loan from the car manufacturer, save that part of the discussion until after you’ve set the price of the new car. This is hard to do. A great way to keep the conversation focused on the new car is to come into the deal with a loan already secured from your bank or an online lender such as eLoan. If you have a car to trade in, take it to CarMax first to see what they’ll give you for it. They will often pay you more for your vehicle than you can get in trade, though you don’t get the tax break you do when you trade one car for another.

If the salesperson thinks they can’t squeeze money out of the loan or trade-in, they may not give you the best deal on the new car. That’s why you play it easy-breezy. Tell them that you have a loan secured, but you’re interested in seeing what they can do for you. Tell them that you have an offer for your wonderful old car, but you’d like to give the dealership a crack at it. Keep them guessing as to your intentions, and don’t let them know the APR of your loan or the amount CarMax is willing to give you. And under NO circumstances should you EVER tell them what you want your monthly car payment to be. This is an amateur mistake. A dealership can give you that $300 monthly payment you desire. But for how many months?

Walking out is the greatest negotiation tool you have. Ultimately YOU control the deal. It’s your money, and if you don’t get the price you want, move on. If you have set a realistic price target, you will find a dealer who will work with you. Stick to your guns. Salespeople who claim they’ve given you the absolute best price they can will suddenly find new options when you grab your stuff and prepare to leave.

Eyes on the prize, my friend. A little research and preparation and maintaining the ability to get up and walk will result in you not getting screwed. Oh, undercoating is unnecessary bullshit and you can Scotchgard your own upholstery for less than $10. Good luck!

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Did you see The Police reunion tour at Toyota Center Friday night? I know you like all that old crap.

You’re only as old as you feel, sir. And yes, Dilettante saw the show. Sigh. Here’s the deal. The Police broke up before I was old enough to go to concerts. So for the past twenty-something years, I’ve regretted never having seen them live. Sure, I’ve been to more than my share of Sting concerts, but I try to keep that under my hat. And I don’t wear a hat, so you can imagine how hard that’s been.

When the rumor was going around that the Police were going to do a “surprise” performance at the Grammys, I greeted the news with cautious optimism. When I watched their performance at the awards show, the optimism turned to outright fear. Not only did they do one of their crappiest songs (Roxanne), but they didn’t sound all that great. I was not going to pass up the opportunity to see them in Houston, however, so I bought tickets the moment they went on sale. Guess they were a hot commodity because the pair of seats I purchased were behind the stage.

The seats were so shitty, a sherpa led us only part of the way there. He handed each of us a small baggie with some sort of jerky in it and told us to “stay together.” He lingered a moment longer, then left to make his way back down to ground level. After shooing off the goats that were in our seats, we each took a hit of oxygen from the tank we’d stolen from the sherpa. The crappy view ended up being not bad for two reasons: Sting’s ass (yoga) and Stewart Copeland’s drumming (wow). Andy Summers looked like a guitar teacher who had to step in at the last minute to play a student recital in a gymnasium. It was like he was embarrassed to be there yet couldn’t help but wail on the guitar, all the while wearing a disinterested look on his face so no one would think he was having fun.

As for the music part of the show, they played new arrangements of many of their songs. None were as bad as Spinal Tap’s Jazz Odyssey period, but they were certainly reminiscent. “Hope you enjoy our new direction.” If these guys had been touring for the past twenty-five years, I’d understand their desire to play old songs in new ways. But this is a reunion tour, and many people in the audience never got to hear these songs in their original form. I’ve already heard the jazzy versions during Sting concerts (back under the hat, you), so I wanted (and expected) the undiluted version at this show. Still, I’m glad to have gone. And there’s a little bit of that jerky left.

I read Houstonist religiously and Austinist when I feel like being a mainstream hipster, but I’m confused right now. Are you and your -ist friends now writing for Texas Monthly? What gives?

Q&A columns are popping up like CVS stores lately, aren’t they? Guess a lot of people have questions and a lot of other people think they have answers. At least your friend Dilettante is the only columnist (I think) who combines the snotty third person with the more regular first person. No, it’s not grammatically correct. But that’s okay. You and I understand each other. As for your question, as far as Dilettante can tell the new Texanist column has nothing to do with Houstonist, Austinist or any of the other -ist sites. Also, it looks like Texanist doesn’t make up his letters like Dilettante sometimes does (though this particular entry was sparked by a real letter). Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?

Thanks for the compliment, Texas Monthly.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

What is that bright, shiny yellow orb up in the sky? And why is there a slinky gray thing following me around?

The bright, shiny yellow orb is called “the sun.” It’s always above us during the day, but we haven’t been able to see it for some time. Enjoy it while you can because sources say the sun will be gone again the rest of the week. The slinky gray thing that is following you around is probably your shadow, which relies upon the sun to be visible. Unless you’ve angered a demon or something. If so, I can’t help you there.

My job isn’t doing it for me anymore, so I’ve been thinking of making a career change. Trouble is, I can’t figure out what to do next. I’m really organized and good with numbers, but I’d like something that involves working with the public a little more. Any suggestions?

Well, you could take a page from Jeff Yu-Kuang Lin’s career book and make a BIG change. Lin was bored with his software job, so he used the money he made when his company was sold to open a brothel. He said he wasn’t big pimpin’ for the money but because he wanted to try “something different.”

Those of us who have suffered from the occasional bout of work fatigue can understand his decision to shake things up. However, most of us wouldn’t go into the ‘ho business – not even on the days when an ice water enema is a more attractive option than going into work. There are more reasonable alternatives.

The best thing to do when considering a job change is to think about what you like and what you are good at doing. Do you like dogs and want to be your own boss? Start a dog walking business. Do you enjoy kids and want to make a difference in the world? Enroll in fast track certification and start teaching in Houston’s public schools this fall. Have a green thumb and like making sausage? Open a, uh, charcuterie and plant boutique.

Life is too short to spend chained to a desk if you really long to run through the grass barefoot. Good luck figuring it out. Make sure you let the rest of us know so we can follow your trail.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Can you please explain to me the thinking behind headlights that stay on AFTER you’ve turned the car off? Unless your car is pointed exactly the direction you’re walking in, the lights don’t do you much good. What’s the deal?

Picture this. You’re standing outside at night – perhaps you’ve just finished dinner and are waiting for the valet to retrieve your car from a spot a few feet away – when you see a guy pull into the parking lot next door to the restaurant. He hops out of his car, but the headlights remain on. You yell over to him, “Hey, buddy, you left your lights on.” He barely pauses to look over at you with a combination of pity and disgust and then says, “They turn off on their own.” At that moment, magically, his vehicle’s lights turn off. He walks into the all night tanning salon or check cashing place, and your eyelid starts twitching.

So it would seem that the point is to make the occasional good Samaritan feel like an asshole. A twitchy asshole.

Dilettante knows from personal experience that the average person mistakenly leaves their headlights on long enough to drain the battery exactly ONCE. You tend to not forget again. But car manufacturers seem to think that the average person is incapable of managing his/her business. Are we really so stupid that we can’t find our way without a talking computer telling us when to turn? Are we really in such a hurry that we need remote start buttons on our key fobs, just waiting for our fat little fingers to push them?

The only thing today’s cars are missing is a place to put the Grey Poupon.

When the skies opened this week, trapping me in my car for over an hour while I waited for high waters to subside so I could get home, I started going a little stir crazy. There’s something very wrong about being in your vehicle and not moving. Unless you’re in traffic, which is a given in this town. Since Houston seems to flood at least once a week, do you have any suggestions for in car entertainment?

What, you don’t have an in-dash DVD player? For shame. You must be one of those old-fashioned people who likes to pay attention to the road while driving. BOR-ing.

- Did you know that you can use the u-shaped thingy in your car’s door jamb to open bottled beer? This, of course, requires that you have bottled beer on hand. I recommend you keep a cooler in the trunk of your car for the remainder of the summer thunderstorm season, just in case.

- Keep home-office receipts in your glove box, and you can work on your taxes while listening to some Doobie Brothers.

- Get out of the car and commune with the other stranded drivers. This is a great opportunity to take the pulse of your fellow man. Just watch for traveling hordes of mosquitoes.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

My husband and I went out to dinner last night. The restaurant was valet only, and it cost $6. We didn’t really mind until we watched the attendant park the car just a few feet from where we were standing. Then, after dinner, we had to give a different valet guy a few dollars for a tip when he retrieved our car. Seems kind of ridiculous to pay almost ten bucks for a parking job when the car is never more than a few yards from the entrance to the restaurant. Is valet being offered as a service, or is it just a scam?

Dilettante feels your pain. She can remember back about ten years ago when restaurant patrons had the parking lot for self-parking. Valet parking, if it was offered at all, took place far enough away that attendants spent the entire night running, full steam, between restaurant and unknown parking place.

At some point over the past few years, there was a global shift in Houston restaurant parking. The valet and the customer have traded spaces. If you’re not interested in valet and wish to park your own car, you know about unknown parking place. It’s at least a block or two away. It might be a dank, mostly-empty parking garage with poor lighting, or it might be on the street next to a weedy, vacant lot with no sidewalk. Or, if you are unlucky enough to be on a street with multiple three-story townhouses that require a driveway every few feet, there is no place to park. Except for the restaurant’s parking lot, which can only be accessed by a car driven, recklessly, by a valet attendant.

So you keep driving, trying to act casual while your dinner companion repeatedly tells you to just valet the car and be done with it, dammit. You begin to explain why you will not just valet the car and be done with it, dammit, but you stop mid-rant because you see a spot. Ha ha! It’s less than a block from the restaurant! You come to a smooth stop, getting ready to throw it into reverse and back in only to find a “no parking from 9AM to 8AM” sign. Sigh.

It is at this point that Dilettante just keeps on driving. If a restaurant is going to make it that hard on the customer who is uninterested in handing over the keys to a guy in a little vest, the customer has the option to not hand over any money to the waiter (who might also be wearing a little vest).

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

I have to go to a wedding shower this week. It’s the second one this month (two different couples), and in addition to the shower gifts, I’ll bring another present to each wedding. All of this shopping is costing me a lot of money, and one of the couples is on their second marriage. At what point can I stop buying my friends gravy boats and placemats?

This thought has crossed Dilettante’s mind a time or two. I find it harder and harder to go to wedding showers for friends who are in their 30s. You throw a young couple a shower because they are, in theory, moving out of their parents’ houses and into their own. In that situation, the couple presumably doesn’t have the basic necessities for domestic living, and they need a little help from friends and family. But Americans are getting married later than they used to; most men and women are in their late twenties before they embark on their first marriages.

If you’ve been living on your own since at least college – five years, a decade or more – don’t you already own plates? And pots and pans and glassware and a few forks? Of course you do. So the whole concept of sending all your friends to Macy’s to buy you the shiny stuff you scanned during a frenetic shopping spree, pointing that electronic reader at everything that caught your eye, just seems so…silly.

There should be an age limit to the wedding shower. If you’ve been on your own for a decade or more, no shower. Wedding gifts are still acceptable, but guests should be able to give you whatever they feel is appropriate. As for the couples who request cash donations for their honeymoon, stock portfolio, house down payment – they should get a ceramic chicken sculpture.

When are we going to be able to resume flying with full-size toiletries in our carry-on bags? I’m going out of town for two weeks and can’t fit everything I need in a little zippered sandwich baggie.

Why don’t you just put your toiletries in your checked luggage? Oh, right, because the changes in pressure in the luggage compartment inevitably cause at least one item to explode, thereby making all of your clothes smell like CK One.

Dilettante had to fly during the no-liquids-on-board period, and it was tough knowing that my contact lens solution was baking in the bowels of the airplane while I watched a guy walk on board illegally carrying a big cup of Starbucks coffee (or was it a bomb???). This is back when you weren’t supposed to bring even a bottle of water purchased AT THE AIRPORT onto the flight. So there has been some progress – now you can bring on all the over-priced airport water you want in addition to tiny tubes of toothpaste and little bottles of mouthwash. Once the next “threat” arrives, probably something involving belts or hats or maybe scarves, toiletries will no longer be on the hit list. Hopefully. Then again, we’re still having to remove our shoes.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Last night, I went out with some friends for a few drinks. Since when has Cinco de Mayo become such a big drinking event? It’s not even a major holiday in Mexico.

As long as Dilettante has been aware of Cinco de Mayo, it has been a drinking holiday. But it does seem to be turning into more and more of an excuse to go out and get ‘faced. We have at least one holiday each month that provides a great chance to wear a stupid themed hat and drink too much. Check it.

January = New Year’s Day (booze and glitter)
February = Mardi Gras (titties, hurricanes and little plastic baby hidden in cake)
March = St. Patrick’s Day (wow, green puke)
April = Earth Day (organic home brew)
May = Cinco de Mayo, Memorial Day (Mexican beer for the former and beer consumed on or near water for the latter)
June = Father’s Day (good scotch and shitty neckties)
July = the Fourth (sparklers and sweating over margarita machine that won’t freeze right)
September = Labor Day (basically, it’s Memorial Day II)
October = Halloween (dress like a whore and drink red wine, pretending it’s blood)
November = Thanksgiving (I’m so full I don’t think I can have another…actually, pass me the gravy boat and the bourbon – I just had an idea)
December = Hanukkah and Christmas (nothing shows how much you care about your spiritual side like going out after being with the family and getting plowed to wipe the memory of it from your mind)

You’ll note there’s nothing really to celebrate in August on a national scale. We need, no, we must create a new drunken holiday for the eighth month. Let’s brainstorm.

The first week of August is breastfeeding week around the world, and it’s clown week in the US. Is there the chance to combine those two things? Actually, the visual of a breastfeeding clown is too disorienting, especially to drunks. Scratch that.

Celebrating birthdays is always fun. Both Jerry Garcia and Orville Wright were born in August. Wait. The chance that the police might up their presence on “Get High” night makes it a bad choice.

There are significant historical events. August 6, the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. Get Bombed? Nope. Too much of a tragedy, not that most people know the reason behind the events they’re marking by getting plowed.

My vote is August 8. It’s located almost exactly between July 4th and Labor Day. And there’s already an “established” holiday. Seriously, it’s Sneak Some Zucchini on Your Neighbor’s Porch Day. How would the booze get worked into this equation? Giving people the opportunity to walk around with a large green zucchini strapped to their waists is a slam dunk. Just like Halloween, the potential naughty aspect will make people want to be involved. The type of drink doesn’t really matter. Perhaps it could utilize something else from the garden – the lemon. August is a hot month, so a vodka with lemonade would be really refreshing, plus it’ll get you drunk. That’s when you go sneaking around the neighborhood with your zucchini in your hand, leaving it on people’s porches. Works for me.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

The former global AIDS coordinator had to resign from his position this week because it came to light that he hired “escorts.” How do people in power expect any of us to take them seriously when it seems like every week another “leader” is outed for not practicing what they preach?

Since when do people in power think they get to live beyond the rules they themselves have created? Since the beginning of time. Duh.

They need to follow the lead of the Who’s Pete Townsend. He was busted buying kiddie porn online, and when caught claimed he was doing research. See, that absolves you of responsibility. You’re doing it for the greater good of humanity. Research.

The man you mentioned, Randall Tobias, encouraged abstinence rather than the usage of condoms in preventing the spread of HIV/AIDS, saying that condoms were ineffective. When busted this week for having used an escort service, he claimed that he only received massages. (Sound familiar? Pastor Ted Haggard also claimed he was just getting a massage from the male prostitute with whom he had a three-year relationship. If Tobias and Haggard were really just getting massages, each would have gone to a licensed masseuse rather than risk scandal by using an escort service. Obviously.) Tobias should have said he was doing research. A hand-to-penis “massage” is a great safe-sex alternative that doesn’t require a condom. See how that works? Research.

Might have worked for Haggard, too. Instead of attempting the lame “massage” defense and the tired Bill Clinton “I didn’t inhale” excuse in reference to the meth Haggard “purchased but never used,” he should have said he was doing field research. Know thine enemy and all that. Research.

And should the day come that Dilettante is found doing drugs with Rush Limbaugh while twirling a gun on the tip of her finger, assume it’s research and move on. Quickly.

Everyone thinks my boyfriend is gay. I’m a girl, so this is a problem. I think they are just buying into stereotypes. Yes, he likes musicals and doesn’t eat meat and has a really cute apartment that he decorated himself and has shared with the same male roommate for seven years, but all of that is superficial. If he were gay, why would he be dating me?

Research. He’s just doing research.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

This was a rough week for the gun lobby. Federal “safeguards” didn’t stop a very disturbed young man in Virginia from being able to purchase guns that he later used to kill lots of people. Though there has been no official statement from the NRA, many pundits, talk radio callers and a guy sitting at a bar in Houston who was overheard by Dilettante have been saying things like, “If gun laws were less strict, more people would be armed all the time. Then this kind of shit wouldn’t happen ‘cause someone would have blown that guy away as soon as he started shooting.”

Now that’s an argument. Rather than strengthening laws to keep guns out of the hands of suicidal, violent people, let’s arm everyone. Let’s start taking gun-fighting-in-the-workplace classes. Look – you can be in a business suit and high heels and still shoot people! It’s your right as an American! Fire away! Oh, and don’t forget to duck!

If everyone were armed, you could challenge someone to a duel after slapping him in the face with a glove and demanding satisfaction. What, did you think that arming everyone would lead to some sort of Cold War among the populace? That people are going to think, “I would shoot this guy in the back while he’s not looking, but I’ll bet he has a gun. I better not.” Come on.

No doubt arming everyone would change things. Imagine sitting in church with a hangover and wanting to sleep for just a bit during the sermon. Then you see the preacher looking at you. He subtly touches the gun he’s wearing over his robes. He raises his eyebrow, as if to say “You love Jesus, don’t you?” You do love Jesus, but you’re not ready to see him yet, so you pop a mint and stay awake.

When a guy is trying to pick someone up in a bar, instead of talking about his car or how much money he makes, maybe he can just pull out his gun. Go ahead, touch it. I like having other people’s fingerprints on it. And you know what a big gun means. It means someone is compensating for other…shortcomings. Best move on. Look for the guy who has one of these.

Fashion for today’s female leaves little to the imagination and no room for a wallet, so where’s a gal supposed to keep her gun? Putting it in your purse wouldn’t work because you need to have it on you at all times. You never know when someone’s going to try to kill you. Just imagine sitting on the toilet at work or at the mall, and you ask the person in the next stall to pass you a few squares of toilet paper. Perhaps that rubs her the wrong way, and she shoots you for bothering her while she’s doing her business. If you had your gun on you, you could have stuck it under her stall first and gotten that tissue. Instead, you have to sit there and air dry as you slowly bleed on the tile floor.

And at what age do you arm someone? There seems to be lots of gun violence in schools. It wouldn’t be enough just to arm the teachers because they occasionally leave the classroom to sneak off to the teachers’ lounge for some coffee and a quick smoke. Guess we better arm the children. I’m sure they’d be responsible and not do anything stupid like get in a “pretend” gun fight with real guns. Kids are Americans too. The Second Amendment doesn’t have an age requirement.

After all, guns don’t kill people. People with guns kill people.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

What do you think about Don Imus getting fired? What about the right to free speech? Shouldn’t he be allowed to say whatever he wants?

He has the right to free speech. And the companies that advertise on his show have a right to not support him. If you have an issue with that relationship, blame it on the fact that there are just a few media conglomerates in this country. Add to it the fact that those giant companies are all about kowtowing to advertisers, and there you go. And, regardless, this was never a first amendment issue. Here’s why.

Don Imus is, like, 80. And he has bangs. Anyone who has bangs at that age, scratch that, any MAN who has bangs at ANY age immediately forfeits his right to talk shit about anyone else’s appearance. More specifically, the hair part of anyone else’s appearance.

There’s a whole list of male “celebrities” who can’t talk shit about hair. Phil Spector. Carrot Top. Donald Trump. The list goes on.

I just bought my first Harley, and I’m not sure what to do with my long hair while I’m on it. I’m prolly not gonna wear a brain bucket, so I have nothing to tuck my hair into. Should I just braid it?

I’m guessing you’re a large fella? Maybe in his mid-50s? With long gray hair? Wearing a leather vest over a too-tight tee shirt? If so, that skinny, fuzzy braid is not going to do anything for your look. You need something with some pizzazz. Something that won’t let your hair blow around too much when your head hits the pavement and splits open because you’re not wearing a helmet. You need to get one of these.

If I have misjudged your gender and you are a woman, what are you, fucking crazy? WAKE UP, girl! Wear a helmet! You can get a cute one that won’t sacrifice your style too much.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

I am confused about all the controversy surrounding the big chocolate Jesus. It seems to be a logical way to combine at least a couple of the disparate elements of the holiday that have always been particularly confusing to me (a giant egg-laying rabbit who bestows chocolate eggs to commemorate the resurrection of Jesus). So what’s the deal?

There are many questions regarding the Bunny-Candy-Jesus triangle. Does the Easter Bunny hang out with Santa? Probably not since they live in really different climates – Santa at the North Pole and the Easter Bunny in a verdant meadow somewhere warm. We know that elves make the toys that Santa brings – does Jesus make the candy that the Easter Bunny brings? Why is it that parents are so blasé about oddly-dressed strangers sneaking into the house in the middle of the night and leaving presents and candy on Christmas and Easter, yet we can’t eat the cookies made by our quiet next-door neighbor who spends his evenings talking to his dog in the garage? Does anyone truly like the taste of Peeps? And are they biodegradable?

Candy is really delicious, with the exception of Peeps, so most people think it’s best not to say anything for fear it might muck up the whole operation. Then you get older, and the Easter Bunny doesn’t come around as much, and you figure what the hell. Let’s talk about it.

So those long-haired pagans marked the beginning of spring with many symbols of life, renewal and fertility. Eggs (from chickens) and bunnies (from other bunnies) were a big part of the festivities. When Christianity came along, the new religion incorporated existing traditions into their own celebrations (it’s a lot of work planning a one-time party, much less laying the groundwork for holidays that are to be celebrated in the same way every year for centuries). Boom – eggs, bunnies, Jesus. As far as the candy goes, I think it’s just an easy way to get the kids interested.

Regarding the banned chocolate Jesus sculpture (which is called My Sweet Lord – seems the more obvious choice would have been Chocolate Jesus) one has to wonder if most of the controversy surrounds the sculpture’s, uh, twig and berries. Almost every news story about this issue mentioned that Jesus was depicted sans loin cloth. Since chocolate Jesus candy has been around for years with little or no known controversy, that little (or big?) detail has to be the difference. If the sculptor/chocolatier had chosen to put some clothes on his statue or do the Ken doll action of this candy, perhaps everything would have been okay.

The real question, of course, is where do you start eating a chocolate Jesus? It would be rude to bite the head off. You can’t start in the middle because the whole thing would fall apart. The only real option is to begin at the toes. It’s the polite thing to do. Just make sure you don’t savor the naughty bits too much.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

When is a banana just a banana?

This reminds me of a joke.

Q – How many surrealists does it take to change a lightbulb?

A – Banana.

Regarding your question, you must contextualize the banana in order to find the answer. If you are dreaming of the banana, and in the dream you are naked in the produce section while stock boys spray down the melons with those little water hoses, and then later in the dream you are eating the banana, there might be something more to it than just being a piece of fruit. On the other hand, if you’re having lunch with your grandmother, in a dream or in waking life, the banana is probably just a banana. At least, I hope so. I really, really hope so. Oh, unless it’s a Chiquita banana. Then you’re funding terrorists.

My son is doing really well in school. His teachers say he’s a model student, the other kids seem to like him, his self esteem is high. What can I do to teach him that life is not always going to be so kind? I learned that lesson when I was in junior high and had to wear headgear to school every day. Sadly, my son has really straight teeth.

Simple. Pack his banana in this. Ass-kickings will quickly follow.

I used to really relish the attention I got when talking on my portable phone in public. I felt, you know, important. Special. Now even little kids have them, so what can I do to stand out in a crowd?

What era are we talking — shaped-like-a-brick ’80s phones? If you’re unwilling to develop any interesting personality traits or start giving away money or something, I guess you could get one of these phones. It will be sure to attract attention … until everyone is talking on phones shaped like pieces of fruit. Of course, not too many other fruits have the correct shape for this sort of activity. It would be really hard to talk on a phone shaped like an orange. You’d have to keep rolling it up and down your face to talk and listen. A pineapple would be too big. Strawberries wouldn’t work unless you had two — one at your ear and another at your mouth.

Now that I think of it, bananas are shaped just like … phones.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

I am at a coffee shop right now, and I just saw a man go into the bathroom carrying his newspaper. And there aren’t stalls. It’s just a one-room, one-person-at-a-time bathroom. I was both repelled by such blatant behavior and confused. What is proper public bathroom etiquette?

It’s quite simple, really. If one must use the facilities in public, one must not enjoy the process as if one were at home. Anyone can be caught with their pants down, so to speak, but there’s no reason to take the paper with you as if you’re using your own bathroom. And really, most public bathrooms are not places you want to get comfortable in and take a load off. Generally, you’re in, you’re out and that’s that. You were right to be repelled.

I’m going out of town this week, and I hate to fly. I’m really tall, and every time the person in front of me puts their seat back, it hits my knees. Can you give me any tips on how I can make my trip more comfortable?

If you’re not afraid of being a little selfish, you could always buy a set of Knee Defenders. This product disables the recline feature on airplane seats. Of course, if you use this product you’re sacrificing the comfort of the person in front of you, but, hey, that’s not your problem now is it? This is America, dammit. Dilettante is particularly drawn to the accompanying “courtesy card” that explains to the unfortunate who is sitting in front of you just why the seat won’t recline. How courteous!

My girlfriend is dragging me to a dinner party that her uptight parents are giving for their crotchety old friends. I’m sure they’ll be picking at every little thing I do, so my girlfriend decided to give me a crash course on table etiquette. Not that I care, but I would like to get through the night without my girlfriend riding my ass, so could you clarify the placement of silverware at the end of the meal? She says you’re supposed to cross the knife and fork; I say you’re supposed to put them next to your plate.

Once you’ve used a utensil, it should never again touch the table but should remain on your plate for the duration of the meal or that course. But this doesn’t mean that your girlfriend is correct. She’s not. When you are done with your meal, place the knife and fork next to each other and across the plate, with the sharp ends pointing to the upper left at ten or eleven o’clock. For the record, I have a feeling the placement of your silverware is one of the last things your hosts will notice.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

My coworker and I share a cubicle. She listens to her iPod all day, and I’m sick of it. I’ll ask her a question or if she’ll pass the stapler or something and she doesn’t answer because she can’t hear me. What can I do about this?

Dilettante has noticed the unwelcome trend of people wearing headphones at work, and she agrees with you that it’s completely inappropriate. The accuracy of one’s spreadsheet is inversely related to how loudly one is listening to Rapper’s Delight. Still, it’s a trend that isn’t going anywhere. For the sake of keeping it all even, may I suggest that you pretend you can’t hear your coworker? For instance, she pulls out one of her earbuds to ask you to cover her while she goes to lunch. You don’t respond. She pulls out the other earbud and repeats the request, this time a bit louder. Still no response from you. Finally, in a fit of frustration, she gets up from her desk to stand in front of you and repeat the question a third time.

At this point, reach into your pocket as if you are turning something off, then apologize, saying you didn’t hear her because you were listening to music. She’ll be confused momentarily since she doesn’t see anything in your ears. Then she’ll think about how quickly technology advances and will make a point to ask her boyfriend for a set of the new, invisible earphones. Maybe this little charade will take some of the sting out of being the only person in the office who has to listen to the never-ending clickity-clack of fingers on keyboards and the ticking of the clock as time moves ever slower toward five o’clock. Maybe.

I hate my job. Can you give me any tips on how to call in sick in a new way? I’ve already called in with: a throat fungus, pica, athlete’s foot, severe incompetence and alien hand syndrome. I think my boss might be starting to realize something’s afoot. I mean, other than my athlete’s foot.

Well, if getting a new job isn’t part of your plan, check out this service. With an annual fee of $75 and services running from $10 to $50 and up, depending upon “complexity,” the Alibi Network can provide you with a get-out-of-work-free card. But that’s not all.

Did you tell the wife you’re on a hunting trip with the guys in Montana when you’re really on a romantic getaway with your boyfriend in Milan? Do you have the need for “discreet” shopping services? Maybe you met someone in a trendy bar last night and, trying to impress, you lied about owning your own business. Or you simply want to avoid going to your tea-totaler cousin’s bridal shower. The Alibi Network has you covered.

They will email or call you at the appropriate time to confirm travel reservations that don’t exist. They’ll provide you with a phone number you can give the skanks at the bar, and when said skanks call, the alibi people will answer with the name of your fictitious business and take a message for you. If you’ve lied about being at a seminar for the past week, they’ll give you take-home materials that prove you were there, even including a certificate of completion. Your certificate for being a big, fat liar! Frame it and put it over the sofa! Make the kids proud!

My boss keeps stopping by my desk to give me a shoulder rub. I think he looks down my shirt while he’s doing it. Should I tell someone?

It depends. Is your boss hot?

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Need to know just a little bit about something? Ask a dilettante.

What was the deal with that woman who was busted driving solo down the HOV lane claiming she wasn’t alone because she was pregnant? If she wants that kid to count, put him in a car seat.

Look, the lady was in a hurry, she thought about all the time she’d save taking the HOV lane, and she gambled. When she got busted, she said the best thing she could come up with on the spot. People use all sorts of schemes to suggest there’s another human being in the car when there actually isn’t – strapping in a blow up doll, carefully placing a pile of laundry with a hat on it, giving Bill O’Reilly a ride.

The most troubling part of this story is the fact that there’s a hotline drivers can call to tattle on people who are driving in the HOV lane without the appropriate number of passengers. It’s called “Hero Hotline.” Calling Metro to tell on someone for being in the HOV lane DOES NOT make you a hero. It makes you an asshole. And by the way – do you know what Metro does to drivers turned in via the tip line? It sends them a brochure about HOV rules. Yeah, that’ll show ‘em.

Did the groundhog see its shadow this year? I’m trying to decide whether or not I can put up my heavy winter coat.

If you have a heavy winter coat, I’m assuming you ain’t from around here (spit). If you like to base your packing decisions on a furry little animal, Punxsutawney Phil has declared that spring is on its way. The pronouncement was made, as it is every year, at the unfortunately-named Gobbler’s Knob. Ahem. According to Phil’s website, there has only been ONE Punxsutawney Phil for the past 120 years. He must be really good at weather prediction after all that time, right? Well, most of the other prescient groundhogs are in agreement – Staten Island Chuck, General Beau Lee and Mona all predicted an early spring, too. So, yeah, put that coat up. Unless you prefer the weather-predicting abilities of the meerkat. Meerkats at Houston Zoo said that winter is here to stay. Of course, in Houston that just means you won’t have to pull out the shorts until late March.

UPDATE:
Regarding the announcement in this space last week that Dilettante is running for President, Joe Biden had this to say: Crystal seems to make fairly level-headed decisions, even when she’s on her period. For a person of Irish descent, she really has kept her drinking under control and often smells like lavender and Altoids instead of vodka. I’m not saying I’d put my grandkids in the car with her, but I would probably let her give me a ride to the airport. Assuming, of course, that my limo was unavailable and there were no taxis running at the time.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Dilettante has not received any letters this month, so I will just assume you, dear reader, are busy with your resolutions or perhaps are out buying a parka to prepare for the snow storm that’s heading to Houston. Bundle up. Grab the nearest person, dog or plant and make yourself a hot toddy. Oh, and read on.

Too Hot for Pride?
There are rumblings that the Houston Pride Parade (when did they quit calling it the Gay Pride Parade?), which is always held in June, might be moved to September in 2008 because that month is “cooler.” Not only that, there is an attempt to move the parade out of the Montrose and relocate it downtown.

First, even if the date changes, parade participants will still be able to go shirtless or wear a rainbow bikini and motorcycle boots because the average temperature in Houston in September is just two degrees cooler than June’s average.

Second, moving the parade downtown will hasten the blandification (yeah, I made that up) of what has been a unique Houston experience held in absolutely the right setting. Pride Houston talks about making the event “more inclusive.” I’ve been to the parade numerous times, and if there’s one thing the Pride Parade has going for it, it’s inclusiveness.

When the Westheimer Street Festival moved downtown (thanks to the yuppies who’d recently moved into the Montrose and found the event distasteful), it turned into another boring collection of food-on-a-stick trailers surrounding booths with cheap beaded jewelry and prints of dogs playing poker. The festival lost its soul, and recent attempts at resurrecting the event have failed. It’s over, and its demise should provide a cautionary tale.

But, But, But
Virginia high school art teacher Stephen Murmer was put on administrative leave in December when school officials found out about the unusual way he creates his pieces of art. He applies paint to his butt cheeks (and sometimes his twig and berries) and then sits on canvas, making organic shapes that typically end up being flowers. This week, he lost his job because of it.

Wow, imagine that. An art teacher who actually creates art outside of the classroom. Guess it would be better to have the closet-pedophile coach teaching the art classes, huh? Come on. The guy attached a pseudonym (Stan Murmur) to his pieces and always wore a disguise when interviewed or photographed. He did what he could to keep that part of his life separate from the classroom. He was outed when a student found a video of Stephen being Stan on the internet. Blast. Though one might be able to argue the artistic value of ass-painting, there’s no reason this teacher should have been fired. What dumbasses.

No Besos for the Pesos?
This week the blogosphere and national news outlets were all over the story about the Texas-based restaurant chain Pizza Patron’s efforts to increase their Hispanic customers by accepting pesos as payment for their pizza pies. I hope the party responsible for this marketing campaign was well-compensated because they put the small chain on the map.

The thing most ironic about the rabid, hateful backlash to what was a pretty simple gimmick is the fact that northern states have been accepting the Canadian dollar for years, but we haven’t become the United States of Canada. It was close when those McKenzie Brothers movies were popular and people started saying “eh” a lot, but it passed.

Of course, we all know this isn’t really about the restaurant or its pesos. That’s a-boot it. I’m oot of here. Stay warm.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Check out this list:
Xavier
Regan
Joel
Mr. Peepers
Bob

Who are these people? Guys I’ve slept with? Coworkers? Members of my skeet shooting team?

If I were 12 years old and attending Pin Oak Middle School in Bellaire, officials there would say this is my hit list, and they would suspend me from school for three days and disallow me to ride the school bus forever for security reasons. Nevermind that all of the names on the list but one were made up. Nevermind that this list was spotted by another student on the school bus and was not being carried around on a clip board by a gun-toting tween who was checking off names as she went. None of that matters because we’re all scared, man, and we can’t take any chances. Even when common sense would dictate otherwise. ‘Cause you just never know, you know?

Thus far, the actual content of the “hit list” has not been made public, but let’s say for argument’s sake that it looked like this:

People I’d Like to Kill:
Toby
Paris
Carlos
Lindsay
Ann Coulter

Just because I might fantasize about squeezing the life out of Ann Coulter, thus silencing her vile mouth forever, it doesn’t mean I’d actually do it. I fantasize about Hugh Jackman too (in a much different way), but I don’t see him showing up any time soon.

Though it’s been many years since most of us were in junior high or high school, we can all remember how tough those years are. Most young adults spend their time alternately fantasizing about killing their parents, themselves, their teachers, the boy they like or the girl who made fun of their culottes and fantasizing about how some day they will live in a world where their parents’ fears don’t take away their civil liberties or that their zit cream is actually working.

This child could be a budding writer. She could be intentionally pushing people’s buttons to get a reaction. She might be trying to deal with what is an awkward time of her life by putting stuff on paper to get it out of her head. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because we’ve become a nation of people who believe in striking first if someone seems like they MIGHT pose a threat at some undetermined point in the future. We’ve become a nation of guilty until proven innocent. If we start punishing people for what they’ve written on a slip of paper, what’s next? The government will start monitoring the books we check out of the library and reading our emails and listening to our phone conversations without a warrant?

Oh.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

I looked up the word “dilettante.” Isn’t it an insult? Why do you call yourself that? Do you have self-esteem issues?

This question has come up not infrequently, so it’s time to explain. The whole concept of an “advice” column is ludicrous. A person writes a half-page letter bitching about some complicated personal issue or more global problem, and the columnist then responds with terse analysis of the situation. As if that’s all there is to it. Isn’t that a little condescending? Aren’t most issues just a bit more complex than that? But, advice columns are fun to read. There’s a vicarious thrill in hearing about someone’s cross-dressing husband. There’s a sense of community gained in knowing that you are not the only person completely put off by the Overstock.com woman. There’s an opportunity to reflect on the fact that you, too, have a sneaking suspicion that your boyfriend isn’t really taking the male birth control pill.

Thus, Ask a Dilettante. By stating that the columnist is, at best, a dabbler (jack(son) of all trades, master of none), there’s no need to worry that someone is going to take any of this too seriously. Unless they want to.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]